A black shape rose from the couch. “Please put down the knife, Mr. Miller. My weapon is bigger than yours.”
The shape morphed into a woman holding a gun. Brad’s heart skipped a beat, and he found it hard to breathe. The woman was tall and athletic. She wore tight jeans and a black and red TRAILBLAZER T-shirt under a black satin TRAILBLAZER jacket. Her piercing green eyes and the grim set to her mouth gave Brad the immediate impression that she was not someone to mess with.
“You can relax. My name is Dana Cutler, and I just want to talk to you, not kill you.”
“What’s this about?”
“The knife,” Dana said, gesturing with her gun at Brad’s hand. He looked down, surprised to see he was still gripping the shaft.
“Let’s continue this conversation in the living room,” Dana said as she switched on the lights and motioned Brad into an armchair. She ordered him to keep his hands, palm down, on the armrests and sat facing him on the couch.
“No sudden moves. I’d hate to shoot you.”
Brad eyed Dana’s gun nervously. “How did you get in?”
“Easily. You don’t have an alarm, and the lock was child’s play.”
“If you’re a burglar, I don’t have anything worth stealing. If you want to hire a lawyer, I don’t handle criminal cases.”
“You’re handling one, Clarence Little.”
Brad hid his surprise. “Actually, I’m not,” he said. “I was taken off the case. If you want to talk to someone about that case, you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“When were you taken off the case?”
“A few days ago.”
“Why?”
“My supervising attorney felt I was getting too involved.”
“Involved how?”
“I can’t really discuss that. I’d have to reveal attorney-client confidences.”
“Are we in court, Brad? Do you think the rules of evidence apply when the person asking you a question is aiming a loaded gun at your balls?”
“Good point,” Brad answered nervously.
“I’m glad you agree. Now tell me what you were doing that got you canned.”
“I decided that Clarence Little may not have murdered Laurie Erickson and I was gathering evidence of his innocence.”
“Why don’t you think Little is guilty?” Dana asked, intrigued by the direction their conversation was going.
“First off, he says he didn’t do it.”
“He’s on death row. What did you expect him to say?”
“Yeah, but he had proof.”
Brad explained about finding the bodies in the woods and the pinkie collection. He was careful to keep Ginny’s name out of his narrative.
“Has the forensic expert printed the fingers yet?”
“I don’t know. I’m under strict orders to stay away from the case. I’m probably going to be fired because of it.”
“Am I missing something? How can they fire you for trying to prove your client is innocent?”
“There’s a little more to it.”
Dana Cutler listened intently to Brad as he explained his theory that Christopher Farrington had ordered Charles Hawkins to use Clarence Little’s MO to frame the serial killer for the murder of Laurie Erickson and his belief that Hawkins had replicated the plan by using the Ripper MO when he murdered Charlotte Walsh.
“Fascinating,” Dana said when Brad finished. “I’ve come to the same conclusion.”
“You have?”
“I came at the problem from a different direction, but I think it’s significant that we both arrived at the same place.”
Curiosity replaced fear as Brad’s dominant emotion. “Why the melodrama?” he asked. “Breaking and entering, and holding me at gunpoint.”
“There have been several attempts on my life, so meeting in public places during the day is out. This seemed like the best bet for privacy.”
“Who are you?”
“Have you been following MurderGate?” Dana asked, using the name the press had given to the scandal.
Brad nodded.
“I’m the photographer who took the pictures of Farrington and Walsh that Exposed printed, and I’m certain that Charles Hawkins killed Walsh and Erickson under orders from the president.”
“Hawkins is the logical suspect, but we don’t have any proof.”
“It has to be him,” Dana insisted. “Farrington couldn’t have killed either woman. He was at the library fund-raiser in Salem when Erickson disappeared, and he was at the farm or with the Secret Service or his wife when Walsh was murdered.”
“I don’t think the Secret Service would lie to cover up a murder, but Farrington’s wife might.”
“The timing doesn’t work. Credible witnesses vouch for Farrington until he goes up to his room at the White House. If Claire Farrington lied when she said her husband was in bed with her, he would still have to get out of the White House without being seen. Then it would take at least forty-five minutes to get to the mall. That’s way past the time when Walsh was killed. No, I think we can rule out the president as the person who actually murdered Walsh.”
“So you’re going with Hawkins?” Brad asked.
“Hawkins came back to the governor’s mansion to get the information for Farrington’s speech. He was alone with Erickson. He came in the back door, which is next to the basement door, and the basement is where the laundry chute empties out. He gets the paper for the speech, murders Erickson, and puts her down the chute. Then he backs up his car to the basement door and puts her in the trunk.”
“What about Walsh?” Brad asked. “Hawkins went from the hotel to the farm and met with the president. Assuming that Farrington ordered him to kill Walsh, did he have time enough to do it?”
“Her car was disabled. She couldn’t drive off.”
“But Walsh had to have been killed soon after she returned to the mall. The news reports said that Walsh had Triple A but she never called them or anyone else to help her or pick her up.”
“Hawkins could have called someone from the farm and sent them to kill Walsh,” Cutler said. “The night Walsh was murdered two men tried to kill me for the pictures I took, and there have been other attempts on my life. So we know the president and Hawkins have access to assassins, and that’s the clincher.”
Brad looked confused. “I don’t get it.”
“Hawkins and the president have access to the CIA, Special Forces, and Defense intelligence operatives now, but they didn’t have access to those people when Erickson was murdered. Farrington was only the governor of Oregon then.”
“Hawkins was an army Ranger. He could have buddies from the military he could call on.”
“True, but no one but Hawkins was seen going into the governor’s mansion. He’s the one who claims to have been the last person to see Erickson alive. Erickson was tiny. She wouldn’t have been able to put up much of a fight against someone like Hawkins. If he was with her he wouldn’t have needed help. If Farrington wanted Erickson killed on the evening of the library fund-raiser, my bet is that Hawkins did it.”
“Do you know that there may have been a third murder?”
“What!”
Brad filled in Dana on the hit-and-run killing of Rhonda Pulaski and the disappearance of Tim Houston.
“Unfortunately, this is all speculation,” he said. “We don’t have any concrete evidence that Hawkins killed anyone. We don’t even have evidence that Farrington and Erickson were having sex. The only person who might be able to help us is Erickson’s mother, Marsha, and she refused to talk to me.”
“Tell me about that.”
As soon as Brad finished telling her about his visit to Marsha Erickson, Dana stood up.
“Get your coat,” she said.
“Where are we going?”
“To visit Mrs. Erickson.”
“It’s too late to go out there tonight. She lives in the country. She’ll probably be asleep.”
“She’ll wake up very quickly when she se
es this,” Dana said as she hefted the gun. “She may have refused to talk to you, but I assure you she’s going to talk to me.”
Brad turned onto the road to Marsha Erickson’s house shortly before eleven-thirty. Dana ordered Brad to kill his lights, and they drove by moonlight until the house came into view.
“Stop here,” Dana commanded just before they reached the place where the road became the driveway.
“Did you see that car when you were here before?” Dana asked, pointing at a black SUV that was parked in front of the garage, facing back toward the road.
“No, but it could have been in the garage.”
“Then why isn’t it in the garage now, and why is it positioned for a getaway? Pull into those trees,” Dana told him.
When they were hidden Dana took her ankle gun out of the holster and held it out to Brad.
“What’s that for?” he asked, making no move to touch the weapon.
“Do you know how to shoot?”
“No. I’ve never even held a gun.”
“If you have to use this, aim at the chest and keep shooting.”
“I’m not shooting anyone,” Brad answered, alarmed.
“Brad, I hope to heaven that the SUV belongs to Marsha Erickson because the people who are after me will not hesitate to kill you. So you’d better lose the knee-jerk liberal attitude about gun control fast.”
Brad stared at the weapon for a moment before grasping it with the same enthusiasm he would have shown if Dana had handed him a dead animal. She got out of Brad’s car.
“If you hear shots, call 911, report a break-in, then get out of here. Do not follow me inside under any circumstances. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but-”
“No buts. If you hear shots, take off fast.”
Dana shut the door and jogged toward the back of Marsha Erickson’s house. As she turned the corner she heard a high-pitched scream. There was a sliding door in the living room that opened onto a back patio. The lock had been jimmied and the door was open wide enough to admit her. The living room was dark, but light bled into it from a short hall.
“Bring her into the living room,” Dana heard a man say. The voice sounded familiar, but she didn’t have time to think about where she’d heard it. She dashed behind a large armchair and crouched down. Seconds later, a thick-set man dragged Marsha Erickson toward the living room. Erickson’s hands and ankles were secured by plastic handcuffs, but she was fighting him and the man had to brace himself to move her along the carpet. The blond man from her apartment who had shot at Dana from the speedboat followed Erickson into the living room.
“Help me with this bitch. She weighs a fucking ton,” Erickson’s tormentor complained.
The blond man hit Erickson in the stomach and she stopped struggling as she was forced to gasp for air. The blond grabbed her legs and helped his partner get their victim onto the living room rug. Then he knelt by her head and spoke to her in the calm tone you would use with a recalcitrant child.
“You behave, Fatty, and we’ll make this painless. Give us any shit and you’ll take a long time to die. Understand?”
Erickson had gotten her wind back and she croaked out a yes.
“Good,” the blond said. Then he smashed a gloved fist into Erickson’s nose. Dana heard cartilage crack and blood gushed out.
“That’s for giving us a hard time.”
The blond turned to his companion. “Smash up some stuff. Make it look like a burglary.”
The thick-set man started toward the television. Dana stood up and shot him. He was falling when the blond dove behind the sofa. Her second shot went wide and blasted a vase to pieces. The blond fired back, and Dana’s left shoulder felt like it had been smashed by a ball-peen hammer. She fell on her back and her gun flew out of her hand.
“You!” the blond said as he walked toward her.
“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Dana said, grimacing with pain.
“Woulda, shoulda, coulda.” The man laughed. “Hey, we all have regrets. I regret not fucking you when I had the chance. Now the opportunity presents itself again and you’re all bloody, which-believe me-is a big turnoff. So, I guess I’ll just have to kill you instead.”
Over the blond’s shoulder, Dana saw Brad creeping across the patio. She pulled her legs up and curled into a fetal position.
“Please, don’t kill me,” she begged as she slid her hand toward her ankle.
“Uh, uh, babe. You know that old saw about ‘Fool me once…’? That ankle gun thing was great the first time, but it’s not going to work again. So very slowly lift up your pant leg and toss the piece over here.”
“I don’t have the gun.”
“Pardon me if I don’t believe you.”
Dana raised her pants cuff slowly. “Where is it?” the man demanded.
“Put up your hands,” Brad said, his voice shaking so badly he could barely get the words out.
“Don’t talk! Kill him!” Dana yelled at Brad, who was holding the ankle gun in both hands, trying to keep it steady.
The blond whirled and fired. A bullet whizzed by Brad’s ear and the glass in the sliding door exploded. Brad closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger again and again until it clicked on an empty chamber. When he opened his eyes there was no one standing in front of him. He looked down and his knees buckled. The blond man was stretched out on the floor, facedown, moaning.
“Oh, my God! I shot him,” Brad said. He dropped the gun and groped for the wall so he wouldn’t collapse.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dana said between clenched teeth. “All of your shots missed, which is pretty amazing from less than ten feet. You were a good diversion, though. While he was focused on you, I got my gun back.”
Brad looked disappointed. Dana rolled her eyes. “Will you get this asshole’s gun and call 911, like I told you to do before? And get an ambulance for me and Mrs. Erickson.”
Dana dragged herself into a sitting position and braced her back against the sofa so she could keep an eye on the blond as Brad inched cautiously toward the wounded man.
“I shot him six times, for Christ’s sake,” Dana said. “Just get the gun.”
“Sorry, but I’ve never been in a shoot-out. I’m a little shaken.”
“What you are is an idiot. Didn’t I tell you to get the hell out of here if you heard shots?”
“I am an idiot,” Brad said as he grabbed the wounded man’s gun, “but it worked out okay, didn’t it?”
Dana sighed. “Yeah. I owe you. Now call the ambulance.”
Brad dialed 911 on his cell. He felt light-headed and a little nauseated, but he was able to hold it together while he talked to the dispatcher. As soon as he was through with the call, he knelt down to work on the plastic cuffs that bound Mrs. Erickson.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Marsha Erickson’s face was a mass of blood, and she had trouble focusing. Brad felt awful. He was certain that his first visit had triggered the chain of events that had led to the beating. When Erickson recognized him her eyes widened.
“You!”
“I’m really sorry about this.”
“What have you done to me?”
“I haven’t done anything. Christopher Farrington sent those men to kill you. You’d be dead if we hadn’t come by.”
“No one would have come here if you hadn’t shown up in the first place.”
“That’s bullshit,” Dana said. “You’re a loose end that Christopher Farrington needed to tie up. He’d have tried to kill you even if Miller had never visited you. If you want to stay alive you’d better think about telling what you know about your daughter and the president.”
Pain was making Dana woozy, and she was having difficulty keeping her gun trained on the blond. She knew she might pass out, which meant that Brad Miller would have to handle the situation. She didn’t have much faith in his ability to do that. If the wounded man was in any condition to fight, he’d eat Brad for lunch.
/>
Then there was the problem of the police. The locals would never believe that the president had sent the men she’d shot. They would consider this a burglary gone bad. If Mrs. Erickson turned on them the police might even arrest her and Brad. Dana decided to take a chance. She fished out her wallet and tossed it to Brad.
“There’s a card in there with the number of Keith Evans, an FBI agent who’s working for the independent counsel. Call him, then give me the phone. If I black out, tell him that we have the man who shot at him from the speedboat. Tell him to get someone down here fast to take over from the local police if he wants witnesses who can tie the president to Charlotte Walsh’s murder.”
Brad dialed the number. Evans answered after three rings. Brad handed Dana the phone. She laid the gun by her side and took it.
“Agent Evans, this is Dana Cutler. Brad Miller, an associate with a Portland law firm, is with me. I just shot two men who were trying to kill Marsha Erickson, a witness who can prove the president was involved in a murder in Oregon when he was governor.”
“That’s not true,” Marsha Erickson yelled.
Dana covered the cell phone. “One more peep and I’ll have my friend tape your mouth shut.”
Dana uncovered the mouthpiece. “I want you to send some agents here fast because the local police are on the way. Brad will tell you the hospital they’re taking me and Marsha Erickson to. Get guards on our rooms and the room where they’re taking the survivor. He’s the guy who shot at us from the speedboat.”
“Where are you?”
Dana gave him the address and how to get to it. Then she had Brad read her Erickson’s home phone number. She repeated it to Evans.
“I’m ready to cooperate,” Dana said. “I want protection for me, Miller, and the witness.”
“Are you okay?” Evans asked. “You sound funny.”
“No, I’m bleeding from a shoulder wound and I might pass out. But I hear sirens and I think I’ll be okay. Now stop talking and get some agents here fast. And make certain that you can trust them, because, at best, the president is going to try and take control. At worst, he’s going to try and kill us all.”
Executive Privilege Page 24
