“I’ve been hired to look into a fascinating Oregon murder case. Sarah Woodruff is on death row for murdering her lover, twice.”

Gorman’s eyebrows went up. “That sounds ready-made for Exposed.” He lifted his hand and formed them into a frame for an imaginary headline. “I MURDERED MY DEAD LOVER. I like this story already. Tell me how it’s possible to kill someone twice.”

“It’s not. Woodruff was arrested for killing a man named John Finley. The charges were dismissed in the middle of the trial. Several months later, Finley’s body was found; she was tried again and sentenced to death. My client wants me to go to Oregon and look into the case.”

“Why not tell whoever you talk to that you’re a private investigator? Why do they need to think that you’re a reporter?”

“What was the first thing you asked me when I told you what I was doing?”

“Ah, I see. They’ll want to know the identity of your client.”

“And they may not talk to me if I refuse to tell them. I won’t run into that problem if I’m an employee of the Pulitzer Prize-winning editor of Exposed.”

Dana waited while Gorman pondered her request for a minute, but only a minute.

“Deal. I’ll let everyone know you’re on the payroll, and you’ll give me the scoop, if your client consents.”

“You got it.”

Brad had hand-delivered the transcript and briefs in Woodruff earlier in the day. When Dana returned home from Exposed, she fixed a cup of coffee and a sandwich and looked at the mass of paper piled on her dining room table. The transcript was over one thousand pages long, and she decided that it would help to get an overview of the case before she tackled it. So she grabbed the petition for cert and read the Statement of Facts, which provided a summary of the two trials in which Sarah Woodruff had been accused of killing her lover.

Part III.Sarah Woodruff

Chapter Twenty-two

Policewoman Sarah Woodruff sat in Max Dietz’s windowless cubicle in the section of the Multnomah County District Attorney’s office that prosecuted drug offenses and explained why the Elcock case should be reviewed. Her frustration built as she tried to ignore the smirk on the Weasel’s face and the way his eyes wandered to her breasts and rested there brazenly.

Dietz had not been nicknamed the Weasel because he looked anything like that animal. The assistant district attorney was actually rather handsome in a smarmy sort of way, resembling those greasy imitation Englishmen in low comedies who con little old ladies out of their fortunes. His nickname referred to the underhanded way he practiced law.

Sarah had worked several cases Dietz had prosecuted, and he’d come on to her twice. When she didn’t swoon, he’d become distant. Sarah wondered if his resentment at her rejection was fueling his attitude toward her request to reexamine the case against Harvey Elcock. Sarah also knew that she had to be diplomatic where Dietz was concerned, because the word was that a string of successful prosecutions had earned him a promotion to Homicide and the ear of Jack Stamm, the Multnomah County district attorney.

“I don’t see it,” Dietz told Sarah when she was through. “Let’s say the speed in the undershirt drawer was this Loraine’s. She didn’t cop to the package we found in the back room, did she?”

“It’s pretty obvious her boyfriend planted that.”

“Obvious to you, maybe, but not to me.”

Dietz had been leaning back in his chair. Now he sat up. “Don’t go all bleeding heart on me, Sarah. This fucker is playing you. He pretends to be a retard, but the Marauders aren’t going to let a retard deal for them. There’s more to this guy than meets the eye.”

“I don’t think so, Max.”

Dietz shrugged. “That’s your problem, then. But seeing as this is my case, I call the shots. Come back and show me evidence that someone planted the shit in the back room, and I’ll take another look at Elcock. Until then…”

Dietz shrugged again and Sarah realized any further discussion with him would be useless. And he did have a point. Feelings weren’t evidence, and all she had was a bad feeling about the case and a statement from a witness she’d stupidly failed to Mirandize who had now recanted.

The Elcock case had started promisingly when an anonymous informant tipped off an officer in Vice and Narcotics that Harvey Elcock was going to receive a shipment of speed from the Marauders motorcycle gang that he would then sell. Shortly after receiving the tip, detectives conducting surveillance of Elcock’s tiny Cape Cod observed two bikers in Marauders colors enter the house.

Sarah started having reservations about the bust from the moment Harvey Elcock answered the door. He was bald with pale cheeks that were covered with salt-and-pepper stubble, and Sarah guessed he was in his late forties. He was wearing wrinkled tan chinos, a white, stained crew-neck undershirt, and a gray cardigan sweater over his undershirt even though the temperature was in the high eighties. Elcock stared at the officers through a pair of black plastic glasses with thick lenses.

“Mr. Elcock?” Sarah asked.

Elcock nodded.

“May we come in?”

Elcock looked puzzled. “Why?” he asked.

“We have a warrant to search your house for drugs,” Sarah said, holding up the document the judge had signed an hour earlier.

“Drugs?” he asked dully. Sarah was starting to think that they were dealing with an ineffectual man with a low IQ, not exactly the type bikers picked to deal and protect their product.

“Yes, sir,” Sarah said.

“I don’t have any drugs, except my prescriptions. I have some for high blood pressure, and my cholesterol isn’t too good so my doctor gives me some for that.”

“We have information that you have methamphetamine on the premises.”

“Is that like speed?”

“Yes, sir.”

Elcock looked frightened. “I don’t have that. There’s none of that here.”

“We’ve been told that you were given these drugs to sell by a biker gang.”

“Oh no. Tony didn’t give me nothing. He was just looking for Loraine. But she left. I think she’s visiting her aunt. She might come back if her aunt won’t let her stay.”

“Is this Tony in a biker gang?”

“Yeah, Marauders. I don’t like him.”

“Mr. Elcock, we do have to come in, but we’ll be out of your hair in no time if we don’t find any speed.”

Elcock let the search team in. The officer who searched Elcock’s bedroom found meth under a stack of undershirts in Elcock’s drawer. Sarah was disappointed. She had hoped they’d come up empty-handed. The stash looked like it was for personal use, and it wasn’t anywhere near the amount the informant had sworn they’d find. Then another officer found a more substantial amount hidden in a back room.

Elcock swore he didn’t know anything about the meth, and he cried when he was booked in at the jail. Logic told Sarah that the drugs had to be Elcock’s, since he lived alone, but she had an odd feeling about the bust, and it wouldn’t go away.

Two days after Elcock was arrested, Sarah remembered something he’d said. As soon as her shift ended, she drove back to Elcock’s house. A very pregnant woman answered the door.

“Are you Loraine?” Sarah asked.

“Yeah. Who are you?”

Sarah was in plainclothes, so she showed the woman her badge.

“Do you know that Mr. Elcock is in jail?” Sarah asked as soon as they were seated in the living room. The color drained from Loraine’s face.

“What did he do?” she asked. Sarah thought Loraine looked very nervous, and she watched her face carefully for the reaction to her next statement.

“We received an anonymous tip that Mr. Elcock was selling methamphetamine for the Marauder motorcycle gang.” Loraine looked sick. “Our informant told us that we’d find a big shipment here.”