Free The Last Victim by Kevin O'Brien

up less than 5 percent of this audience. In fact, most of the Spanish-speaking people in the room were on the wait staff. He’d found himself a nice shadowy spot, an alcove near the waiter’s bus station, where he watched the proceedings. He used his telephoto lens to get a good look at her.
    Bridget Corrigan seemed uncharacteristically edgy and distracted. She even flubbed a Spanish phrase while translating. He knew, because a couple of busboys laughed quietly, and he asked them why. She kept looking out at the audience, her eyes shifting from side to side.
    He had a feeling she was searching for him in the crowd—and the notion amused him.
    He took the photograph out of the developing solution, then set it beside the others he’d taken of her today. They were damn good—even better than the snapshot he’d stolen from her dresser mirror while she and her brats were at her brother’s house last night.
    Sweeping aside a heavy black curtain that blocked out any accidental light, he opened the darkroom door. He’d left the television on in his studio. They were broadcasting the local news. On his way to the refrigerator, he passed by several of his paintings, his postmortem portraits.
    On TV, they were talking about the election: “. . . the latest polls show Corrigan now in a slim lead with forty-three percent of the votes. But Foley isn’t far behind with forty-one percent, and sixteen percent still undecided. Brad Corrigan spoke at a party luncheon today at the downtown Portland Red Lion . . .”
    The artist loaded a glass with ice, then poured himself some scotch.
    “KJLU’s Paula Dwoskin spoke with the candidate’s sister . . .”
    He heard her voice and turned toward the TV.
    “Oh, I think my brother will win,” Bridget Corrigan was telling a reporter at the luncheon.
    The artist raised his glass of scotch as if to toast her.
    “I have to think my brother will win,” she continued. “Otherwise, I’m very afraid about what’s going to happen to this state—to our middle- and lower-income families, our environment, the education of our children, our safety, and our basic human rights.”
    She looked amazingly pretty—considering she’d been up all night. He touched his TV screen, caressing her cheek.
    “When I think about what’s at stake,” Bridget Corrigan said, “I get very scared.”

    At five o’clock on a Thursday morning in early October, twenty-nine-year-old Loreen Demme’s alarm clock went off. She wasn’t accustomed to getting up this early in the morning. But she had promised a friend that she would pick her up at the airport. The flight was due in at 6:10. Loreen crawled out of bed, then put some water on to boil for coffee. She headed back toward the bathroom to brush her teeth, but as she passed by the bedroom, she saw the unmade bed. She was cold and half-asleep, and couldn’t resist just another minute under the covers. One more minute. She wouldn’t nod off. And even if she did, the kettle whistle would wake her up. Wouldn’t it?
    It didn’t.
    Loreen Demme and two of her neighbors died in the fire. Eleven other neighbors were rushed to the hospital with burns and smoke inhalation. Loreen lived on the second floor of a five-story apartment building. The fire destroyed over half of the El Teresa Apartments’ seventy units, occupied mostly by low-income families. One hundred and ninety-three people were suddenly homeless. Many of them were among Portland’s Spanish-speaking populace.
    “Brad wants you to drop everything this afternoon,” Shelley said, leaning against Bridget’s office doorway.
    The Corrigan-for-Oregon headquarters used to be a Honda dealership. Two dozen desks for volunteers occupied what was once the automobile showroom. Bridget had one of eight salesmen’s offices—with windows looking out to the main room. CORRIGAN FOR OREGON posters and banners were on display everywhere—especially in the huge parking lot outside.
    Bridget’s office had an old,