The two men looked at each other and shrugged. One said, “It’s your funeral, brother.”
“Yeah, we’ll have to see about that, friend.”
He returned to his hotel room and put the books down on the bed. He went over to the chest of drawers, opened one of them, and looked at the Dictaphone case inside. Fortunately, they hadn’t tossed his room and found it. Brooks probably thought he had all of the evidence he needed to hang Archer. He opened the case and looked at the papers he’d stashed in there. They were the ones he’d found in the crate at the trucking warehouse.
Both the tape and the papers told him a lot. He hoped he could put both to good use in his upcoming trial.
He stretched out on the bed and opened one of the books. He commenced reading and taking notes using some stationery and a pen from the drawer next to the Gideon Bible. When his eyes grew tired and he couldn’t read anymore, he started whistling a tune, a sad one he would perform after every battle when they were stacking, counting, and burying their dead. He’d fought for something he didn’t entirely understand but had nonetheless believed to be the right thing to do. That had been followed by a stint in Carderock for something he didn’t do. And now he was probably going to be hanged for something else he didn’t do.
He drank some more of his bottle, and then took the Dictaphone out of the drawer, plugged it in, and turned it on. This time he just let the tape run. He lay back on the bed with his bottle and stared at the ceiling, whistled his tune, and wondered what death by hanging felt like.
He stopped his whistling when he heard something brand-new coming from the recorder. He had never let it run long enough to hear this part because there had been a long gap of silence, which made him think there was nothing else on it.
Archer sat up and his feet hit the floor. He looked down at the Dictaphone and listened to the sounds coming from there. And then he aimed his gaze out the window and to the sky.
After fighting a world war, he had no longer been a God-fearing man, because he firmly believed a loving, righteous god should have just stopped mankind from committing that egregious sin.
No, Aloysius Archer was not a God-fearing man.
Until right now.
“Thank you, Mister Jesus.”
He pulled the shipping label out of the Bible, snatched up a piece of blank paper, and took about a half hour to carefully compose a letter. He ran down to the front desk, got an envelope, wrote the address down on it, and carried it over to the post office to mail it. The plainclothes men followed him every step of the way. After that, he went back to his room, lay on his bed, and prayed that what he’d written in that letter worked its magic.
But Archer also had to smile. He had stopped believing the best in people because he so rarely saw it. Now? His faith had been renewed. Just in the nick of time.
Chapter 48
ALL RISE,” said the heavy-set bailiff with a stern gaze and a widow’s peak etched sharply into his dark hair.
It was several weeks later and a goodly portion of the town of Poca City, along with the empaneled jury, rose as one inside the first-floor room in the Courts and Municipality Building. This included Archer, in his new suit and spit-polished shoes. His hat rested on the table in front of him. Next to that were Ernestine’s law books and some handwritten notes alongside the books.
A squirrel of a judge with rounded shoulders, a bald head encircled by gray hair, and a skinny, corrugated neck augmented by a wattle of flesh scampered out from a door behind the high bench and took his seat. He stared down imperiously over his little domain behind horn-rimmed spectacles.
“Be seated,” bellowed the bailiff.
The collection of bottoms hit the wooden seats, and Judge Theodore Richmond called the court to order in a high, reedy voice. He looked down at a paper in front of him and said, “Mr. Aloysius Archer, you are on trial for the murders of Mr. Hank Pittleman and Mr. Lucas Tuttle. And you are representing yourself, is that correct?”
Archer stood. “That’s correct, Judge.”
The judge eyed him severely. “Just so you know, it is highly unusual for a man to be defending himself against murder charges.”
“Well, Judge, me and the lawyer they sent didn’t see eye to eye. He thought a life sentence was a good deal. And I couldn’t afford anybody else.”
“Considering the alternative, he might well be right about that life sentence.” He turned to the DA. “Mr. Brooks, you ready to go on your end?”
Brooks, resplendent in a blue three-piece pinstriped suit and dark red tie, with cufflinks on his starched shirt and his hair combed precisely so, rose and cleared his throat. In an impressive baritone he said, “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Defendant?” said the judge, giving Archer a patronizing look.
“Uh, the defense is ready, Judge,” said Archer, half rising from his seat. As he looked at the stack of law books next to him, he suddenly reached out and tapped the volume on top.
If good fortune is ever going to shine on me, let it be now.
After legal proceeding preliminaries were dispensed with, Judge Richmond said, “Call your first witness, Mr. Brooks.”
Brooks called a series of people to help lay out the state’s case. Archer declined to cross-examine any of them.
The judge finally looked over at him. “Mr. Archer, just checking to see if maybe you’ve fallen asleep over there.”
The crowd tittered at this.
“No, Judge, just biding my time,” replied Archer.
“Well, don’t wait too long. You might find your ‘time’ has run out, son.”
Finally, Archer perked up when Brooks said, “The state calls Miss Jacqueline Tuttle.”
Archer turned to see Jackie Tuttle rise from the back row and head to the witness box set directly next to the bench. She was dressed in a modest dark blue dress, low heels, black stockings, a matching turban with a little veil attached, and a string of fake pearls around her neck. She was sworn in by the bailiff and took her seat. Jackie took a moment to lift her veil and fix it to a hook on the turban.
Brooks approached. “You are Jacqueline Tuttle, the daughter and only child of Lucas Tuttle?”
“I am.”
“Do you know the defendant, Aloysius Archer?”
Jackie gave a searching look at Archer. He stared back at her, impassively.
“I do.”
“What can you tell us about the events that led up to the death of your father?”
“I was there when Mr. Hank Pittleman, who was a friend of mine, employed Mr. Archer to collect a debt owed by my father. Mr. Pittleman was going to pay him one hundred dollars when the debt was paid, but Mr. Archer asked for and received a forty-dollar advance.”
“Why was that?”
“He said he might have some expenses in collecting the debt and needed some money up front. I thought it made sense, actually.”
“And did he use some of the money?”
Jackie hesitated.
“Miss Tuttle, did he use some of the money?” Brooks asked again.
“He bought himself some new clothes.”
Brooks held up a piece of paper. “New clothes that we have determined cost about thirty-five dollars.”
“He looked good in them.”
“And did the time come when Mr. Archer sought to collect this debt?”
“Yes. He told me that he’d had a good first meeting with my father and that he intended to keep working away at it.”
“Was he successful?”
“At first, no.”
“Can you walk us through that, please?”
“Hank wanted Mr. Archer to take back a Cadillac that my father owned and that he had assigned as collateral for the loan.”
“Did Mr. Archer secure this collateral?”
“No, he later told me that my father had burned it up.”
“And what happened after that?”
She glanced at Archer before replying. “Mr. Archer was worried because he’d already
spent most of the money Hank had advanced and he was concerned that Hank might come after him for it.”
Brooks looked over at the jury and saw them hanging on every word of this testimony.
“And what was Mr. Pittleman’s reaction to Mr. Archer having spent the money?”
“He told Archer if he didn’t get the car back, he was going to make Archer pay somehow.”
“How did Mr. Archer take that?”
“Like anyone would have. He was worried about it.”
The jury and the crowd started mumbling about this until the judge restored quiet with smacks of his gavel.
“Thank you for making things so clear, Miss Tuttle. Now, did there come a time when Mr. Archer met with your father again?”
“Yes, I let him drive my car out there to meet with him.”
“And what happened?”
“Archer convinced my father to pay back the debt.”
“How much money did he come back with?”
“Um, five thousand dollars plus another fifteen hundred dollars in interest.”
“Wasn’t Mr. Archer paid as well?”
“Yes. My father also paid him an additional three hundred dollars as his commission.”
These large sums caused whistles and musings from those gathered until the raps of the judge’s gavel ended the distraction.
“So just to be clear, this three hundred dollars paid by your father was in addition to the amounts promised to Mr. Archer by Mr. Pittleman?”
“Yes.”
“Do debtors ordinarily pay the men collecting their debts?”
“Well, I thought it was strange. But it happened.”
“But you don’t know that it did, Miss Tuttle. You only had Mr. Archer’s word for it that your father paid him the three hundred dollars. Isn’t that correct?”
“But why would he lie about that?”
Brooks glanced at the jury. “Oh, I think most people could think of a few reasons.”
He refocused on Jackie. “Now, your father was murdered the very same day that Mr. Archer went out there, correct?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Wasn’t his safe also emptied?” asked Brooks, interrupting.
“His safe?”
“Yes. His safe was cleaned out. Can you tell us what was in it?”
“No. The last time I was there, the safe had nothing in it.”
“But what did Mr. Archer tell you was in the safe?”
Jackie glanced at Archer, but he looked down at his hands.
She looked back at Brooks, who was waiting patiently for her answer.
“Miss Tuttle?” he prompted. “Didn’t Mr. Archer tell you what was in the safe?”
She nodded but said nothing.
“Can you share what you know with the court?” he said pleasantly but firmly.
She sighed and said, “He told me that it was full of cash, stock and bond certificates, and even gold bars.”
“And where did this wealth come from?”
“He said that my father had told him that the reports of oil on his land had come back favorably, and that was where the money had come from, with more to follow once they commenced drilling.”
“And you weren’t aware of this until he told you?”
“That was the first that I had heard of it. I had been gone from home for a year.”
The crowd once more verbally fussed over all this until the judge’s gavel smacked down again.
“And then?” prompted Brooks.
“And then I went out to my father’s house with Mr. Irving Shaw, the detective on the case. He had the safe opened, but it was empty.”
“What else did Mr. Shaw tell you? About your car specifically and traces of things inside it?”
Brooks had now moved so that Jackie’s sight line to Archer was blocked. “Mr. Shaw said that the trunk of my car had residue of gold dust and the imprint on the carpet of the gold bars.”
Brooks said to the jury, “Although unfortunately Lieutenant Shaw is still in the hospital and cannot be here to testify, we have photographs and other evidence of all this, which will be entered into evidence.” He turned back to Jackie. “Again, to be clear, you had given Mr. Archer permission to use your car that day to drive out to your father’s home to meet with him?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“So to clarify for the jury, Mr. Archer went to see your father, collected the debt, and your father ended up dead that very same day. Then his safe was emptied and the wealth from the safe was placed in the car that Mr. Archer was driving.” He paused. “That is correct, isn’t it?”
“That is correct,” she said quietly.
Brooks glanced over at the jury. He smiled because every single one of them was nodding and, Brooks could tell, connecting the dots. “And even though we never found the murder weapon, a gun can easily be disposed of. And a former soldier like Mr. Archer would no doubt know how to do so.”
Archer didn’t bother objecting to this or looking at the twelve men who would decide his fate; he kept his gaze on Jackie.
Brooks continued. “And the, let’s call it, treasure that Mr. Archer told you that he had seen in the safe? That meant that it must’ve been opened by your father while he was there?”
“Yes.”
“And, again, just to clarify, all this treasure was then loaded into the trunk of your car? The car that Mr. Archer had been driving that very day?”
“Yes.”
“Gold bars are very heavy. Would you say a man like Mr. Archer was strong enough to carry them out to the car?”
“Yes,” she said resignedly.
“And the contents of the safe are nowhere to be found today?”
“Nowhere to be found,” she repeated, keeping her eye on the lawyer.
“Now, as to your friend, Mr. Hank Pittleman?”
“Yes?”
“Did there come a time when Mr. Archer helped carry Mr. Pittleman to his room at the Derby Hotel, a room that was virtually contiguous with Mr. Archer’s?”
“That is correct.”
“Tell us about that.”
“Hank and I were at the Cat’s Meow. Hank had too much to drink, as he often did. I was helping him out of the bar when suddenly Mr. Archer turned up.”
“Suddenly? You had not expected to see him there?”
Jackie looked confused. “No.”
“Go on.”
“Then he volunteered to help me get Hank to the hotel. He actually carried him into his room and put him on the bed. That’s how I knew Mr. Archer was strong.”
“What happened after that?”
“We left and went to Mr. Archer’s room, where we had a drink.”
“And that was all?”
Jackie flicked a quick glance in Archer’s direction. “We might have fooled around a bit. After that I left and went home. It was the next day that I found out Hank had been killed.” She took a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “Poor Hank.”
Archer eyed Marjorie Pittleman, who sat in the front row looking just like a pillar of the community except for the fact that she was shooting venomous tipped daggers at the younger woman.
“What did Mr. Shaw tell you about fingerprints on the doorknob to Mr. Pittleman’s room?”
Jackie slowly removed the hanky from her face. “He told me that Mr. Archer’s fingerprints had been found on the doorknob of Hank’s room.”
“Did that surprise you?”
She didn’t respond.
“Miss Tuttle, I know that you were, well, friends with Mr. Archer, but you took an oath to tell the whole truth. Please do so.”
She sat up straighter, her features firmed up, and she placed her hands on the front rail of the witness box. “Look, the thing is, when we went into the room, I opened the door because Mr. Archer was carrying Hank. And I closed the door after us when we left the room.”
“So you’re saying that Mr. Archer’s fingerprints having been found on the doorknob could only ha
ve occurred if he had gone back later and entered the room?”
“Yes, and he later conceded to me that he’d done so.”
“So he went back into the room later. When was that?”
“He said it was after Hank was dead.”
“He said it was after Mr. Pittleman was dead?”
“Well, yes.”
“Could anyone corroborate that?”
“Um, no.”
Brooks again eyed the jury. “Indeed, Mr. Shaw could not as well. The facts will show that taking into account the time of Mr. Pittleman’s death, the accused would have had ample time to kill him, as his room was only a short distance away. His prints were found on the doorknob, for which he has no explanation, and he had a motive to kill the deceased, because of money owed.” Brooks glanced questioningly back at her. “And perhaps there was another motive for him to murder Mr. Pittleman.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“Oh, come, come, Miss Tuttle. Isn’t it a fact that Mr. Archer was sweet on you? He’s a good-looking man around your age. And you just testified that you and he went back to his hotel room and, well, to use your words, ‘fooled around’?”
The courtroom chatter went up several notches after that until the judge beat it back down with his gavel.
“Well, yes we did. But—”
“So presumably Mr. Archer could have seen Mr. Pittleman as a rival for your affections.”
“I don’t think Mr. Archer thought that at all.”
“Really?” said Brooks, once more gazing at the jury, this time with an incredulous look that was mirrored by the majority of the men there.
He turned back to her. “What else can you tell us about Mr. Pittleman’s death? Specifically about the papers representing the debt of your father to Mr. Pittleman? Please be as precise as you can. And keep in mind that we have your earlier statements to Detective Shaw on this subject.”
This time Jackie did not glance in Archer’s direction. Her gaze downcast, she said, “Mr. Archer told me that he had taken the papers representing my father’s debt from Hank’s pocket while he was lying there dead. And he said he gave these papers to my father when the debt was paid.”
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