The Gray Drake

by Charles Cutter

  Cullen approached Starkweather. “Sheriff, how long have you lived in Crawford County?”

  “My whole life. Except for two years in the Army.”

  “And how long have you been sheriff?”

  “Twenty-three years. I was a deputy for eight years before that.”

  Judge Skinner took off his glasses and looked at the prosecutor. “Mr. Cullen, I don’t want to be presumptuous or do your work for you, but if we don’t get on with this, it will be deer season before we know it.” The judge looked at the sheriff, then back at Cullen. “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Not exactly, Your Honor.”

  “I’ll make it simple for you.” Judge Skinner swiveled his head to the sheriff. “Earl, was Quinn, Mr. Shepherd, dead when you found him?”

  “Yes.”

  Skinner turned back to Cullen and Burr. “Gentlemen, we have a body.” Then to the sheriff, “Earl, you’re excused.”

  “Your Honor—” Cullen said.

  “Mr. Cullen, this is a preliminary exam, not a trial. We have a body. That’s all we need.” Skinner waved his glasses at the prosecutor. “Call your next witness.”

  Cullen stood. “The State calls Norwynn Potter.”

  “If that was my name, I’d change it,” Burr said under his breath. He turned to Lizzie. “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Burr watched a bull of a man lumber to the witness stand. He had a barrel chest, arms like tree trunks and a beer belly. His black hair and beard both needed a trim. How can anybody who looks like that and has a name like Norwynn get through life without fighting every other day?

  The bailiff, dwarfed by the witness, swore Potter in. Potter sat and grabbed at the railing in front of him. His hands looked like baseball mitts. What can he possibly have to do with Quinn Shepherd?

  Potter wore a white shirt that was too tight. If he sneezed, the buttons on his shirt would pop and somebody in the front row would lose an eye. He didn’t have on a tie, but he’d buttoned his shirt all the way to the top. At least it looked that way; it was hard to tell because his beard hung over his collar.

  “Mr. Potter, please tell the court what you do for a living.”

  “A living?” Potter’s voice boomed like the horn on a semi.

  “Your job.”

  “I don’t have a job.”

  Cullen started over. “Mr. Potter, do you work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “I don’t work. I own the Two Track.”

  “Is that the Two Track Tavern? On M-72, on the way to the Chase Bridge?”

  “It depends on which way you’re coming from.”

  Cullen bit his cheek.

  “You said you own the Two Track Tavern?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And is it between The Gray Drake and Chase Bridge?”

  “Yeah.”

  Cullen needs more practice with Potter, too, but then again, this might be the best Potter can do.

  “Thank you, Mr. Potter.” Cullen continued, “And is the Two Track Inn a tavern?”

  “It’s a bar.”

  “Of course, it is.”

  “We serve food,” Potter said. “Hamburgers mostly.”

  “Of course, you do,” Cullen said. “Were you at the Two Track on Saturday night of June 21st, the night Mr. Shepherd died?”

  “I’m there every night.”

  Burr leaned over to Lizzie. “Are you sure you don’t know why Potter is here?” he said under his breath.

  Lizzie shook her head.

  “Is that a yes or a no?” Burr started chewing on his own cheek, then stopped himself. He looked back at Cullen and Potter.

  “Mr. Potter,” Cullen said, “on the night in question, was Mr. Shepherd at the Two Track?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And who was he with?”

  “Some woman.”

  “Was the woman his wife?”

  “Not at first.”

  Burr leaned back to Lizzie. “I thought you said you didn’t know him.”

  “I don’t.”

  Burr didn’t like the way this was headed. Cullen started over. Apparently, he didn’t like the way this was headed either, but for different reasons.

  “Mr. Potter, when you first saw Mr. Shepherd that night, who was he with?”

  “A woman.”

  “And was that woman Mrs. Shepherd?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Potter, what was that woman’s name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who was she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Mr. Cullen,” Judge Skinner said, “perhaps you could ask Mr. Potter just to tell us what happened. In his own words.”

  Cullen looked up at Skinner. “Yes, Your Honor. I was just about to do that.” Cullen turned back to the man of few words. “Mr. Potter, would you please tell us, in your own words, what happened in the Two Track that night.”

  Potter looked at him, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Just as it relates to Mr. Shepherd.”

  “Oh,” Potter said. “Well, Quinn comes in and sits in the corner. Where it’s dark. He orders a shot. Then another one. He starts to get up when this woman comes over and sits next to him. Right next to him. She’s a looker. In her own way. He doesn’t act too happy to see her. He orders another shot. She puts her hand on his hand, then she whispers in his ear. And then his wife comes in.”

  “Whose wife?”

  Potter looked at Cullen like he was a fool.

  “Quinn’s wife. Her.” He pointed at Lizzie with a finger the size of a hot dog. “Anyway, she sees them in the corner and heads straight over. Before I know it, there’s shouting and screaming and chairs getting knocked over.” Potter gripped the rail again. His knuckles turned white. “They were starting to go at it.”

  “Who was?”

  “The two chicks.”

  “Do you mean the woman and Mrs. Shepherd?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then I threw all three of them out.”

  Cullen nodded. “Did you hear Mrs. Shepherd say anything?”

  Potter started to answer, but Cullen held up his own hand, tiny in comparison to Potter’s, and stopped him. “Before you threw them out.”

  Potter pointed at Lizzie again. “She said, ‘If I ever see you with her again, it will be the last time.’”

  “Did you think Mrs. Shepherd might get violent?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Objection,” Burr said. He had to stop this, and Cullen had just given him an opening. “The witness can’t know what Mrs. Shepherd might have done.”

  “I’ll rephrase the question, Your Honor.” Cullen flashed his teeth at Burr. Then he turned to the witness, “Did she seem serious? Like she meant it?”

  “Seemed that way to me.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “She slapped him, and I threw ’em all out.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Potter,” Cullen said. “Had you ever seen Mr. Shepherd and this woman in the Two Track before?”

  “Yeah. Plenty of times.”

  “How many, would you say?”

  “Two or three. Maybe more.”

  “And were they affectionate? Did they seem fond of each other? Like boyfriend and girlfriend.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would you say they were having an affair?”

  “Objection, Your Honor.”

  “In your opinion.”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Nothing further.”

  “Is this true?” Burr mouthed to Lizzie.

  She whispered back, “Not the way he said it.”

  “It’s so wonderful to
be lied to by my clients,” Burr said, under his breath. He stood and approached Potter, but stopped about six feet from him. “Mr. Potter,” he said softly, “is it loud in the Two Track?”

  “What’s that?”

  Burr spoke a little louder. “Is it loud in the Two Track?”

  “What?”

  “Speak up, Lafayette,” Skinner said. “Norwynn can’t hear you.”

  “That’s right, Your Honor. He’s deaf as a stone. He’s so deaf, I doubt he could hear what anyone said to anyone in the bar,” Burr said.

  “I’m sure he could hear a screaming woman,” Cullen said.

  “I object, Your Honor,” Burr said.

  “Continue, Mr. Lafayette.”

  Burr spoke louder. “Mr. Potter, do you have a band in your bar on Saturday night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are they loud?”

  “Yeah. Kinda.”

  “Mr. Potter, is it possible you didn’t hear Mrs. Shepherd clearly?”

  “I know what I saw. And if looks could kill, he’d have been dead right then and there.”

  “Your Honor, I submit that Mr. Potter’s testimony should be deemed unreliable. It was dark and he has hearing problems.”

  “Do you have anything further, Mr. Lafayette?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  Burr walked back to the defense table and sat. He was disgusted with himself, not because of Potter’s answer but for his own stupidity. He should have stopped questioning Potter sooner. Jacob looked at him like he had just tipped over the punch bowl. Burr looked over at Cullen, who silently mouthed, “Thank you.”

  “Mr. Lafayette and Mr. Wertheim, and you, too, Mr. Cullen. If the three of you are quite through with your little pantomime, I would like to continue. It is getting on to lunch.”

  Cullen called Joseph Gleason. He had unfashionably long brown hair, swept back over his head and curled over his collar. He had on a seersucker suit that must have cost at least two thousand dollars. He either has money or knows where to get it.

  The bailiff swore in Gleason.

  “Mr. Gleason, would you please tell us where you were the night of June 21st?”

  “I was at the charity auction at The Gray Drake.”

  “And what did you do after the auction?”

  “I went into the bar for a nightcap and then up to bed.”

  Cullen nodded knowingly. “So you stayed at The Gray Drake that night?”

  “I did.” Gleason stretched his arms and showed off gold cufflinks.

  “Would you please tell us which room you stayed in.”

  “I was in my room, the one I always stay in. Number Sixteen. It’s on the second floor. At the end of the hall, overlooking the river.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gleason.” Cullen beamed.

  Gleason was the first of Cullen’s witnesses who was actually following the script.

  “Please tell us what you saw that night,” Cullen said.

  “Well, as I get a bit older, I have to get up during the night. Once or twice.” It was Skinner’s turn to smile. “Anyway, it was the second time I got up, about three in the morning, I’d say. I went down the hall. That’s how they do it at The Gray Drake. Great place, but old-fashioned. Part of its charm, I guess. Anyway, when I got back to my room, I looked out the window and saw somebody coming up the path from the grass lot, the overflow lot off to the east.”

  “And who was it?”

  Gleason lost his smile. “It was Lizzie. Lizzie Shepherd.”

  This can’t be good.

  “Was she with anyone?”

  “No, she was by herself,” Gleason said.

  “And what was her demeanor?”

  Gleason looked at Cullen like he needed a translation.

  “Her actions. How was she walking. Her body language.”

  “Oh,” Gleason said. “She was walking carefully, I’d say. Like she was sneaking.”

  “Objection,” Burr said.

  “Overruled. Continue Mr. Cullen,” Skinner said.

  “And then what happened?”

  “I got right up next to the window and looked down. I watched her look around, and then she went around to the back and I lost sight of her. But I heard the back door close.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.” Cullen took his seat.

  Burr walked up to the witness. “Mr. Gleason, may I ask what business you’re in.”

  “I sell oil and gas interests through my company, Michigan Crude.”

  “Mr. Gleason, how do you know it was three a.m. when you saw Mrs. Shepherd?”

  “I always wear my watch.” Gleason showed off his watch, a gold Rolex on his left wrist.

  That watch cost more than my Jeep.

  “Mr. Gleason, are you nearsighted?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I am.”

  “Do you wear glasses?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you have your glasses on when you got up to relieve yourself?”

  Gleason took a pair of glasses out of his inside jacket pocket and looked at them. “I don’t remember.”

  Burr gave Gleason a steely look. “Then how can you be sure it was Mrs. Shepherd?”

  “It was her.” Gleason put his glasses back on.

  “Mr. Gleason,” Burr said, “assuming it was Mrs. Shepherd, is it possible that Mrs. Shepherd had been in the lodge, gotten up and gone to her car to get something?” Burr paused. “And you saw her when she was returning to the lodge?”

  Gleason didn’t say a word.

  “Mr. Gleason, please answer the question.”

  “I saw what I saw.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Call your next witness, Mr. Cullen.” Skinner looked at the prosecutor’s table, but there was no sign of him. He peered over the bench. “Mr. Cullen, what in the name of Mike are you doing under the table?”

  Cullen was crouching under the prosecution’s table with a package wrapped in brown paper. Cullen sat back up in his chair.

  “There you are,” the judge said. “Look here, it’s lunch time. Are you quite through?”

  “Not quite, Your Honor.”

  Whatever Cullen had been fiddling with was now on his table. The mystery package was about three-feet long, a foot wide, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with a string. Cullen stood. “The State calls Margaret Winston.”

  Burr watched a vision of beauty walk to the witness stand. Willowy thin, but not starved. He thought she was in her late thirties. The adolescent bailiff, clearly taken with her, stuttered as he swore her in. She sat and crossed her long legs and pulled her navy-blue skirt down a quarter of an inch. She had no makeup except for rose lipstick, and sky-blue eyes behind glasses with black frames. Her eyes are the same color as mine, but her glasses look a bit thick.

  “Ms. Winston.” Cullen didn’t seem nearly as taken with the witness as Burr and the bailiff. “Can you tell us what you were doing on the morning of May 9th of this year?”

  “I was looking for woodcock nests.”

  “Woodcock?”

  “In Crawford County,” she said in a throaty voice. An alto no doubt. “There are a great many nesting woodcock.”

  “I see. And where were you?” Cullen said.

  “On the east side of the South Branch. Near the river.”

  “And did you find anything other than woodcock nests?”

  “I did.”

  Cullen looked like he was pleased with himself and the way this was all going. He strutted back to his table, picked up the mystery package, and walked back to Ms. Winston. He made a show of untying the string, which he rolled into a ball and stuck in his left jacket pocket. He unwrapped the brown paper, carefully. Very carefully.

  “Mr. Culle
n, unless I am grossly mistaken, Crawford County has a more than adequate budget for office supplies.”

  “Your Honor?”

  “Get on with it.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Cullen placed himself so that no one except the witness could see what he was holding. He took a quarter turn so the judge could see what he was holding. Burr still couldn’t see what it was. He’s doing that on purpose.

  “What is that?” Judge Skinner said.

  “Your Honor,” Cullen said. “I am holding the murder weapon.”

  Burr jumped up. “Objection, Your Honor.” He still couldn’t see whatever it was, but he was damned if he’d let this go on any longer.

  “Mr. Lafayette, there is no jury here, and I am not likely to be prejudiced by Mr. Cullen’s theatrics,” Skinner said.

  “Your Honor, the State introduces this canoe paddle as People’s Exhibit A.”

  “Mr. Lafayette?”

  Burr stood and walked slowly to Cullen, who handed him the paddle. The blade was splintered along one edge and had a three-inch gash. “QS” had been carved into the throat of the paddle.

  “Bailiff, enter this as evidence,” Skinner said.

  “I have no objection.” Burr walked back to his table and sat.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Cullen said. “Ms. Winston, please tell us when and where you found this canoe paddle.”

  Margaret Winston nodded. “I was near the South Branch looking for nesting woodcock when I found this paddle.” She stopped and pointed a long finger at it.

  “Where was the paddle?”

  “It was near the bank. By some dogwood.” She took off her glasses, looked through each lens, then put them back on.

  “And what did you do with the paddle after you found it?”

  “I took it home and forgot about it. But then I remembered hearing about a man drowning on the river last year. So, I looked up the name, and I saw his name was Quinn Shepherd. I looked at the paddle again and thought the letters on the paddle might be his initials.” She drew “QS” with her forefinger in front of her. “I thought it might be important, so I took it to the sheriff’s office in Grayling.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “That was the last I saw of it.” She clasped her hands together and put them on her lap.