“Your witness,” Cullen said.
Burr walked up to Ms. Winston. He hoped she kept her hands in her lap. She was easy on the eye, but he didn’t like her as much as he did before he found out about the canoe paddle. “Ms. Winston, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a professor of ornithology at the University of Michigan.”
“So it’s really doctor, not Ms.?”
“It’s both.” She made a two with the fingers of her left hand. Burr saw that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
“Professionally speaking, you are a doctor,” Burr said.
“I am a professor. Professionally speaking, it is doctor.”
“Are you a full professor?”
“I am.”
“Well done,” Burr said, smiling.
Dr. Winston did not smile back at him.
“Dr. Winston, are woodcock your specialty?”
“No.”
“I see. And what may I ask is your specialty?”
“The Kirtland’s warbler.”
“But you were studying woodcock that day.”
“I was.”
“And why were you doing that near the South Branch?”
“I volunteer with the Department of Natural Resources. There are usually nests there.”
“I see,” Burr said, who didn’t. “And how do you find the nests?”
“I use my dog.”
“Your dog?”
She nodded at him. “It’s next to impossible to find woodcock without a dog. To a dog, a woodcock smells to high heaven.”
Burr’s grandmother was the last person he’d heard say “smells to high heaven,” and that was at least thirty years ago. He smiled to himself, then he said, “What kind of dog do you have?”
“Mr. Lafayette, how can it possibly matter what kind of dog Dr. Winston has?” Skinner said.
“It may be important, Your Honor.”
Skinner shook his head. “You may answer the question.”
“She’s an English setter,” Dr. Winston said.
“Thank you, Professor.” Burr thought professor had a better ring to it than doctor and certainly better than Ms. “And your dog’s name?”
“Saints preserve us,” Skinner said.
“Finn. Her name is Finn.”
“And Finn finds the woodcock nests, I assume.”
“She does.”
“Does Finn point them?”
She nodded.
Burr thrust his hands in his pants pockets and rocked back and forth. “So you were searching for woodcock nests near the river, and you found this alleged canoe paddle.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Cullen said. “It’s not an alleged canoe paddle. It is, in fact, a canoe paddle.”
“Sustained.” Skinner looked at Burr. “Would you please get to the point?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Burr looked back at the professor. “So Finn points the nests.”
“Actually, she’s pointing the woodcock sitting on their nests.”
“Of course. And Finn is running around in the woods pointing the woodcock sitting on their nests.”
“That’s right.”
“And while she was doing that, you found the canoe paddle.”
“Yes.”
“In some dogwood near the river.”
“Yes.”
“Was it wet near the river?”
“Yes.”
“Did your feet get wet?”
“I had on hip boots.”
Burr moved in for what he hoped would be the kill. “Professor Winston, did you find the paddle in the dogwood, or did Finn find the paddle and bring it back to you?”
Professor Winston started to turn red. “Finn brought it back.”
“Professor Winston, did you actually see Finn find the paddle, or did she just show up with it?”
“She brought it back from the dogwood next to the river.”
“I thought you said you found it by the dogwood.” Her ears were turning red.
“My dog found the paddle. She was by the dogwood when she gave it to me.”
“Professor Winston, is it possible that Finn found the paddle somewhere else and the first time you saw her with it was at the dogwood?”
“No.”
“Objection, Your Honor. This is irrelevant,” Cullen said.
“Your Honor,” Burr said, “for all we know, the dog took the paddle from another boat on the river, and brought it back along the bank, to the dogwood.”
“That is not what happened,” Dr. Winston said.
“It doesn’t matter at all where the dog found the paddle,” Cullen said.
“There is no way to know when the paddle was found or how it got there. For all we know, it could have been planted there. Your Honor, I object to the admission of the canoe paddle as evidence.”
“I’m going to allow it. Do you have anything further, Mr. Lafayette?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Cullen, call your next witness.”
“The State calls Boyd Wilcox.”
A Michigan State Police sergeant in uniform marched to the witness stand. The sergeant turned and faced the gallery. He was short and thick, and had a square face below a blond flattop that you could land an airplane on. He had wire-rimmed glasses plastered on his face like they’d been surgically implanted.
The bailiff swore in the witness.
Cullen walked up to the witness box. “Sergeant Wilcox, would you please tell the court where you work and what you do.”
“I work in the crime lab at State Police headquarters in East Lansing,” Wilcox said, squeaking.
How could this fireplug of a man have a voice like a chipmunk?
“And what do you do in the crime lab?”
“I work on the evidence in criminal cases. I identify the salient characteristics of evidence and associate them with crimes.”
Cullen chewed on his lower lip, this clearly too abstract to be of much use. He walked over to the evidence table and picked up the canoe paddle. “Sergeant, did you examine this canoe paddle?”
“I did.”
“And what exactly did you do?”
“I examined the jagged edge of the canoe paddle.”
Cullen ran his forefinger over the damaged part of the blade. “Here?”
“That’s right.”
“Sergeant Wilcox, did you find anything of interest on the damaged area?”
“I found strands of human hair tangled in the splintered area.”
“Really?” Cullen said. “Human hair.”
Burr was afraid he knew what was coming next.
“Sergeant, do you know whose hair it was?”
“It belonged to the deceased. Quinn Shepherd.”
Whatever noise there was in the courtroom stopped. It was so quiet Burr could hear his teeth grinding.
“And how do you know it was Mr. Shepherd’s hair?”
Wilcox pushed his glasses even more firmly onto his face. If he pushes them in any more, he’ll never get them off. Then the Sergeant said, “I compared what I found on the paddle to known samples of Mr. Shepherd’s hair.”
“And they matched.”
“They did.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“There is no doubt in my mind.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Cullen turned to Burr. Burr thought the prosecutor looked like a self-righteous Cheshire cat. The prosecutor turned back to Wilcox. “Sergeant. How do you think the hair got on the paddle?”
Wilcox cleared his throat, but it didn’t improve his voice. “I believe Mr. Shepherd was struck with the canoe paddle. A forcible blow that shattered this edge of the blade. Some of Mr. Shepherd’s hair got bound up in the splinters.”
“Nothing further, Your Honor,” Cullen said.
“Your witness, Mr. Lafayette.”
“Lizzie,” Burr whispered, “did you go back to the river that night?”
“No. No, I didn’t.”
“Is that Quinn’s paddle?”
Lizzie nodded.
“If you don’t have any questions for Sergeant Wilcox, Mr. Lafayette, I am going to dismiss him so we can have lunch,” the judge said.
Burr stood up.
“Sergeant Wilcox, do you have a college education?”
“Objection, Your Honor. The sergeant is an expert,” Cullen said.
“An expert’s qualifications are always subject to review,” Burr said, starting toward the witness stand.
“Stop right there,” Judge Skinner said. “For purposes of this hearing, I take judicial notice that the sergeant is, indeed, an expert.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Burr said. He turned to Wilcox.
“Sergeant, where, may I ask, did you get the hair samples from Mr. Shepherd that you used to compare to the hair found on the paddle?”
“From a hat that belonged to Mr. Shepherd.”
“I see. And was there a search warrant to obtain Mr. Shepherd’s hair?”
Wilcox replastered his glasses. “No.”
“Your Honor, I submit that this evidence was illegally obtained. This is a clear violation of the constitutional right to privacy. Your Honor, I move that Sergeant Wilcox’s testimony be stricken.”
“Mr. Cullen?”
“The hat was hanging on a hook in the guide’s room at The Gray Drake. The constitutional protection does not extend to evidence found in public places.”
“Your Honor, the deceased had a legitimate expectation to privacy in the guide’s room.”
“Mr. Shepherd was dead,” Cullen said.
“Your Honor, this violates every canon of the rules of evidence. Not to mention the Fourth Amendment.”
“Mr. Lafayette, for purposes of the preliminary examination, I am going to allow all of the testimony of Mr. Wilcox. Do you have anything further?”
Burr turned and walked back to the defense table. He rummaged through his papers, found what he was looking for and held it up to Skinner. “Your Honor, the defense introduces the written report of the inquest as Defense Exhibit One.”
The prosecutor looked down his nose at Burr. “I have no objection, Your Honor.”
Burr walked up to Wilcox. “Sergeant, are you familiar with the findings of the county medical examiner as written in the inquest?”
“I am.”
“And what did the coroner have to say about the cause of death?”
“Death by drowning.”
“And did he say anything about the blood alcohol of the deceased?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Let me refresh your memory. Dr. Fowler determined that Mr. Shepherd had a blood alcohol level of point one six.” He looked up at Wilcox. “Twice the legal limit for driving a car. Dr. Fowler also noted the injury to Mr. Shepherd’s head. Are you aware of that?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Read this.” Burr handed him the report. “Start right here.” He pointed about halfway down the page.
“Objection, Your Honor. Counsel is badgering the witness.”
“The expert witness seems to have a poor memory.”
Judge Skinner turned to the witness. “Sergeant, please read from the report.”
“The deceased had a contusion on the right posterior portion of his skull, consistent with striking his head on the rail of his boat. He—”
“Stop right there.” Burr took the report back. “Dr. Fowler, who examined the body immediately after it was found, determined that Mr. Shepherd was intoxicated. He got himself tangled in the anchor chain and then banged his head on the rail of his boat and knocked himself unconscious. He fell in the river where he drowned. Is that right?”
“That’s not what happened,” Wilcox said.
“But that is exactly what the autopsy done by the coroner says happened.”
“Yes, but that is not what happened,” Wilcox said again.
“Is that what the autopsy says happened?”
“Yes,” Wilcox said.
“Could it have happened that way?”
“I suppose so, but the canoe paddle changes everything.”
“Sergeant Wilcox, how could a canoe paddle stay in the river all winter, with rain, snow, and ice, and still have hair on it. Wouldn’t it be washed clean by then?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Sergeant, did you find the canoe paddle in the river?”
“No.”
“Did you retrieve Mr. Shepherd’s hat from the guide’s room?”
“No.”
“Sergeant, let’s assume that you found the evidence on the paddle and the hat. Just as you say you did.”
“That’s exactly—”
Burr raised his hand to the now not-so-confident witness. “And let’s assume that the hair on the paddle matches the hair on the hat.” Burr stopped. “Even if all that’s true, isn’t it possible that someone put the hair on the paddle after it was found?”
“No.”
“Oh, but it is,” Burr said. “There was no control in the chain of evidence, was there?”
Wilcox sat there. Then he nodded.
“Sergeant?”
“No, there wasn’t.”
“Do you have anything further, Mr. Lafayette?”
“No, Your Honor.”
Cullen stood up.
“Sit down, Jack.”
“I have a closing argument.”
“You don’t need one.” Skinner took off his glasses. “The court finds that there is probable cause that Elizabeth Shepherd murdered her husband, Quinn Shepherd, on the night of June 21, 1989. Elizabeth Shepherd, you are hereby charged with open murder. Bail is continued.” Skinner banged his gavel.
Tears started to run down Lizzie’s face. She didn’t wipe them off. Jacob handed her his handkerchief.
“I object, Your Honor,” Cullen said. “The defendant should not be out on bail when she’s just been charged with murder.”
The judge put his glasses back on. “Come up here, Mr. Cullen.” He pointed at Cullen. “You too, Lafayette.”
The two litigants stood before the judge. “She has a little boy. She isn’t going anywhere. Quinn was probably the best fly fisherman I’ve ever known. I don’t know what kind of husband he was. And now it’s lunchtime. As for you, Mr. Lafayette, you are, without a doubt, the most argumentative lawyer I have ever had in my courtroom. I am delighted that I will never have to see you again. We are adjourned.” Skinner banged his gavel and walked back into his chambers.
Lizzie ran out of the courtroom. Burr caught up with her on the courthouse steps and reached for her arm. “Not now,” she said.
He followed her and the rest of the unhappy group back to The Gray Drake.
* * *
Burr, Jacob, Wes and Eve sat at a table by the window in the dining room.
Burr looked out the window and watched the river rush by. It doesn’t have a care in the world.
Despite the fact she had just been indicted for murder, Lizzie started them off with a Washington State pinot noir—light, fruity, and well-matched with her watercress salad, the watercress picked from a cove on the South Branch just before it emptied into the Main Branch. After that, forest-floor soup — leeks and morels in a cream sauce with white wine. Then she served grouse-breast fillets in a cranberry sauce over wild rice and garnished with acorns. Burr had no idea how she could cook like this, or cook at all, after being indicted for murder. She stayed as far away from him as she could all through lunch, and then disappeared out the back door.
After lunch, Burr an
d Zeke followed Wes past the guides’ room, down a hall, and finally to Wes’s office. Wes sat behind a roll-top desk that faced the river. Two mahogany-colored leather wing chairs sat in front of the desk. Leaded windows ran the length of the wall that looked out on the river. The rest of the room was paneled in cedar. A worn Oriental rug covered most of the hardwood floor. Behind the desk, a fireplace stood between floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The room smelled of cedar and leather.
Burr felt right at home. He took a seat in the one of the wing chairs. Zeke lay at his feet.
Wes looked up and over his reading glasses. “Now what do we do?”
“Now we’re going to have to show it was an accident or figure out who killed Quinn.”
Wes took off his reading glasses and looked out the window behind Burr. Burr turned around. A chickadee pecked at sunflower seeds from a birdfeeder.
“They’re here all year,” Wes said. “And they sing all year round.”
Burr nodded.
“I lost my wife twenty-six years ago. Lizzie was seven. She sort of took over for my wife. Not then, but when she got older. I think maybe I should have done a few things differently.” Wes stopped. “Don’t move. There’s a rose-breasted grosbeak out there. A female.”
Burr turned around slowly.
“The male is the pretty one. Bright-red breast with a white belly.” Wes paused. “I never should have let her marry Quinn.”
Burr turned back to Wes, who was still looking out the window. “They have a beautiful song. Like a robin who took singing lessons,” Wes said.
Wes looked at Burr. “My grandfather built the lodge in 1917. He named it the Au Sable Fishing and Outing Club. My father added on and changed the name to The Gray Drake. They hatch early in the summer. It’s an easy fly to tie and easy to fish.”
Wes looked back out the window, then at Burr. “This was all I ever wanted to do. I thought Lizzie would want to take over from me.” Wes paused. “But I never asked her.”
“I’m sorry all this happened,” Burr said. I’m not sure how much it helps me defend Lizzie.
Wes nodded, then looked down at his hands.
“Do you have any idea who might have killed Quinn?”
Wes shook his head. “No, I wish I did.” He looked back out the window.
“Did Quinn have any enemies?”
“Quinn?” Wes looked back at Burr. “No. No enemies that I know of.”
The Gray Drake Page 6