The Gray Drake

by Charles Cutter

  * * *

  Back at the lodge, Zeke was the only one who was glad to see him. The dog led him to Lizzie, who was in the kitchen doing something with a Cuisinart that looked like it could be dangerous.

  Burr set the plat book down on the butcher-block island.

  “That’s a very good place for that plat book to get ruined,” she said. He didn’t think she was particularly glad to see him.

  “Since I’m still your lawyer, we have some work to do.” He opened the plat book. “Lizzie,” he said, “who is Alexander Thompson Shepherd?”

  She dropped a whole carrot in the blender and looked at him suspiciously. “Quinn’s grandfather.” Lizzie turned on the blender. It made a grinding noise and destroyed the carrot. She turned off the blender. “Alexander Thompson Shepherd started the bank.”

  “In Hamtramck?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what about the trust?”

  “Grandpa Thompson made a lot of money, and he bought a lot of land.”

  “What kind of land?”

  “Wild land,” she said. “The trust is supposed to keep it that way.”

  She poured carrot juice into a glass. “Would you like to try it?”

  “That can’t possibly be good for you.”

  “It’s for Jacob.”

  Sometimes she’s distant. Sometimes I think she’s about to cry. I just can’t quite figure her out.

  An hour later, Jacob made it back to The Gray Drake. He took his carrot juice to their temporary headquarters.

  “How can you possibly drink that?” Burr said.

  “It is as close to a miracle drink as there is.”

  Burr looked out the leaded windows, not that there was much to see in November, especially in the dark. “For my money, I’d nominate a very dry, very dirty martini with Bombay Sapphire.”

  Jacob drank his carrot juice, quite obviously pleased with himself.

  “Did you find her?”

  Jacob set his carrot juice down. “I did.”

  “You did?”

  “I did.”

  “You found her, and all you can do is sit there and drink that wretched-looking orange goop?”

  “She finally showed up at her house, which, by the way, is very nice. It’s a brick colonial.” He picked up his carrot juice and swirled it like a glass of wine. “She finally came home. She left an hour later, and I followed her.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “She has a nice car, too. An Audi. An A-8. Top of the line.” Jacob, not to be rushed, drank a little more of his carrot juice. “She seems to have some money.”

  “Where did she go?” Burr said again.

  “My dear Burr, the question is not where did she go? The question is who did she go with?”

  “I give up.”

  “You’ll never guess.”

  “Who?”

  “Our drug dealer.”

  “Charlie Cox?”

  “The one and only. He picked her up in his BMW.”

  “Maybe he’s her accountant,” Burr said.

  “Only if he kisses all his clients and takes them home for the night.”

  Burr dashed back to the kitchen.

  “Lizzie, are you sure you never saw Quinn with Virginia Walker? Other than that night?”

  “No, but there were rumors.”

  “Tell me again what you said to her?”

  “You think I murdered Quinn.”

  “I don’t. I really don’t. But I need to know what happened.”

  “I told her to stay away from Quinn.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She said it wasn’t any of my business.”

  “Did she say she was having an affair with Quinn?”

  Lizzie bit her lip.

  “What if Quinn wasn’t having an affair with her?” Burr said.

  “That won’t bring him back.”

  “No, but what if she was the go-between between Charlie Cox and your husband?”

  “That still won’t bring Quinn back.”

  “No, but maybe, just maybe, we have a suspect.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Burr woke up early. In the dark, actually. He could hardly wait for his day in court. “Zeke, it’s finally our turn.”

  Back in the courtroom of the Honorable Lawrence G. Skinner, the bailiff called them to order, then Skinner said, “Mr. Lafayette, you may proceed with your defense.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Burr stood and made his way to the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “perhaps the only thing Mr. Cullen and I agree on is that it is, in fact, a terrible thing to have to judge someone.” He started pacing. “And, as I’m sure you know, the law requires a very high standard to convict a person of murder. Do you know what that standard is?” He stopped pacing. “To convict Elizabeth Shepherd of murder, you must be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt.” He paused. “Beyond a reasonable doubt,” he said again. “And do you know what reasonable doubt means? It means almost positive. There is no way you can be almost positive that Mrs. Shepherd killed her husband.

  “But there is doubt. There is great doubt. First, there is doubt about the canoe paddle. Reasonable men, experts, may differ, and they do. I will present two of them who will tell you that Quinn Shepherd was not killed with a canoe paddle. Second, and most importantly, no one saw Mrs. Shepherd kill her husband. No one saw her strike him with a canoe paddle. No one even saw her at the river that night. Not a soul.”

  Burr gripped the rail, and like Cullen, made eye contact with each juror.

  “But, you ask, what happened? After all, Quinn Shepherd is dead.” Burr paused again. “Quinn Shepherd is dead, and Mrs. Shepherd is his widow, and she must raise their son, Josh, by herself.” Burr stood up straight and thrust his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

  “But what did happen that night? I’ll tell you what happened. Mr. Shepherd was fishing by himself. At night. He slipped and struck his head on the rail of his boat. His leg got tangled in the anchor chain of his boat, and he fell in the river.” One more pause. “And he drowned. Mr. Shepherd drowned. It was a terrible accident. But it was an accident. It was not a murder. And that is what I am about to show you.”

  He knew his opening statement had gone well. If he could prove what he just said to the jury. But that was the problem. He looked down at his shoes, and then at the gallery.

  “The defense calls Clyde Fowler.”

  The Crawford County Medical Examiner took the witness stand. He was a small man with a big head. His ears, nose and mouth looked like they were stuck on his face. Burr thought he looked like Mr. Potato Head.

  After the bailiff swore in Fowler, Burr ran through the medical examiner’s credentials, which, if not world-class, were certainly good enough for Crawford County. Plus, Fowler had been the coroner for the past twenty-three years. He was sure that most of the jury knew who Fowler was.

  “Dr. Fowler,” Burr said, “you examined Mr. Shepherd’s body. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when did you perform your examination?”

  “On June 23rd, 1989.”

  “The day after Mr. Shepherd’s body was found?”

  “That’s right.”

  Burr walked to the evidence table and picked up Fowler’s autopsy report and walked back to the witness stand. “Dr. Fowler, I have in my hand Defense Exhibit One, which is your autopsy report.” Burr handed the file to the medical examiner. “Dr. Fowler, is this, in fact, the report of your findings concerning the death of Mr. Shepherd?”

  Fowler thumbed through the report, made a show of studying a few of the pages. “It is,” he said.

  Just like we practiced. Very good. Very good indeed. “Dr. Fowler, what did you conclude to be the cause of death?”

 
; “Death by drowning.”

  “Drowning,” Burr said.

  “Yes, Mr. Shepherd drowned.”

  Perfect again. “Dr. Fowler, how did this occur?”

  “Mr. Shepherd slipped and fell. He hit his head on the rail of his boat and was rendered unconscious. His leg became wrapped in his anchor chain. He then fell in the river and drowned.”

  Cullen jumped up. “Objection, Your Honor. That is not what Sergeant Wilcox testified.”

  “Your Honor,” Burr said, “this is not about Sergeant Wilcox. This is the written report of Dr. Fowler, the Crawford County Medical Examiner, who performed the autopsy the day after Mr. Shepherd died.”

  Skinner twisted his bent neck back and forth until it cracked.

  Ouch.

  Finally, Skinner said, “Mr. Cullen, I agree with Mr. Lafayette. Whether or not Clyde is right is not the issue. The issue is what was in his report.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Burr continued, “Dr. Fowler, please repeat what your autopsy said about the wound on Mr. Shepherd’s head?”

  “I concluded that Mr. Shepherd struck his head on the rail of the boat.”

  Very good again. “Dr. Fowler, did you examine Mr. Shepherd’s boat? Specifically, the rail?”

  “I did.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “I didn’t find any marks on the rail.”

  “Did this surprise you?”

  “No.”

  “And why not?”

  “The rail was made of white oak. It’s a very hard wood. I would have been surprised if there had been any damage to the rail.”

  “Could the rail have caused the wound?”

  “Oh, yes.” Fowler took off his glasses. “The edge was sharp.”

  “Was there any blood or hair on the rail?”

  “No.”

  “And did this surprise you?”

  “No. The boat had been in the river for at least twelve hours. With the current, there would have been water splashing on the boat.”

  Burr looked back at Cullen, who was seething behind his smile.

  “Dr. Fowler, Mr. Shepherd was in the river all night. And there was rough treatment of the body when Mr. Bilkey tried to get his Woolly Bugger back. We also heard that Sheriff Starkweather dragged the body out of the river and carried it all the way up to the EMS truck. Could either of these actions have caused the wound?”

  “Yes, and Mr. Shepherd was at the bottom of the river. No doubt he was bouncing on whatever was at the bottom. There were other bruises and contusions on his head.”

  “So, Dr. Fowler, you had no reason to believe that Mr. Shepherd was struck by a canoe paddle, much less murdered.”

  “No, I thought it was an accident.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Fowler. One more question. We all know that Mr. Shepherd spent his life on the river. He was an excellent guide and extremely competent around boats. Having said that, did you measure Mr. Shepherd’s blood-alcohol content?”

  “I did.”

  “And what was it?”

  “.16.”

  “.16,” Burr said. “And what is considered drunken driving in Michigan?”

  “.08.”

  “.08,” Burr said. “So Mr. Shepherd was drunk.”

  “Quite.”

  “And do you think this contributed to his death?”

  “I concluded that Mr. Shepherd was drunk. He slipped and struck his head and knocked himself out. He became tangled in the anchor chain of his boat. He fell in the river and drowned.”

  “And your autopsy concluded that Mr. Shepherd’s death was an accident?”

  “Yes.”

  “An accident.”

  “Yes.”

  Burr was about to say accident one more time, but Skinner stopped him before Cullen could object. “You made your point, Mr. Lafayette. Do you have anything further?”

  “No, Your Honor.” He hoped he had made his point because he knew what was coming next.

  Cullen marched up to the witness stand. “Dr. Fowler, did you have the canoe paddle in your possession when you did the autopsy?”

  “No.”

  “I see.” Cullen walked to the evidence table and picked up the paddle. He walked back to the witness stand. “Dr. Fowler, you are familiar with this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could a blow from this canoe paddle have caused the wound on Mr. Shepherd’s skull?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You suppose so?”

  Burr jumped up. “Objection, Your Honor. Asked and answered.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Dr. Fowler, does ‘I suppose’ mean yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dr. Fowler, if you had this canoe paddle in your possession at the time of your autopsy, might you have come to a different conclusion?”

  Burr jumped up again. “Objection, Your Honor. Calls for speculation.”

  “Answer the question,” Skinner said.

  “I might have.”

  “You might have come to a different conclusion?”

  “Yes.”

  He’s giving it all back.

  Cullen walked back to the evidence table. He laid the paddle down and picked up the exhumation report. “I have in my hand People’s Exhibit Two, the exhumation report.” Back in front of Fowler, Cullen handed it to the witness.

  “Dr. Fowler, have you read this report?”

  “I have.”

  “And what does this report conclude?”

  Fowler squirmed in his chair. “It concludes that the canoe paddle caused the wound on Mr. Shepherd’s head.”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Burr said. “The prosecutor is making it sound like Dr. Fowler wrote that report, and he did no such thing.”

  “I was making sure Dr. Fowler had read the report,” Cullen said.

  Turnabout is fair play.

  “Overruled,” Skinner said.

  Here it comes.

  “Dr. Fowler, in your opinion, and in light of the canoe paddle, could the wound on Mr. Shepherd’s head have been caused by the canoe paddle?”

  Fowler slumped in his chair. “Yes,” he said.

  “No further questions,” Cullen said.

  Burr really wanted to skip Robert Traker, but the retired medical examiner was the only expert witness Burr could find. He hoped Cullen hadn’t found any of the warts that Burr had found when he had done a background check on Traker. This could turn out to be a disaster, but he stuck with his plan.

  Burr shuffled through his papers, then stood. “The defense calls Dr. Robert Traker.”

  Burr turned to the gallery. The retired Wayne County Medical Examiner made his way to the witness stand. No one could take their eyes off the bald giant.

  “Dr. Traker, you are a pathologist. A Ph.D., is that right?”

  “Yes,” Traker squeaked. He looked like a defensive tackle, but he had a voice like a chipmunk. “Would you please talk a little louder?”

  “Yes.” Now he sounded like a goose with a sinus infection.

  “You were a medical examiner in Wayne County. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “Thirty years.”

  Burr continued with the good doctor’s qualifications, then started in. “Dr. Traker, did you review Dr. Fowler’s autopsy?”

  “I did.”

  “And the exhumation report of Sergeant Wilcox?”

  “I did.”

  “Dr. Traker, what, in your opinion, was the cause of death?”

  “Mr. Shepherd drowned.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Traker.” Burr looked at the jury. He hadn’t lost them yet, but Traker’s voice wasn’t helping. He’d try to keep Traker’s answers short. Burr walked to the evid
ence table and picked up the canoe paddle. I hate this thing. If only Finn hadn’t found it.

  Back at the witness stand, Burr showed the paddle to the good doctor. “Dr. Traker, are you familiar with this canoe paddle?”

  “I am.”

  “In your opinion, was Mr. Shepherd struck with this paddle?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Possibly?” Burr said. “What does that mean?”

  “The hair samples match and the wound could have been caused by the canoe paddle, but there are any number of other explanations.”

  “Such as?”

  Traker took off his glasses. He had tiny black eyes behind them. Burr took a step back then, stepped in between Traker and the jury. “Put your glasses back on,” Burr mouthed.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your glasses.”

  “Speak up, Mr. Lafayette,” Skinner said.

  Traker cleaned his glasses with his tie. Satisfied they were clean, he put them back on.

  “Dr. Traker, what else might have caused the wound?”

  “Mr. Shepherd may have hit his head on the rail of the boat. Or he might have hit his head on a rock. And as far as that goes, he may have hit the back of his head first and then fallen forward. The wound on his head may have happened second, not first.”

  “Can you tell us about the wound on the back of Mr. Shepherd’s head?”

  “It was a contusion, a bruise. In layman’s terms there was a large bump on the back of Mr. Shepherd’s head.”

  “Can you say what caused it?”

  “Not definitely. But I think he probably fell on something very hard. Like a rock.”

  “A rock.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, Dr. Traker, do you agree with Sergeant Wilcox’s findings?”

  “His findings are a possibility.” Traker stopped. “But just one of many possibilities.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Traker.” Burr walked back to the defense table. Other than the glasses, Traker’s testimony had gone better than Burr had hoped. If Cullen didn’t ruin things, Burr thought he had refuted Wilcox’s testimony, and he still had Charlie Cox.