Velma remembered Carter and Lamont talking about this witness one evening not long ago. Specifically, it was about the tenant who lived under the witness' room. The tenant said she was certain that the witness never got up that night because she would have heard. The tenant insinuated that the witness made up the entire account.
The tenant, Carter relayed, was a light sleeper and she was tending to her sick child. She neither heard the scream the witness alleged, nor any sounds of the witness getting out of bed. So why was she considered a witness, Velma remembered Lamont asking Carter. Carter shrugged and said, "Because she's one of a small few whose story is more reputable than most of the others the police had gotten over the past few weeks."
The attorney cleared his throat, "Yes, we understand that you think you saw the individual who had committed these horrific crimes. But what we want to know is what did he look like. Describe him to us, if you will."
The woman floundered for a moment.
The attorney continued. "You said it was foggy that evening, and everyone here can confirm that. You say you saw him very clearly, walking along for a few hundred feet below your window. Tell us what he looked like."
The witness twisted a handkerchief in her hand, using it to keep her hands busy as she looked up, attempting to look thoughtful. This went on for several long, silent seconds.
"Let's start from the beginning," the attorney said. "What sort of hat was he wearing when you saw him leaving the alley?"
"It was just a black hat," the witness said. She sounded nervous again. Anxious.
"A black hat. What sort of coat was he wearing?"
"He didn't have a coat. No coat. I remember that very clearly, because I remember thinking it was odd, what with it being so cold outside. Everyone wears a coat in this weather, even the sad sacks walking the streets at such a late hour."
One of the other attorneys motioned for the attorney asking the questions to come back to the bench. They conferred for a few moments. The seated attorney handed the lead attorney a scrap of newspaper, pointing at something in the print.
A moment later, "Ma'am, Mrs. Dole, when you were interviewed by the newspaper two weeks ago, you said that the Hangman wore a coat. A large, heavy coat."
"No, I never said that!" the witness, Mrs. Dole, cried. "The reporter who came to ask me questions made me say those things. He just put in the story what his editors wanted him to say. I never said he wore a coat."
A few laughs from the upper gallery. The public was getting restless. Mrs. Dole cast a baleful glare at her audience.
The judge banged his gavel on his desk. "Order," he called once and only once. The noise from above ended. "Counsel," the judge said to the attorney. "Go on with your questioning. Mrs. Dole, take your time."
This interruption in her account had upset Mrs. Dole. She went from one contradiction to another: the man she saw was tall, then short. Thin, then stocky. Her story spiraled out of control once they began talking about what he was carrying.
Finally, the witness asserted that she had seen the man with a newspaper under his arm and that it was bulging.
However, this account didn't match the one she'd given Charleston Police, specifically the officer who first interviewed her. In fact, she had emphatically stated to the officer that the man she saw had nothing in his hands. The attorney read from the officer's report, "'Mrs. Dole said, and I quote, "He was swinging his arms up and down.'"
The attorney managed to get a new fact out of Mrs. Dole. She suddenly chirped that the man she saw looked up at her as he passed by. There was sudden murmuring in the courtroom. The judge banged his gavel two times, loudly.
"The man looked at you?" the attorney asked. "You've never said that before, not in any of the accounts we have."
"I didn't say it before because I was scared -- scared to death!"
"Well, then, if you could really see his face, in the dark night with all that fog, what did he look like?" Velma could tell the attorney was growing very irritated.
"Black," she said loudly. "Black as night. He was a nigger!"
The courtroom burst into equal parts laughter and shouts of protest. The attorney approached the judge's bench as he motioned for him with one hand and slammed the gavel down three times. "Order! Order or I'll clear this courtroom right now!"
Velma and Carter looked at each other. Carter shook his head.
The attorney nodded solemnly to the judge and walked back to his bench. "That will be all, Mrs. Cole," he said with a grave finality.
Mrs. Cole didn't seem to know what to do with herself. The bailiff appeared and escorted her from the witness stand and out of the courtroom.
The next witness was called immediately after Mrs. Cole was out of the room. She was Mrs. Petrie, an older, quiet woman, dressed in black. Her husband was a night watchman for a warehouse about one hundred yards from the alley where the crimes were committed.
Mrs. Petrie had gone out at about one in the morning to take her husband some dinner. On the street, a man passed her. He was breathing very hard and walking quickly, as if he were trying to leave the area as fast as his legs would take him.
It seemed strange to her because rarely did she see another soul on the street at that hour. It was also strange because she said the man looked very odd, very peculiar and behaved in a way that caused her immediate concern.
Velma listed carefully, realizing that this witness' description was what formed the official description of the Hangman, a description that eased Velma's troubled soul.
Mrs. Petrie spoke ever so quietly, but with confidence. She described what she saw the man carrying in clear terms.
"It was a neat package. Wrapped in newspaper and tied up with string."
She explained that she thought it strange that a decently dressed man carrying such a package at such an early hour, and that's why she noticed all of the details she described.
When the attorney pressed for more details, however, Mrs. Petrie had to confess that it was a thick foggy night and she was afraid she was going to lose her way, even though she knew the route to her husband's work by heart.
She was politely dismissed after her testimony was exhausted with questions from the attorney.
The next witness, the husband of one of the deceased, was a respectable looking gentleman. He worked as a foreman in a factory not far from Battery Row. Velma noticed that he seemed very sad, but also very resigned to the matters at hand. He acknowledged that he hadn't seen his wife in two years nor heard news of her for almost six months.
The witness spoke of how the victim had been a wonderful wife and mother before she took to drinking and then began prostituting herself to acquire opium.
The room was silent, save for the witness and the attorney. Velma could sense the acute sympathy in the room for this man. The witness, however, could shed no further light on the Hangman's appearance or the murder of his estranged wife.
The next witness was the bartender who had served both victims before the bar they frequented closed early in the morning. To Velma, he seemed very uneasy, as if he were suspected of being the one who sent these poor lost souls into eternity.
At one point, the bartender tried to get clever with the attorney's questions, but soon had his tail between his legs when the judge reprimanded him for being dangerously close to becoming a hostile witness and being ejected from the courtroom and into the dank conditions of a jail cell.
All of this was prologue to what happened next. What followed was something the evening papers would chew through for nights to come.
All of the witnesses had been heard and there was a slight lull in the inquest. Attorneys conferred with each other, the judge conversed with the bailiff.
Lieutenant Salzano leaned over to one of his colleagues and said, "They're going to call Dr. Garman. He's been involved in all the big murder cases for the last thirty-five years. I'm sure he'll have something interesting to contribute. To be honest with you, he's the only reason why I both
ered to show up for this circus."
Sure enough, just as Dr. Garman began to rise from his seat, there was a rumble amongst attendees who stood near the door that separated the courtroom from the gallery.
One of the attorney's aides rushed up to the attorney and handed him an envelope. The room went silent again. Velma could hear the envelope tear and the paper rustle as the attorney read what his aide handed him.
Whatever was on the paper, it darkened the attorney's face. He looked up at the judge.
"Your Honor," the attorney began. "I would like to call... Mr. Willnot? Is that correct, Will-not?" The aide nodded.
Murmurings in the gallery amongst the spectators. The attorney frowned. The judge banged his gavel once more but didn't speak. Instead, he cast a glare at the rabble that quickly silenced.
"Counsel," the judge said. "This is a little out of order. I don't see such a name on my witness list."
"You're correct, Your Honor," the attorney apologized. "I would have given notice before the proceedings, but this gentleman informed me he has information of the utmost importance related to the Hangman investigation. However, we were unable to acquire his presence until now."
A few moments later, a dapper older gentleman, dressed in a fur-lined coat, with white sideburns, was escorted to the witness stand.
"I have kept silent for far too long," Mr. Willnot began, his voice trembling slightly. "Because I have been afraid of the press. If I said anything, even to the police, I knew my house would be under attack by reporters, newspaper editors... my wife is a very delicate woman, sir. I knew that such a situation would cause her undue harm and quite possibly kill her with worry."
"You'll need to take an oath first, Mr. Willnot," the attorney said. Velma wondered if the attorney regretted going through with this examination.
The bailiff stepped forward with a Bible. Mr. Willnot took the oath with a sincerity and authority none of the previous witnesses possessed.
"If I could address the audience," Mr. Willnot began.
"No, you won't," the attorney countered. "I will ask you some questions and you will answer them. That is the nature of the process here. Mr. Willnot, you claim in your letter that--"
"I know who the Hangman is," Mr. Willnot said before the attorney could finish.
"And you claim that you met him the night he committed the murders we're investigating?" The attorney looked at Mr. Willnot, still holding the letter in his hand.
"Yes, that is correct," Mr. Willnot said. "I happened to be out at about one in the morning because I had visited a sick -- actually, a dying friend, since he passed away just a few days ago. I was heading home late from my visit, walking not far from Battery Park, when a very strange man stopped me."
Velma held her breath, placing her hand against her chest. It didn't go unnoticed by Carter, as he looked at her from the corner of his eye.
Velma thought to herself, *I can't faint, I can't faint, I can't faint*! She reached into her purse and removed a tiny glass bottle of smelling salts. She took a deep sniff, noticing Carter looking over at her.
"Are you all right?" Carter asked in a half whisper. Velma nodded.
"He was a handsome enough man, but with a very grim look on his face. And his face was rather odd as well. Piercing eyes. Like ice. But, he had the airs of an educated man. A gentleman, I would say. He was talking to himself. That's what I first noticed about him, before his appearance. He was talking to himself. Reciting poetry or some sort of verse. At first, I figured him for someone leaving one of the nearby bars after one too many whiskeys."
"Mr. Willnot," the attorney interrupted. "Please tell us what made you think this stranger was in fact the Hangman?"
"Right, I was coming to that," Mr. Willnot said, raising his hand as if to dismiss the attorney's impatience. "I was passing the man, as he was talking out loud to himself, when he stopped and turned toward me. It gave me such an odd feeling. I'd swear the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up! And that's when I saw those icy eyes and that weird face. He looked mad, almost.
"I said to him, 'It sure if foggy tonight, sir.' And he said, 'Yes. Yes, it is. A night fit for undertaking the darkest of deeds.' It struck me so odd, his words. But that's what he said." Mr. Willnot smoothed his beard with his hand as he paused.
"And was that all he said?" the attorney asked after Mr. Willnot's silence continued. "Did you see which way the man went?"
"No," Mr. Willnot said sadly. "He walked alongside me for a few moments and then he crossed the road and vanished into the fog. After that, I walked as fast as my feeble frame would take me until I was inside my home and the door was locked."
"That will be all, Mr. Willnot."
The murmuring in the gallery began. This time, the judge let the chatter commence as he turned his attention to the witness list.
Mr. Willnot nodded and rose from the witness stand, but paused again. "Oh!" he said, suddenly remembering. "I almost forgot. I can't believe I almost forgot. Curse my failing memory."
"What is it?" the attorney asked. Silence reigned once again in the room.
"He carried a bag," Mr. Willnot said. "A leather bag. It was light colored brown. He had it in his left hand. It was the kind of bag that could have easily contained a knife and rope."
Velma felt her stomach rise and fall. She watched as the reporters began scribbling in their notebooks. All she could think about was telling Lamont about how Mr. Lockhart's leather bag had disappeared. His light brown leather bag...
"We should probably go out now," Carter whispered to her. "They're coming to the part about the medical evidence. It can be awfully gory. Besides, once that's over, there'll be a mad dash for everyone to leave the building. I can get you out of here quickly and quietly... without anyone bothering you."
Velma nodded and followed Carter. They went back down the staircase and through the now empty hallway. "I expect you'll want to head home now and get yourself a cup of coffee," he said.
"Thank you, Carter," Velma said. She had tears in her eyes. "I don't know what to say. You were very good to me. But please--"
"Don't worry about anything. It's between you and me," he said, his warm brown eyes showing the utmost concern for Velma. He placed his hand on her shoulder for reassurance. "Be careful getting home."
"Do you think they'll have that last witness speak any more?" Velma asked.
Carter frowned. "I hope not. I think he was just a senile old man trying to get some attention. We get a lot of folks like Mr. Willnot who are busybodies because they've nothing better to do with their time."
"You don't think there was anything of fact in what he said?"
"He seemed like a nice enough old man, but I doubt it."
Chapter 20
Velma was tired and unable to think clearly. Each step closer to home was automatic, as if she were a puppet being guided along by a puppeteer.
Her pace was slow for she felt old. She had considered the bus again, only for a moment, before deciding that she needed air. She realized she'd have to lie to Lamont again and make up a story about what she said to her doctor and what he said to her in response. *Lies and more lies*, she thought.
Like most people, Lamont always took an interest in other people's illnesses, especially since he was as healthy as a horse himself. Velma knew he would feel left out if she didn't tell him every single detail of her visit. Her fictional visit to the doctor.
As Velma walked, it seemed every corner had a paperboy selling the latest editions of the afternoon papers. "The Hangman Inquest! The latest evidence!" they all shouted. "The Hangman Inquest! What he looks like! Do you know him?"
Sugar in Her Bowl Page 20