He reached Albany around one o’clock and managed to find the State Police Headquarters without too much difficulty. It was a large, modern building, with lots of new brick, glass, blond wood, and recessed lighting. It reminded Fielder more of a suburban library than it did of the crumbling, filthy NYPD precinct houses he was accustomed to. Apparently when you were upstate, the home team got a better clubhouse.
The trooper who assisted Fielder looked about thirteen years old, but he was courteous and helpful. He lugged a large blue duffle bag out from the back, set it down on the counter, and began to empty its contents.
“This is the Hamilton case, huh?” he asked Fielder.
“Yes.”
“Word is, they’re going to fry the kid. Lieutenant’s giving ten-to-one odds he’ll end up in the chair.”
“Never happen,” Fielder said. “Take the odds.”
“Think so?” the trooper asked earnestly, looking around to make certain nobody was eavesdropping on this unexpected transmission of inside information.
“Know so.”
“Well, good luck.” The trooper said it with such genuineness that Fielder didn’t have the heart to tell him that the ten-to-one odds in favor of Jonathan’s being executed actually sounded just about right to him. It was only when it came to the method of death that the lieutenant was wrong. Under New York’s enlightened new capital-punishment law, electrocution was out, having been replaced by the more humane choice of lethal injection. It seems there were too many accounts of prisoners’ heads bursting into blue flames, or their eyeballs being forcibly ejected from their sockets.
IT TOOK SOME DOING, but between Dot Whipple’s know-how and Pearson Gunn’s physical strength, by noon they’d examined the contents of 164 cartons of records in the courthouse’s basement storage closet, known in official circles as the Archives. Midway through the 165th carton, they found the worn accordion-file they were looking for: wills probated - 1989. Inside were about thirty documents, among them were the wills of Porter and Elizabeth Hamilton. Dot turned it over, so they could read the printing on the blueback.
WILBUR H. MAPLE, Esq.
Attorney and Counselor-at-Law
40 Front Street
Saranac Lake, New York
“You got a subpoena for these?” Dot suddenly remembered to ask.
“Think I just might,” Gunn replied. But it is difficult to imagine that Dot wouldn’t have made him copies of them anyway. It would seem too silly to refuse at that point, given all they’d been through running down the document. Besides, Dot has always been quite partial to Pearson Gunn, and more than once over the years she’s been heard to say that were she twenty years younger, the man wouldn’t stand a chance against her.
Twenty minutes later, Gunn was on his way over to Saranac Lake, to have a little chat with Wilbur H. Maple, Esquire, Attorney and Counselor-at-Law, to try to find out if, by any chance, Mr. Maple had also drawn up a will for Jonathan Hamilton’s grandparents.
Gunn was pleased with himself, and understandably so. He is a solid investigator who possesses good instincts, and he usually gets the job at hand done, one way or another. But on this particular day, he’d missed something. Although he had copies of Jonathan’s parents’ probated wills sitting next to him on the seat of his Impala, he’d made the mistake of regarding them purely as a means to an end- the end being the unprobated wills of Jonathan’s grandparents, the ones that might ultimately shed some light on the motive behind the Flat Lake murders.
What Gunn had failed to do was to read the wills themselves.
BY THE TIME the trooper had finished emptying the contents of the duffle bag onto the counter, there was an impressive array of items for Fielder to examine. In separate clear plastic envelopes were the hunting knife that had been found under Jonathan’s sink, and the two blood-soaked towels, one of which had contained the knife. Only, the blood no longer looked like blood to Fielder: It had dried and turned a dark brown color, almost black in spots. In several areas, squares of the towel were missing, where cuttings had been removed for laboratory analysis.
There also was a lot of clothing that apparently belonged to Jonathan. Of particular note were the shoes: a pair of boots, two pairs of sneakers, and a pair of sandals, all bearing tags that identified them as size 12. Fielder knew that the bloody bare footprints leading from the crime scene to Jonathan’s cottage had been determined to have been left by a person whose feet were size 12. Wrapped separately in plastic were a flannel shirt and a pair of shorts. On close examination, Fielder could see what appeared to be smudges of blood on the sides of both of them.
There were sunglasses, eating utensils, a few crude wood carvings, a set of miniature porcelain animals, a Frisbee, and some toilet articles. There was a handful of books, but all of them seemed as though they’d just come from the store. There was a wallet, containing $22, and an envelope filled with $3.27 in change. There were half a dozen flat, oval stones, smooth enough to have come from a brook; Fielder guessed they’d make good skipping-stones. There was a cigar box full of old photographs, which Fielder dumped out and spent a few moments looking through. From the blond hair and facial similarities, he guessed that most, if not all of them, were of relatives. From newspaper photos he’d seen shortly after the murders, he recognized Jonathan’s grandparents, posing with Jonathan in front of what looked like an authentic birchbark canoe, in what had certainly been happier times. There were shots of another couple, most likely Jonathan’s parents. There were several of a dog - an Irish setter, it looked like. And one of a child, no more than a year old, squinting into the sunlight. It was worn and fadedc and looked old enough to be a photo of Jonathan himself as a boy, though it was hard to tell for sure.
But it was the last two items to come out of the duffle bag that caused Fielder the most difficulty. One was a honing stone, used to put a sharp edge on a knife. From its uneven shape, it looked as though it had seen plenty of use. The other was an empty leather sheath. Fielder located the hunting knife, still encased in plastic, and set it down next to the sheath, so that the two items lined up side by side.
It looked to be a perfect fit.
WILBUR H. MAPLE, Esquire, Attorney and Counselor-at-Law, turned out to be an octogenarian straight out of the pages of a Dickens novel. He was barely five feet tall in his elevator shoes, ruddy-faced and totally bald save for a fringe of snow-white hair that ran around the back of his head, connecting a pair of long, bushy sideburns. He wore a three-piece suit that once had been navy blue, but somewhere along the line had faded to purple, and easily could have been as ancient as Maple himself.
“And what can I do for you, sir?” he asked Pearson Gunn following introductions.
“You can tell me if you wrote a will for a man named Carter Hamilton.” Gunn figured he’d keep things simple, talk about one will first.
“I most certainly did,” Maple beamed.
“I was wondering if I could get a look at it,” Gunn said.
“‘Fraid not.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’re too late, sonny.”
“Excuse me?”
“Already turned it over to the DA,” Maple explained. “Fella from his office showed up middle of last week, with a subpoena duces tecum. And he tecumed it, if you know what I mean.”
“Did you keep a copy?” Gunn looked around hopefully, but there was no sign of a copy machine. The most modern piece of machinery in sight was a portable manual Smith-Corona typewriter, circa 1935.
“Nope. Don’t need one.”
“Why’s that?”
“Two reasons,” said Maple, tapping one finger against the side of his head. “First off, I got it all in here.”
“Okay,” said Gunn, who was willing to play. “What’s it say?”
“In the event Carter and his wife died together, everything goes to the boy, Jonathan. That’s your client, right?”
“Right.”
“Lucky fella.”
“Well-”
“‘Course, I wrote the bank in as trustee and all that,” Maple said, “seeing as the boy’s a bit on the slow side, if you catch my drift.”
“And if the estate couldn’t go to Jonathan?” asked Gunn, who remembered reading somewhere about a law that barred convicted murderers from inheriting anything from the victims of their crimes.
“Normal stuff.” Maple shrugged. “Estate would go to any great-grandchildren living at the time of the testators’ deaths, on a per capita basis. Seeing as there aren’t any, then I s’pose we’ll have to look a little further. I seem to remember the boy’s got an uncle off somewhere or other. Austria, maybe?”
“I see,” said Gunn. “You said something about a second reason you didn’t make a copy of the will.”
“Yup,” said Maple.
“What was that?”
“I wrote Carter and Mary Alice joint and mutual wills. So hers is the same as his, ‘cept for the signatures.”
Gunn had never heard of joint and mutual wills, which had gone out of vogue some forty years earlier, primarily because they tended to afford insufficient protection in the event of joint and mutual deaths. But he knew enough to frame the next question. “Think I could have hers?” he asked.
“Don’t see why not,” Maple said, “‘long as you get it back to me, so’s I can file it for probate.”
Gunn gladly traded his promise for Mary Alice Hamilton’s will. But his victory had been a Pyrrhic one: Like every other piece of evidence in the case, it led directly and inexorably to Jonathan. Worse yet, it was, for all practical purposes, already in the hands of the enemy.
Matt Fielder had his will, all right.
But Gil Cavanaugh had his motive.
ON THE WAY from state police headquarters to the offices of Miller and Munson, Fielder found himself whistling, checking his appearance in his rearview mirror, and smoothing down his hair, which had become windblown and disheveled from the drive. But it wasn’t until he caught himself stroking his chin to feel how closely he’d shaved, that he finally realized precisely who and what all these little mannerisms were about. Who they were about, of course, was Hillary Munson. What they were about, came down to a single word.
Horny.
As much as Fielder hated to admit it, his solitary life in the woods didn’t fulfill quite all of his needs. He would deny the point adamantly, insisting that he was every bit as content to be away from civilization as Thoreau ever had been. But at moments like this, he knew better.
He tried to focus by asking himself what he knew about Hillary. That she was cute and petite, smart as a whip, and full of life? Fine for starters. What he didn’t know was whether she had a boyfriend, or even a husband. After all, he hadn’t seen her in nearly two years. The way things worked these days, a cute young thing like her wouldn’t stay single on the open market for two months. She could have kids by now. She could be nine months pregnant! He told himself to calm down and think logically.
But horniness can be a funny thing, and it is seldom, if ever, affected by logic. As he drove through the streets of Albany that afternoon, trying in vain to think pure thoughts and concentrate on the business at hand, Matt Fielder was already busy scheming.
Much has been written on the subject of just what it is that makes a person an effective lawyer and, in particular, an effective litigator. Contrary to popular perception, it is not merely a gift for oratory that is required. The fact is that, statistically speaking, precious few cases ever go to trial; the overwhelming majority test skills quite different from those ultimately needed in front of a jury. An analytical mind, a talent for organizing, and a willingness to put in long hours of preparation - all of these attributes are certainly important. But perhaps the most essential ingredient of all is one that carries a slightly derogatory label. “Show me an effective lawyer,” someone once said, “and I’ll show you a master manipulator.” Lawyers manipulate. They manipulate not only junors, but judges, witnesses, other lawyers, court personnel, probation officers, parole boards, their own clients . . . everyone. A “master manipulator” is one whose victims aren’t even aware they’re being manipulated. A “grand master” takes it one step further: His victims praise him specifically for being so straightforward and unmanipulative.
None of this thought process went through Matt Fielder’s conscious mind, naturally, during his drive to meet Hillary Munson. What did occur to him was that it would be a smart thing to skip lunch. Right off, he’d have nothing to fear from embarrassing tuna breath or dreaded lettuce-stuck-between-the-teeth syndrome. What’s more, he’d be able to tell Hillary that he hadn’t had a chance to eat all day, and inquire if perhaps she might know of a quiet place where they could adjourn for a bite of dinner, while, of course, continuing to talk strategy.
Unless, that is, she was nine months pregnant.
AROUND 3:40 that afternoon, some ancient circadian rhythm deep inside Pearson Gunn’s body told him it was time to head over to the Dew Drop and check in with Pete. It has been Gunn’s general experience that bartenders can supply late-breaking stories, tips, gossip, rumors, local color, and important background information. Failing all that, they can at very least supply cold mugs of Adirondack Amber Ale.
Twenty minutes later, the bear-bells above the door of the Dew Drop jangled twice, and Gunn walked in. Pete reflexively glanced up at his clock and noticed that it was running a minute slow.
HILLARY MUNSON DEFINITELY was not nine months pregnant. To Matt Fielder, she looked better than ever. What’s more, she seemed genuinely happy to see him, and if her greeting hug struck him as being a bit on the sisterly side, he figured he had all evening to work on that. Besides which, they weren’t exactly alone. There was a secretary working at a computer station ten feet away, and a third woman, an attractive blonde, not much taller than Hillary.
“Matt Fielder” - Hillary did the honors - “this is my partner, Lois Miller.”
They exchanged handshakes. Lois’s was pleasantly firm.
“Looks like you guys have a live one here,” she said.
“So far,” Fielder said, hoping to amuse them with his clever gallows humor.
He followed Hillary to a back office, where they proceeded to spend the next two hours working on the task of trying to save Jonathan Hamilton’s life. Specifically, they outlined the written presentation Fielder would submit to Gil Cavanaugh, in which he’d set forth what he believed to be the case for mitigation - the various reasons why the prosecution should decide against seeking the death penalty for this particular defendant.
Never mind that they both knew it was an all-but-foregone conclusion that their plea would fall on deaf ears; they knew they couldn’t let that knowledge deter them from their work. What they did have to be careful about was tipping their hand too much. First they had to guard against implicitly conceding that Jonathan had in fact committed the crimes. That called for a liberal dose of such phrases as “alleged,” “purported,” and “assuming arguendo.” Second, they had to steer clear altogether from subjects like motive, intent, and remorse - areas which lay too close to the border of factual guilt. This left them with Jonathan himself: who he was, what was redeeming or sympathetic about him, and why a person like him simply was not an appropriate candidate for the state to kill.
At the top of their list was Jonathan’s limited level of intellectual functioning. They needed to talk about it - indeed, they realized it was their very strongest argument - but at the same time they wanted to avoid making an outright claim at this stage that Jonathan was “mentally retarded” in the eyes of the law. Such a claim, made in writing, would rise to the level of an outright defense, and might prompt Cavanaugh to invoke his right to have his own mental-health experts examine Jonathan, so that the DA might test - and ultimately refute - the claim. That opportunity was the last thing the defense wanted to give him. Long before acceding to it, they wanted to find what examinations of Jonathan had been made in the past, and precisely what the results had been. If pr
evious findings conclusively showed retardation, the defense might very well want to rely on them, much the way a blackjack player sticks with a hand of seventeen or eighteen showing. Even if the earlier exams proved to have been more equivocal, suggesting that a new series ought to be conducted, the defense wanted to have their own experts do the testing, rather than leave it to some Dr. Death selected from Cavanaugh’s Rolodex.
And again, there was the problem of the origin of Jonathan’s possible retardation. If it predated his carbon monoxide poisoning during the fire, all was well and good. But if it didn’t, the defense was going to find itself up against the rule that, in order to exempt him from death, Jonathan’s retardation must have manifested itself before he turned eighteen.
As a result, in describing Jonathan’s mental capacity, they restricted themselves to words like “slow,” “compromised,” “limited,” and “restricted.” They spoke of low reading levels, poor learning skills, and minor behavioral problems, of concrete ideation and difficulty in adjustment. But never did they come right out and state what they would have loved to and what Matt Fielder knew he’d probably end up having to argue to a jury at the eleventh hour, at a point where they’d already convicted Jonathan, and when their only remaining decision was whether he lived out his life in prison, or went to his death. “You can’t kill this kid, because he’s retarded.”
Next Hillary and Fielder turned to other areas of mitigation. The tragic deaths of Jonathan’s parents were high on their list, coming as they had when Jonathan was only eighteen. So, too, was the fact that, with his grandparents now dead, Jonathan was left with no family whatever. But the irony here wasn’t lost on Fielder: The claim they were making was dangerously close to the joke about the child who murders his parents and then asks for leniency because he’s an orphan.
Jonathan’s lack of any prior record or history of violence was certainly worthy of mention, particularly when weighed against the lengthy and violent records of most death-row inmates. Similarly, Jonathan’s behavior in the hours following the crimes was noteworthy: Even assuming that he’d committed the crimes, he’d made no attempt to flee, and had barely tried to hide what appeared to be the weapon. Then he himself had called the authorities and waited there until someone arrived. Hardly the acts one might expect from a vicious killer.
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