Murder, She Wrote: Domestic Malice

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Yes, ma’am. I was called in to the lab at night for that purpose.”

  Ms. Cirilli asked a court officer to hand the weapon to the witness.

  “Is this the weapon you examined?” she asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “What tests did you perform?”

  “Ballistics, as well as tests looking for trace evidence that might indicate who had handled it.”

  “You mean fingerprints?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The weapon you examined had been submerged in water for a period of time,” Ms. Cirilli pointed out. “Does this affect whether prints can be found on a weapon?”

  “To some extent,” he replied. “It depends upon the material being tested. A wood stock, for example, might retain a fingerprint even after being submerged. The same holds true of metal surfaces that had been oiled.”

  “And during your examination did you detect any fingerprints?”

  “Yes, I did. There were fragments of various prints on the weapon, but only one that was readable.”

  The tension in the room was palpable, and people leaned forward in their chairs.

  “Would you please tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury about that fingerprint?”

  “Of course. It was unusual because of its size.”

  “Size?”

  “Yes. It was relatively small. It’s my professional opinion that it was left by someone of less than average size.”

  “A child?”

  “Not necessarily a child, Ms. Cirilli. But as I said, someone with a small hand.”

  “And did the print match one of the defendant’s fingerprints?”

  “It did not.”

  All eyes focused on the defendant’s table as O’Connor asked permission to approach the bench. Judge Mackin approved, and O’Connor and Cirilli walked up, along with the court stenographer, who would record what was discussed.

  Edwina whispered to me, “I don’t understand. Why would the DA introduce evidence that might get Myriam off the hook?”

  “From what I know about Ms. Cirilli, she’s a dedicated officer of the court, more interested in getting to the truth than adding another conviction to her belt the way too many prosecutors do,” I said. “What I don’t understand is why Cy objected to having the weapon introduced. If Myriam’s prints aren’t on the gun, it could help exonerate her.”

  “Do you think it could be a child’s fingerprint?” Edwina mused in a hushed tone.

  The bench conference ended and Ms. Cirilli asked a few more questions of Dr. Weeks before ending her direct examination.

  To everyone’s surprise, O’Connor said that he didn’t have any questions for the witness, and Dr. Weeks was excused.

  Ms. Cirilli also called to the stand someone from the forensics unit who’d examined Myriam Wolcott’s computer files. He confirmed that she had written in one of her postings that she’d wanted to kill her husband. O’Connor was effective in his cross-examination, pointing out that the particular computer posting had not been read in its entirety: “My client added after saying that she sometimes wanted to kill him, ‘No, don’t mean that,’ and further said that it’s not right to hate anyone.” The expression on the faces of some of the jurors said that he’d scored a point with them, especially after he’d gotten the witness to admit that people often say that they want to kill but don’t mean it.

  It was one thirty when, after presenting a few more witnesses for the prosecution, Ms. Cirilli announced, “The People rest, Your Honor.”

  “All right,” said the judge. “I suggest that we all do the same. Have some lunch and we’ll resume at two thirty.”

  After the lunch break, Cy O’Connor began his case by calling Edwina to the stand. I’d noticed sitting next to her how nervous she was, and I’d gripped her hand as her name was called.

  “Your Honor,” the prosecutor said, “I remind the court that the second witness to be called, Jessica Fletcher, is not to be present during Ms. Wilkerson’s testimony.”

  I immediately got up and followed a court officer to the hallway, where I sat on a bench just outside the double doors and awaited my turn. I’d brought a book with me and started reading it. I wasn’t ten minutes into it when what sounded like a chorus of anguished voices erupted from behind the doors. Within seconds the doors flew open and two officers raced past me, numerous exclamations of “What’s happened?” trailing behind them. I got up and looked into the courtroom. People now stood. A cluster of them surrounded an area of the courtroom on the opposite side from where Edwina and I had sat. She stood in the witness box, and the judge stood, too. “Please, everyone stand back,” he said over the din of other voices, pounding his gavel to gain attention. I turned at the sound of footsteps on the marble floor. Two white-coated EMTs carrying a small gurney ran by me and into the courtroom.

  I slipped through the doors to see what had occurred. Edwina had stepped down from the witness stand. She was crying. I asked her what had happened.

  “Look,” she said, pointing to where the EMTs were attending to someone on the floor. They shifted position, allowing me to see their patient. It was Richard Mauser.

  “I was testifying, answering a question, and he let out a moan, then a louder one, stood up, and then came crashing down over the people sitting in front of him. He must have had a heart attack.”

  Everyone moved back to allow the EMTs to wheel Mauser from the courtroom to a waiting ambulance.

  Judge Mackin pounded his gavel to quiet the crowd. “In light of this unfortunate incident, I suggest we take a short recess to allow everyone time to calm down and refocus on the proceedings at hand,” he said. “Court will resume in sixty minutes. Bailiff, please remove the defendant from the court. I’ll be in my chambers.”

  When the trial resumed an hour later, those in attendance were still shaken by what had occurred, but the commotion in the courtroom had shifted from a loud roar to a conversational buzz, and, following the strike of the judge’s gavel, to a mere rustle of movement.

  I waited outside again until Edwina completed her testimony, and then took the stand.

  After establishing that I’d been at the women’s shelter’s office the night Myriam Wolcott arrived, O’Connor led me through a series of questions regarding her demeanor and physical condition that night.

  “She’d obviously been struck by someone,” I said, “and she told Ms. Wilkerson and me that her husband had hit her.”

  “Did she indicate whether her husband had hit her on other occasions?”

  “Yes.”

  “The prosecution has made a point that the defendant was free to leave the house, seek shelter, get a divorce. Had you and Ms. Wilkerson offered such advice to Mrs. Wolcott?”

  I paused as I tried to recollect what we’d said to Myriam that night. “No,” I answered, “I don’t recall saying that to her. Ms. Wilkerson did suggest that she stay the night at the shelter, but . . .”

  “Objection,” Ms. Cirilli said. “It’s hearsay. Please direct the witness to testify only to what she said.”

  “Objection sustained,” Mackin said.

  I had wanted to explain that Edwina had encouraged Myriam not to return home that night and that Edwina had later informed me that it was typical of battered women to minimize their abuser’s behavior. But O’Connor moved on to other questions, which I answered to the best of my ability.

  After I was excused, I left the courtroom and went into the hallway, where Edwina sat on a bench. She looked terribly distraught, and I joined her, putting my arm around her. “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “I feel terrible,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Testifying can be very stressful,” I said, “but it’s over now.”

  “No. That went fine. I mean I feel terrible about the horrible thoughts I’ve had about Dick Mauser. I hated him—I wanted him to suffer, to hurt bad, to . . .”

  “Your thoughts had nothing to do what what’s happened to him,” I said. “
You and he had a conflict of opinion, and it’s only natural to think bad things about someone who’s been such a foe, and a nasty one at that.”

  “Yes, but I wanted to kill him. And now I hope he doesn’t die.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Edwina had already left for home when Harry McGraw bustled down the hall in my direction.

  “Hi,” I said. “I was wondering whether you’d show up.”

  “Wasn’t sure I’d get here myself, Jessica. I just came from Gorbyville. I stayed overnight. Creepy little motel with a lumpy bed. I kept thinking of Psycho.”

  “You stayed there? Why?”

  “Well, I got friendly with a local gal who works at a local bar and grill, a grungy place with a sticky bar top and dusty animal heads on the wall. Anyway, I stopped in for something to eat after I found the fisherman who knew Caldwell, and this lady and I hit it off.”

  Spare me the details, I thought.

  “So I’m eating my hamburger—can you believe they had moose burger on the menu?—and getting philosophical with my new friend when guess who walks in.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “The young Mrs. Caldwell. Stephanie Caldwell.”

  “Did she recognize you?” I asked.

  “She looked at me strange-like, as though she recognized my face but couldn’t place it. So I go over to her at the bar where she’s sipping some drink mixed with Coke and remind her.”

  “I don’t imagine that she was pleased to see you again,” I said.

  “She was actually pretty friendly. Catch this, Jessica. She ends up telling me that she and her loser hubby are calling it quits.”

  “I can’t say that I’m surprised,” I said. “What else did she tell you?”

  “I’m glad you’re sitting down,” he said. “Mrs. Stephanie Caldwell has herself another drink, which results in a loose tongue. Never seen it to fail. Forget truth serum like they use in espionage movies. Rum and Coke’ll do it every time. Anyway, she starts talking about the night her brother-in-law was killed and how they raced to the Wolcott house. I didn’t press because I sensed that she wanted to get something off her chest, so I said the right things, like it must’ve been real upsetting to see Wolcott lying in a pool of blood, things like that. So what does she say then?”

  “Tell me, Harry.”

  “She says that she pleaded with her husband not to do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Take the rifle and put it in his car.”

  “Whoa,” I said, looking around to make sure we were alone. “She actually said that?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did she say what he did with the rifle after they left?”

  “No. I suggested that maybe he tossed it in some pond or river, but she clammed up, ordered another drink. She wanted to dance.”

  “Did you dance with her?”

  “Me? Are you kidding? My dancing days are behind me. Besides, the only music the jukebox played was old country-and-western songs about dogs dying and husbands leaving home. My new friend, the waitress, was getting jealous, so . . .”

  “I get the point,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, now you know what happened to the weapon. What do you want to do about it?”

  “We have to make it known to the court and to the attorneys.”

  “O’Connor?”

  “For starters.”

  McGraw grunted.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’d say that this takes everybody else off the hook. I mean, the people who Wolcott scammed. Looks like you guessed wrong, Jessica. Looks to me like the rifle was used by Mrs. Wolcott.”

  “Or maybe her brother,” I said. “Certainly someone in that family. But I still stand by my conviction that Myriam didn’t shoot her husband.”

  Harry looked at the closed double doors. “Trial’s still going on?”

  “Yes. They’ll probably conclude in a few minutes. The judge seems to prefer ending the day at four. By the way, you missed the latest incident. Richard Mauser had a heart attack.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “He’s at the hospital. Hopefully he’ll pull through.”

  Ten minutes later the doors opened and people filed out. I looked inside to where Myriam was speaking with her mother and children, and where Cy O’Connor and Sharon Bacon were returning papers to his briefcase.

  “Let’s talk to him,” Harry said.

  “I have a better idea,” I said.

  We entered the courtroom and approached Judge Mackin’s law clerk, Gary Lauder, whom I’d known for years. “Got a minute?” I asked.

  “Sure, Jessica.”

  Gary and I went back a long way. When he wasn’t functioning as Ralph Mackin’s law clerk, he wrote poetry, which had developed a certain kinship between us. I’d edited a book of his poems that he’d self-published, and he and his wife were devoted fans of my books. “Gary,” I said, “this is Harry McGraw. He’s a private investigator who worked for Mr. O’Connor but who is now helping me.”

  “Helping you? With what?”

  “Helping me get to the bottom of the Wolcott murder.”

  “I didn’t realize that you were involved,” he said, “aside from testifying.”

  “I’m not involved—officially. Do you think Judge Mackin would grant us some time in chambers? Mr. McGraw has come up with new evidence that has a direct bearing on the case.”

  Lauder looked quizzically at Harry, who shrugged and grinned.

  “New evidence?” Lauder said. “You should take it to the DA or the sheriff’s office.”

  “I know that would be the usual route, Gary, but I really would prefer that the judge be made aware of it. While this is an unusual imposition, I really think the judge will want to hear it. I assume that both attorneys will be present. Would you ask the judge if he’d grant my request?”

  Gary grimaced before saying, “Sure, Jessica. Wait here.”

  O’Connor and the prosecutor, Ms. Cirilli, were still in the courtroom, and O’Connor eyed me with suspicion, although he didn’t approach us. The law clerk reappeared. “Judge Mackin says he’ll see you in chambers provided the attorneys agree.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d see if they will agree,” I said.

  He conferred with O’Connor and Cirilli, both of whom asked him questions. Finally, he returned and said, “I’ll take you to the judge’s chambers. The attorneys will be in shortly.”

  Judge Mackin was in a good mood. He greeted us warmly and pointed to red leather armchairs across the desk from him. “I just finished your latest novel, Jessica,” he said. “A hell of a good story. I never saw the ending coming.”

  Moments later, O’Connor and Cirilli arrived.

  “What’s this all about?” the prosecutor asked.

  “Mrs. Fletcher has asked for this meeting,” said the judge. “This gentleman is . . .”

  “I know who he is,” O’Connor said sharply.

  Harry stood and extended his hand to the prosecutor. “Harry McGraw, PI.”

  She took his hand briefly and eyed me curiously.

  “Okay,” the judge said. “Go ahead, Mr. McGraw. Tell the attorneys about this new evidence you say you’ve discovered.”

  Being in the judge’s presence seemed to unnerve Harry. He cleared his throat a few times before saying, “I know this is unusual, Your Honor, but . . .”

  “Get to the point,” Mackin said.

  “Well, it’s like this, Your Honor. I was up in Gorbyville snooping around and I met this waitress in a bar where I stopped to . . .”

  “Harry!” I said.

  “Yeah, okay. Sorry. You see, there’s this Caldwell dame. She’s married to the brother and she lets it be known that her hubby took the murder weapon and put it in his car so the cops won’t find it. She says she begged him not to do it, but they’re pretty much on the outs, so he ignores her.”

  Judge Mackin listened carefully to what McGraw said. When the private detective was finished, the judge s
aid to Ms. Cirilli, “I’d say this is a valuable piece of evidence, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, it is,” she replied. “If what this gentleman says is true, the defendant’s brother is guilty of impeding a homicide investigation and lying to authorities.”

  “Yeah, but what bearing does it have on the case we’re trying?” O’Connor said.

  I turned to Ms. Cirilli and said, “Your witness, Dr. Weeks, testified that the only fingerprint he found on the weapon came from someone with a small hand. While Mrs. Wolcott is slender, she’s hardly what you would call ‘small.’ Wouldn’t that in itself cast doubt on her guilt?”

  “Oh, come on, Jessica,” whined O’Connor, “the witness said he found fragments of other prints. One of them could be my client’s.”

  “I hope you’re going somewhere productive, Mrs. Fletcher,” Judge Mackin said.

  O’Connor addressed the judge: “Your Honor, the basic truth is that my client, Myriam Wolcott, has admitted that she shot her husband. The trial isn’t to refute that. We acknowledge that she pulled the trigger. The question is whether she had a right to defend herself against her abusive husband.”

  “I’m sorry to disagree with you, Cy. I don’t believe and never have believed that Myriam Wolcott shot her husband. I think that she has pleaded guilty to protect someone else.”

  All eyes focused on me.

  “Are you suggesting this brother of hers?” the judge asked.

  “No, Your Honor, I’m not, although it’s a possibility. What I am suggesting is that to go forward with the trial without exploring new possibilities would be—well, I don’t think justice is being served.”

  “And do you have information about these ‘new possibilities’ you think the court should consider?” Mackin asked.

  “I object to this, Your Honor,” O’Connor said. “Mrs. Fletcher is simply speculating without anything to back her up. I’m in the middle of my defense, and to interrupt proceedings at this juncture would be not only inappropriate; it could be the basis for a mistrial.”

  Mackin sighed, sat back in his leather chair, laced his fingers on his chest, and said, “I don’t think it would be untoward to declare a one-day recess to give me time to sift through this new evidence, and to hear more of Mrs. Fletcher’s concerns—with you and Ms. Cirilli present, of course. I know, I know, it’s an unusual situation, but nobody ever said that the law is perfect. If it was, you wouldn’t need me.” He looked hard at Cy and added, “Do you want to declare a mistrial now, Counselor?” The way he said it left little doubt that he would not be pleased if O’Connor raised another objection. When he didn’t, Mackin summoned his clerk, Gary Lauder, and informed him that court would be dark the following day. “Please inform the principals of this change,” he directed Lauder. “But I’d like the defendant and other significant parties at the court at nine in the event I wish to speak with them.”