by Blair Howard
I removed the gun from my shoulder and cradled it in the crook of my right arm, still open at the breach, muzzles facing toward the stump. Even better, but the same goes. If he tripped and fell, the gun would have hit the ground muzzles first and he couldn’t have shot himself.
I closed the breach and again cradled the gun in the crook of my right arm.
Nope. If he’d tripped, the muzzles of the gun would have dug into the dirt, and they didn’t. So how the hell could he have shot himself? He could have sat on the stump, I suppose, put the muzzle against his chest, and used a stick to push the trigger, but… nah! The blast would have blown him backward off the stump. He would have been on his back, right about… there. Hmmmm. But he was on his face, over there.
I laid the Benelli against the stump and took the photos from Jacque again, sorted through them, found the two I was looking for—the spot where the body had been: the stump and the spot on the trail—and handed the rest back. I glanced at the Benelli leaning against the stump, and then a light went on in my head. Suppose…. Just suppose he stopped here for a moment, sat down to take a rest, maybe even take a leak. He would have laid the gun down against the stump just like I did. In which case….
“How long ago was that tree culled, John, do you know?”
“Long before I joined the TWRA. Twenty, twenty-five years ago, I suppose?”
I looked at the photos. The stump had been much the same then as it was now. The bark was gone even then, and there was green algae on the north side spreading west, bare gray wood to the south and east.
Photos in hand, I walked to the spot where the body had been found. It was maybe eight or ten feet east of the stump. I looked at it, then at my feet, and I shook my head.
“Something’s not right,” I said, more to myself than to the others. “No matter how he was carrying the gun, he couldn’t have fallen on it and shot himself and, lying how and where he is the photos, he couldn’t have committed suicide either. You say, Mrs. Nicholson, that he would have been carrying the gun with the breach open, but the photos clearly show it was closed. Now watch this.”
I grabbed the Benelli, took a plastic evidence bag from my jacket pocket, and covered the muzzles with it. The gun went under my arm, breach closed, and I walked along the trail at a fast pace. I pretended to stumble forward. As I did, the muzzles of the gun tilted straight down toward the dirt—and would have dug deep into it if I hadn’t pulled back. I looked at the others.
“So, you see. Even if he was carrying it with the breach closed and he tripped…. Well, now you know. The only way he could have shot himself would have been to sit on the stump, place the barrels against his chest, and push the trigger with a stick, and he could indeed have done that, but he didn’t. We know that because he was found here, on the trail. Not over there.” I set the Benelli down again, leaning it against the stump as before, with the trigger guard facing up, and stood back, stared at it, nodded.
I took two steps back, then turned and looked at the spot where the body had been. The others stared at me expectantly. I grinned.
“Let’s think for a minute,” I said. “We know he’d shot his limit. We know it was the end of the day. We can imagine that he must have been tired. We can also imagine he might have needed the bathroom. So he lays his gun against the stump, like so—maybe he even lays his bird on top of the stump—and he does what he needs to do, and is about to pick up his gun and prize when someone comes. One of the other three, maybe, or all of them; who knows?
“So he’s standing somewhere here, close to the stump. The other person shoots him, poses the body, undoes his bootlace, picks up the gun and positions it under the body. Then he hides in the trees and waits for the others. He joins them and one of them calls for help….” I paused, took out my iPhone, and checked the signal—two bars, enough. “Does that make sense?”
Helen Nicholson was already nodding. So was Jacque, but Evans was looking at me skeptically.
“Come on, Harry. That’s a hell of a stretch.”
“Okay. So you tell me how the hell he could have fallen on the gun, however he might have been carrying it, and shot himself.”
He didn’t answer.
“Okay. I understand; it’s a stretch. Let’s try something else then.”
I opened the backpack, took out the luminol, the black light, and tarp, and laid them out on the ground, and then I heard Evans laughing. I looked up at him quizzically.
“You gotta be kidding, Harry. After all these years you expect to find blood?”
“Not on the trail, but maybe, just maybe, we might find some here.” I pointed to the stump.
He shook his head. “No friggin’ way.”
“You’re probably right, but let’s see shall we? Can’t hurt to try.”
First, I sprayed the luminol on the east and south sides of the stump, then I draped the tarp over the muzzle of the Benelli, creating a makeshift dark tent, and then I crawled inside with the black light. “Yes!” I all but shouted. “John. C’mere.”
He came.
“Look!”
He stared in wonder at the faint glow of what appeared to be high-velocity impact blood spatter. And yes, it was faint, but it was definitely there, just where the flutes of the trunk had protected it from the weather, although the years had obviously taken their toll.
“Damn it, Harry. I don’t believe it. How the hell did you know?”
“I didn’t. I was hoping. But look, even back in the office, when I first saw the photos, I had my doubts that he could have shot himself. Now I know for damned sure he didn’t.”
We backed out from under the tent.
“Jacque, get the camera set up and let’s photograph the spatter.”
She did, and went to work.
“Mrs. Nicholson,” I said, “you were right. Your son was murdered, but whether or not I can figure out who killed him… well, I’ll try. You can count on it.”
She was crying. She turned away and walked back down the trail to my car, her shoulders hunched forward, hands to her face.
I waited until Jacque had finished taking the photos. “You sure we got them?” I asked her. The look she gave me would have withered an oak tree. I grinned at her. “Okay. I need to do one more thing. C’mon, John, I need you to observe this please.”
We crawled back under the tent together. I shone the black light and, picking the very best spots, I carved several large chips out of the tree with my pocketknife—not an easy job, considering the hardness of the wood. Evans watched as I put the chunks of wood into an evidence bag, sealed it, signed it, then handed it to him to witness, which he did, and then I tucked it safely away in the inside pocket of my jacket.
Back in the sunlight, I pulled off the tarp, folded it, stuffed it back into the bag along with the black light and the luminol, and went to pick up the Benelli.… I’d laid it down against the stump while I folded the tarp, and then I paused, and I looked at the gun, and then at the spot where Peter Nicholson died, and I smiled.
Nah. I couldn’t get that lucky… could I? Maybe I could!
We strolled back to the vehicles where Helen was sitting, eyes red and still wet, in the backseat of the Maxima. I told John Evans thanks, and that I’d be in touch, and he left; two minutes later, with the Benelli and the equipment safely in the trunk and the precious wood chips still in my inside pocket—I knew, because I’d checked at least five times—we followed him out.
Chapter 7
Tuesday, January 10, 2:00 p.m.
The first thing I did when we returned to my offices was send Helen Nicholson on her way. I didn’t want her involved in the investigation if she didn’t have to be. I had a feeling it was about to get nasty, and I’m rarely wrong about such things. Then, after I made coffee, I went to get Peter Nicholson’s Browning shotgun from the gun room, a walk-in safe in the back office. Next, I gathered together everyone I figured might at some stage be concerned with what I was about to do and I had them join me in the conference
room: Jacque, Tim, Ronnie Hall—Peter Nicholson had been a financier of sorts—and Bob and Heather.
I placed the evidence bag with the gun inside it on the table, my own little baggie with the wood chips next to it, and the box of evidence along with the bag full of Nicholson’s clothing in the middle of the table. While I waited for everyone, I sorted through the contents of the box again.
There were the files I’d glanced through earlier that morning, and I set those aside in favor of what looked like a fairly comprehensive forensics report on the gun and the contents of the smaller box—shotgun shells, shotgun pellets, the clothing and boots… but…. There was nothing to indicate what had happened to the clothing and guns that belonged to the other three men.
Strange. They must have checked all that stuff, especially the weapons. What the hell happened to it? Why is there no mention of it here? I need to talk to—I looked at my notes—Sergeant Ron Fowler, Retired. Surely to God they did.
It took a few minutes for everyone to get their coffee, iPads, notebooks, recorders, whatever, and be ready to go so, while they rustled around, I picked up one of the 8mm video tapes and looked at the baggie label.
Interview Mr. Heath Myers. Friday, May 3, 2002. Present: Lt. Wade Brewer, Hamilton County Sheriff’s Dept. & Sgt. Ronald Fowler. Timed in at 6:17 p.m. Timed out at 6:48 p.m.
I dropped it back in the box. Thirty-one minutes. What kind of an interview is that? I picked up several more. They were all much the same, but three were labeled: Scene of Accident, blah, blah, blah. And a fourth was a record of the autopsy timed at fifty-eight minutes.
I looked around the table. Everybody was seated and looking at me expectantly.
“Bob, Heather, I brought you in on this so you’ll know what’s going on, and in case I need you later. Tim, you know why you’re here. Ronnie, I have a feeling you’re going to be up to your neck in this before we know it, so pay close attention. Jacque, you’ll be working with me for a couple of days. Leslie and Margo will have to cover for you. Will that work?”
“Oh, yes. That will work just fine.”
“Good, then let’s get on with it.”
I started by bringing them up to speed on what had occurred prior to the visit to Prentice Cooper: Helen Nicholson’s visit and the circumstances of her son’s death. I finished with a brief rundown of our visit to the scene and what we’d discovered there. Then I got started.
“So this is what we have: We now know for sure that it would have been impossible for Nicholson to have fallen on his gun and shot himself, and yet the autopsy report states that he died from a contact wound. Looking at the weapon through the plastic, there does indeed seem to be blood on the barrels of the weapon, but it doesn’t look like blowback, which is what I’d expect to see from a contact shot. What I do see is blood smeared on the ends of the barrels.” I laid my hand on the evidence bag, and continued.
“We also know from the way the body was found—its position on the trail, and the position of the gun—that he didn’t commit suicide either, so that leaves only homicide. Any questions so far?” I looked at them each in turn. Nothing. I nodded, and continued.
“So, that raises questions. Namely, how exactly did he die? Who killed him, and why? We’re looking for motive, means, and opportunity, and we seem to have plenty enough of each to go around.” I paused and removed three 8 × 10 photographs from the box.
“Nicholson, the victim, was on a turkey hunt in Prentice Cooper State Forest with three friends—or two friends and one murderer.” I pinned the three photos side by side on the corkboard.
“Ellis Warren,” I said as I pinned up the first photo, “now Circuit Court Judge Warren…”
“Oh shit,” Bob muttered.
“…Alex Harrison, now Acting United States Attorney Harrison…”
“Oh jeez.” This time it was Heather.
I nodded and pinned up the final photo. “…and Heath Myers. Now managing partner of Myers, Occum & Pearson, Attorneys at Law or, as the Three Stooges would call them, Dewey, Screwum, and Howe; Myers, A.K.A. Dewey, is a longtime competitor of my father’s. August will not be pleased to know who I’m up against, I think.”
I looked at my crew. “Yes, I know who and what they are. I also know, or at least I’m pretty damn sure, that one of these three men murdered Peter Nicholson….”
“How do we know that?” Jacque asked. “They were there. That much we know, but couldn’t some other hunters have been there too? It was, after all, hunting season.”
I nodded. “It’s possible. Anything’s possible, but I doubt it. Hunting permits are allocated by lottery in designated areas. These four would have had that location pretty much to themselves.” I paused and turned and stared at the three photographs, and as I did so I had that God-awful feeling that someone had just pissed on my grave.
“Harrison is a nasty piece of work, a damned pit-bull,” I said. “He’s also a winner, and doesn’t care how he wins. I’m not saying he’s crooked, although Amanda says all three of them are, but I do know he’ll bend the law almost to the breaking point to get what he needs. He’ll lie and cheat and he’s fearless, tough, and arrogant.”
I looked again at the three photos.
“Myers is a little different He’s a slick corporate lawyer, cunning,” I said. “He’s smart; he knows the law better than almost anyone I know, and he gets the job done. There are more frauds on disability because of him than there are legitimate cases.
“Warren is… tough, merciless, arrogant, and often biased. Back in the day, he would have given Judge Parker a run for his money. I don’t know if he’s on the take or not, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he were. I’ve run up against him several times; he doesn’t like me and he doesn’t like my father.” I smiled. “And yet they play golf together. August almost always beats him. The score, I think, is something like eighteen to three, and Judge Warren hates to lose… at anything, which is why he keeps coming back for more.” I stared up at his photograph. He’s one competitive SOB, and he’s not going to take my interference well. There’s going to be trouble, that’s for sure.
“Okay. So here’s how we’ll do it. Jacque and I will go over the forensics and incident reports. Ronnie, I want full financial histories on all four men. I want to know exactly what financial business Peter Nicholson was in when he died, and I want to know who benefitted from his death. We need motives, people, motives. Tim, you should have backgrounds for me.”
He grinned, shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his forefinger, nodded, and placed a pile of neatly stapled reports in front of me.
“Four men, five sets of each, just as you ordered; I also made an extra copy for myself.”
“Anything stand out?”
“Yes, in fact, I—”
“Good, but not right now, Tim,” I interrupted him. “I have too much to get through first. Later, okay?”
He looked a little crushed, but nodded.
“Now, let’s talk about the original investigation. As far as I can see, there wasn’t one. There was a cover up.
“Going by what little information there is in the incident report, the medical examiner arrived on site at around 4:55, did a quick walk around the body, declared it an accident, and left. He was there less than ten minutes. An autopsy was ordered—routine in such cases—and that also seems to have been quick and superficial. Verdict: accidental death; the injury that killed him is described as a contact wound from a 12-gauge shotgun.”
I picked up Nicholson’s Browning and peered through the plastic window of the bag. As I’d mentioned earlier, there were brown smears on the left side of the two barrels at the muzzles that extended down the barrels for perhaps three to three and a half inches.
Bullshit! I don’t believe it. I’ll get this sucker re-examined.
“I also have reason to believe that there may be high-velocity impact blood spatter on the right side of this weapon, but I’ll have to get Mike Willis to confirm that.” I placed the gun ba
ck on the table.
“Okay. Nicholson has been dead a long time, so there’s no great rush; the first forty-eight expired more than fourteen years ago, so we have all the time in the world to get it right; we’ll do it step by step.
“Jacque, you and I will be interviewing these three people.” I waved a hand in the direction of the photos on the corkboard. “It won’t be easy. They may refuse to talk to us. We’ll also be interviewing the investigating officer, the sheriff at the time—yeah, maybe even Israel Hands. He’s in the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary. And the medical examiner—” I looked at my notes “—Doctor Carl Bowden. And Jacque, don’t be afraid to jump in and ask questions, of them or me. If you think of something, ask it. Are you good with all this?” What a stupid question; she’s been waiting for this moment all of her life.
“Yeah, boss!”
“One more thing, Jacque: go get my old M&P9 from the gun room. From now on it never leaves your side, and I want you to go get some time in on the range, this evening, yes?”
“Um,” Bob said hesitantly, “you going to fill Kate in on all of this?”
“Not right now, no. She’s city. All of this took place in the county, so it’s out of her jurisdiction; and it’s almost as old as she is.” An exaggeration, but you get the idea. “That’s why I brought Jacque into it…. Oh, sh... I’m sorry, Jacque. That didn’t come out right. I would have brought you in anyway; you earned it—time on the job, loyalty, attention to detail, competence….” I hesitated. “And you saved my damned life that day up on the mountain. There’s no one I’d rather have backing me up than you.”
She looked mollified, but said nothing.
“Heather. How busy are you right now?”
“Not too bad; nothing urgent. You need me to do something?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Warren married Nicholson’s widow less than two years after he died. I want to know if they were having an affair at the time of his death. If they were, we have motive. I need you to look into that for me, please.”