by Blair Howard
I got up out of the easy chair and went to my desk. Cup in hand, I stared down at the tiny collection of… What? A few sheets of paper, a dozen or so photographs, videotapes, odds and ends of… nothing.
“Hey!”
I hadn’t heard the door open. I looked around to find Amanda standing in the doorway, smiling at me. What a sight for sore eyes. She was the woman of my dreams and I still couldn’t get used to idea that she was now my wife. We’d gotten back from our honeymoon less than a week ago. And those were six of the happiest damned weeks of my life.
She looked gorgeous; no, she was gorgeous. It wasn't so much what she was wearing—jeans, boots, and a pale blue parka jacket—it was…. Hell, she’s my wife. How else should I feel?
”Hey,” I said. “What brings you here? You want coffee?”
“No, no coffee. I’ve had more than I need. I just dropped in to see how you were coping. Are you getting back into the swing of things?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Jacque and I’ve been out doing interviews. Just like old times… only different.”
“Different? How?”
I shook my head, stared down at the crap on my desk. “Dunno. Just different. No sense of urgency, no… aw hell, I don’t know.” I looked at my watch. It was almost one in the afternoon. “Too early for a drink, I suppose?”
“Are you kidding me? Of course it is. What’s wrong, Harry?”
I heaved a sigh, shook my head. “I guess I let my interview with Dr. Bowden get to me. He was in a sorry state, Amanda…. He has Alzheimer’s and I couldn’t help thinking, what if….”
“What if it happened to you?” she asked.
“No. That wasn’t it.” I looked her in the eyes, her beautiful jade green eyes, so full of life and energy, and I remembered the dull, lifeless orbs that had gazed almost unseeingly back at me less than an hour ago. “I couldn’t help thinking, what if it happened to you?”
I thought she was going to laugh, but she didn’t. Instead she took a step forward, put her arms around my neck, and whispered in my ear.
“That’s not going to happen. Now snap out of it.” She leaned back, smiled at me, kissed me gently, and said, “So tell me all about it. What have you learned?”
It was then that the door opened and Jacque stepped in. “Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry. I’ll come back.”
“No, it’s okay. Come on in. We were just catching up on… well, you know.”
“I could see. How are you, Amanda? You getting used to being married to this lunk?”
“I didn’t have to get used to it. I already was. We just made it official is all…. But I love it, and I’m doing well. Thank you.”
“Okay,” I said. “That’s enough. We have work to do. At least, Jacque and I do. What are you doing the rest of the day?” I asked Amanda.
“Well, I was hoping to run through what I’d found at the station with you, but if you’re busy….”
“No, not busy. Just frustrated. So let’s get started.” I took my seat behind my desk; Amanda and Jacque took the two guest chairs in front. “What do you have, Amanda?”
“Well, I did as you asked. I went through the archives. On the accident, there’s very little, just thirty seconds or so of stock footage of the forest, a short report from a young reporter, Jennifer Lock, about the accident—she’s long gone, by the way. There’s ten seconds with a TWRA officer named Webb who extolled the virtues of gun safety, and a twenty-five-second interview with Heath Myers. None of it’s going to be much help I’m afraid. But I put it all on a thumb drive if you want to take a look.”
She handed me the drive and I opened the file on my laptop, turned it so we could all see the screen, and hit play. She was right. There wasn’t much. Most of it was standard six-o’clock-news stuff. What did interest me was the interview with Heath Myers.
I have a master’s degree in forensic psychology, and I pride myself on my ability to read people, so I paid special attention to that short piece of footage. In fact, I ran it half a dozen times.
“We don’t know what happened,” Myers said. “I was heading back to the car when I found him, Peter; he was down, lying on his gun. I called for help and Alex and Ellis came running. Ellis checked his pulse; Peter was dead. His bootlace was undone. We figured he’d tripped on it and fell and… I guess his gun went off. It’s… it was such a shock, terrible. He was a good friend.”
He looked devastated: shoulders slumped, his face pale, eyes cast down, his right hand by his side, shaking slightly. I couldn’t see his other hand. If he was acting or not, I couldn’t tell. If he was, he was good. Very good.
“What do you think?” I asked them.
“He seems to be… devastated,” Amanda said.
“Jacque?” I asked.
“I don’t know. It seemed like he was unable to look at the camera… but yes; he looks… like he’s in shock?”
“Most people are camera shy when it’s their first time,” Amanda said, staring at the screen as I reran the interview. “Maybe it is just nerves, that and what had happened. I don’t see anything unusual.”
I nodded, ran it again, shook my head. “Jeez, I wish we had more. We need to look at the interview tapes. I’ll get Tim on it.” I picked up the phone and punched in Tim’s extension.
“Hey, Tim. You got a minute?” He had. He’d just gotten back from lunch.
“Tim,” I said as he came in, before he had a chance to say anything, “you know about this stuff, right?” I waved my hand at the baggie of 8mm cartridges
“Sure. Looks like Hi 8mm video, old stuff. What do you need? You need them digitized?”
I picked up the plastic bag and handed it to him. “I’d rather view them now. How can I do that? ”
“You can’t. Not without converting them to digital. Well, you can; you can view them on the camera that made them, or one like it, but the screen is so small it would be practically useless.” He pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, and turned the bag over in his hands. “These are Sony Handycam Hi8 tapes. We have a couple of those cameras in the store room. There was a time when you could play these cartridges on a regular VCR. You had to use a special cassette, but I haven’t seen one of those in years. I can convert them to digital and put them onto DVDs, and then you can view them on your computer. It’ll take a while, though?”
“Oh, okay. Go ahead. Soon as you can. I need them yesterday.”
“You got it. I’ll have some of them done tonight. The rest, sometime tomorrow morning.”
“Do the one with the interviews of Warren, Myers, and Harrison first. We’ll go through them first thing.”
I waited until he’d closed the door.
I picked up my little baggie of wood chips. “Jacque, I need to know whose blood is on these chips. I’m betting it’s Peter Nicholson’s but we don’t have his DNA to make a comparison. We’ll need a swab from his mother. If you would, please, give her a call and ask her to come in. Tell her I’ll buy her lunch, either tomorrow or Friday. Whichever suits her best. Then get these chips off to DDC; Lindsey Oats owes me a favor so we’ll get a quick turnaround, I hope.”
She made a note on her iPad, and I continued, “We have an appointment with Doc Sheddon at nine tomorrow, but I’d also like for you to set up interviews with Huey, Dewey, and Louie. I want to see them tomorrow too, if possible, after we’re done with Doc.”
“With who?”
I grinned at her. “You know who. Warren and company.”
She made more notes. “Got it. Anything else?”
“Not right now, but if I think of anything….”
She nodded and rose to her feet. “Then I’ll leave you two alone and go get on with it.”
“I want to talk to August,” I said to Amanda as Jacque closed the door behind her. “You up for dinner at the club?” She was.
“Do you know these three?” I asked her, nodding at the board.
She thought for a moment, then said, “I know who they are, and I’ve met Har
rison a couple of times for work interviews, but Myers and Warren I’ve never met.”
“What did you think of Harrison?”
“Not much. He’s not liked, that I do know. He also has a thing for the ladies. I can personally attest to that. He came onto me both times I met him. He’s charming, in a way, but I found him a little slimy, and condescending. Other than that, he’s businesslike, loves the sound of his own voice, good in the courtroom, but I’ve seen better. My overall impression was that he’s not quite the overachiever that he would have everyone believe… and, I don’t know why, but I have a strong feeling he’s less than honest. How about you? Do you know him?”
I couldn’t help but smile at her. I shook my head and laughed, “Damn it, Amanda. You know him better than I do and you’ve met him only twice. Yes, I know him, but not well. I’ve heard that he’s as sharp as a tack, a sidewinder who never hesitates to bend the law to get what he wants, but he’s also very careful, and that’s about all I know.”
“I take it that you do know Warren and Myers well?” she said, her eyebrows raised.
“Unfortunately, I do. I’ve had several run-ins with Warren, both in court and out. Once, on the golf course, we were in the middle of a round and I saw him move his ball. I called him out on it, and he flat out denied it, so he’s a cheat and a liar as well. He’s like that in court, too, and should have been disbarred years ago. Myers… I know him too, but not as well. He made an enemy of my father back in 2010. They were both trying to land a whale of a corporate client and Myers pulled some kind of sleazy shit and tried to put one over on August, but it didn’t work; he caught it and Myers lost the client. To see them together at the club, you’d think they were the best of friends, but it’s all bull. That’s what I hate about lawyers; they’re all damned bottom feeders. At least my dad has some redeeming qualities. He’s honest, too; Myers isn’t, and neither are the others.”
I was beginning to get carried away, but then there was a knock on the door; it opened, and Jacque stuck her head in.
“Mrs. Nicholson will be here on Friday at noon.”
I nodded. “That’ll work.”
“I’ve also confirmed with Doc Sheddon, and we have ten minutes with Assistant US Attorney Harrison at ten thirty tomorrow, and lunch with Heath Myers at the club at noon. Judge Warren hasn’t returned my call yet. Are the appointment times okay?”
I told her they were, and she closed the door. I looked at my watch. It was almost three o’clock.
“Amanda, I need to call Kate. I have to get Nicholson’s gun to forensics, and then I need to call August. Do you mind?”
She didn’t, so I made the calls.
Chapter 12
Wednesday, January 11, 3:00 p.m.
I punched the speed dial in my iPhone and waited. Kate answered on the forth ring.
“It’s about time you called,” she said. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Hello, Kate. Yeah, sorry. I’ve been busy working a new case.” I spent the next few minutes filling her in on what I’d been doing for the past several days.
“I don’t remember that case, sorry. I should, but I don’t.”
“Well, the reason you don’t remember it is because it never was a case. It was deemed an accident, and it was county besides. But look, I need a favor.”
“You always do. But that’s okay. What can I do for you?”
“I have Nicholson’s shotgun. I need to have Mike Willis take a look at it. Can you arrange that for me, please?”
“I’ll need to run it by the chief, but it should be okay. He owes you, and more than one. Give me a minute.”
She put me on hold for what seemed like a half hour. I was just about to hang up when she came back on.
“Sorry, Harry. He wasn’t in his office, but I found him and he said it was okay. I called Willis and he said okay too, so why don’t you bring it on over? I’ll be here ’till six.
“Fine, and thanks, Kate. See you in a few.”
I slipped the forensic and autopsy reports into a portfolio and then went to get Nicholson’s Browning from the gun room. I said my goodnights to Jacque and the rest of the crew, and Amanda and I headed out. I told her to give me an hour and then meet me at the club, where we’d meet up with August. Then, as an afterthought, I went back to my office and grabbed the bag containing Peter Nicholson’s clothing.
***
“So, you made it then?” Kate said. “I was about to give up on you.”
I looked at my watch. It just after five thirty. I gave her a quizzical look; she shrugged.
“Long time no see,” she said.
“Yeah, sorry. How have you been, Kate?”
She didn’t answer. Instead she asked, “How’s Amanda?”
“She’s fine. She asked me to say hello.”
She nodded. “So what have you got?” She looked at the paper-encased Browning.
Wow. She’s got something on her mind.
I've known Kate a long time, more than sixteen years, in fact, since she was a rookie cop. She was my partner until I quit the force in 2008, and unofficially in one form or another ever since. She’s a classic beauty, almost six feet tall, slender, huge hazel eyes and long tawny hair, and yes, there was a time when we had a thing going between us, but that’s a whole ’nother story.
“Okay, out with it,” I said. “What’s wrong?”
“Other than all the dead people around here? Nothing.”
“Kate, come on. What’s on your mind?”
She looked at me, shrugged, then said, “Harry… I’ve had a rough day, that’s all, and I just want to go home, take a hot bath, and drink a whole bottle of wine. You know how it is here. We had two shootings today, one a nine-year-old girl caught in the crossfire. She died at the scene. So let’s get to what you need and then I can get out of here. I told Mike you were coming. He’s waiting.”
I nodded, and together we threaded our way through the meandering corridors to the labs.
Mike Willis had been heading up CSI operations at the PD even before I joined the force back in ’97. I never did get used to dealing with him. Oh, he’s a friendly guy—too friendly, some would say—but he’s also a little eccentric, over talkative, and the second most intelligent man I’ve ever met, after Tim. In short, he’s a genius, and the best at what he does. He’s short, overweight, a little on the scruffy side—clean, but untidy; he keeps his hair in a man-bun, for Christ’s sake—and his eyebrows are thick and bushy.
He was sitting at his desk going through paperwork when Kate tapped on his door. He looked up, stood up, and came to meet us.
“Harry, congratulations are in order, so I hear,” he said. “Well done. I hope you’ll be very happy. Now, what is it you need…? Ah ha. I see it. Evidence. Chain intact?”
He was referring to the chain of custody. I told him that it wasn’t, that the gun had been in the position of Nicholson’s mother for almost fifteen years.
“I’m afraid the chain on this one was broken more years ago than I can count. But the seals are still intact.”
He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, took the gun from me, peered through the plastic window, checked the signatures and dates on the label, nodded, then said, “Do you mind?” even as he began tearing away the seals and the paper.
Bereft of its covering, the Browning was a thing of beauty. Almost fifty years old, it was in pristine condition, and even back in the day must have cost Nicholson a bundle.
“Oh, nice,” Willis said, hefting the gun.
It didn’t look like it had been fired much. The walnut stock and matching forearm were like new. The blue on the barrels and the engraving and gold inlay were in pristine condition; it made my Benelli look… well, like it had come from Wal-Mart.
“Who’d it belong to? How old is it, do you know?” he asked, bringing it to his shoulder and squinting down the barrel.
“1968, I believe, and it belonged to a guy named Peter Nicholson.” I gave him the very short version of the
gun’s history as he swung the weapon back and forth, up and down.
He nodded appreciatively. “It’s been well looked after, that’s for sure.” He brought the gun down from his shoulder, turned it over, peered at the trigger housing, then took it by the barrels and squinted at the muzzles.
“There’s blood here,” he said, looking up at me.
“I know. I wanted to get your opinion on that. Nicholson supposedly fell on the gun and shot himself in the heart—contact wound….” He was already shaking his head. “I’d also like you to check it for blood spatter and prints.”
“Blood spatter? Why?”
“For one thing, I don’t think it happened the way they would have us believe.”
“They? Who’re they?”
I told him, and he looked sharply at me. “All three of them? You’re kidding, right?”
I shook my head.
“Jeez. We sure as hell need to get it right, then.”
He put on a Donegan OptiVISOR binocular magnifier and inspected the blood on the muzzles, shook his head, shoved the binocular up onto his forehead, and then sat down on the edge of his desk.
“You say he fell on this, and that the gun went off and killed him?”
I nodded.
“Nope. Couldn’t have happened that way. For a start, the blood here—” he pointed to it, moving his finger along the length of the stain “—is smeared, as if somebody wiped it on.” He looked at me quizzically.
“I think the gun was placed under him after he died,” I said. “That would account for it, right?”
“It would, but—and I’ll need to check—I also don’t see any blowback on or inside the barrels. This is a very powerful gun, Harry. A contact explosion, and that’s what we’re talking about here, would throw out a significant amount of blood and tissue. Some of it would have gone into the barrels. I don’t see any. But let me make sure.”
He went to a cupboard and retrieved a spray bottle of what I assumed to be luminol and a small black light.