The Harry Starke Series: Books 7-9 (The Harry Starke Series Boxed Set Book 3)

by Blair Howard

  “Chester was his father. Peter died fifteen years ago. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Hmm, bit before my time. Didn’t know he had any children. I know Helen though. Lovely woman, lovely woman. Talk to me, Harry.”

  I stepped up to the desk, opened the file, and handed the autopsy report to him; he dropped back into his seat like a sack of potatoes and flipped quickly through it.

  “Bit thin, isn’t it?” he asked, flipping through it a second time.

  I nodded, and laid the photos of the body in the forest and two of the wound taken during the autopsy side by side on the desk.

  He picked them up one by one, peered at them closely, looked up at me, his eyes wide. I laid the incident report in front of him. He picked it up, read through it, looked up at me again, laid it down, went through the photographs one more time, and then the autopsy report. Finally, he laid it down, sat back in his chair and looked at me, then Jacque, then me again.

  “You’d better sit down, both of you,” he said.

  I stepped away from the desk and took a seat next to Jacque.

  “Accident?” he asked skeptically.

  “You tell us.”

  He shook his head, looking worried. “I’m not sure I can, just from this.” He waved his hand over the photos and paperwork. “It’s…. It looks odd, Harry, but….”

  “Odd? How does it look odd?” I asked.

  He sighed, leaned forward, picked up one of the photographs, and stared down at it. “Why are you here, Harry? What’s all this to you?”

  “Helen Nicholson came to see me the other day. She says it wasn’t an accident, that he was murdered. She asked me to find the truth. If it was an accident, fine. If not, she wants to know who killed him.”

  He nodded, slowly, without looking up. “As I said, it looks odd.” He laid the photograph down and picked up another one, gazed at it for a moment, then turned it over and held it up so that we could see it. It was one of a half dozen taken in the forest that showed the body lying facedown on the trail, the gun stock sticking out from under the right arm.

  He shook his head and said, “It doesn’t look right. It’s the gun. It shouldn’t be there. Well, not where it is. You of all people should know that.”

  I nodded. He was right, and I did. I just wanted to hear it from him. “Go on.”

  “The report states the weapon was a 12-gauge shotgun, and that, I think, is what we see here. That’s a very powerful gun. If you fire one, and you’re not holding it correctly, what happens?”

  I grinned at him. “You either get a very nasty bruise or you lose the gun altogether, or both.”

  “Right. Absolutely right,” he said, nodding enthusiastically. “But that’s not what happened, is it? So let’s say that this man is ambling happily along the trail carrying his gun in one hand and his prize in the other. He trips, falls on the gun and kills himself. No! Not in a million years, Harry!”

  He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and looked at me over his glasses.

  “And?” I asked.

  “First off, no matter how he was carrying the gun, he would have been holding it only lightly. And the muzzle would be at his side, not pointed at his chest. And the blast would have wrenched the gun out of his hand and flung it several feet into the air, in one direction or another. He could not have fallen on it, no matter how he might have been carrying it. Second—and it’s difficult to tell looking at these autopsy photos; some of them are a bit fuzzy—what we have here seems to be a contact wound, just above and to the left of the sternum. It’s elongated, elliptical, and the direction appears to be downward and from left to right.” He was staring at the image, slowly shaking his head. “He would have had to have jammed the butt of the gun into the ground and then fallen headlong onto the muzzle. Not possible, Harry. Not. Possible.”

  He leaned back, opened his desk drawer, and grabbed a large square magnifying glass. “Look here.” He held the magnifier over one of the photographs so that I could see the wound through it. “Look at the edges, Harry. They look ragged. It’s not easy to tell from this photo, but it looks to me like scalloping. If it is, it indicates that the shot had already begun to spread. Which means there was some distance involved. Not much, but enough.”

  I nodded slowly. “Okay,” I said. “So what we have here is not a contact wound, but one that was caused by a shot fired from at least two feet, maybe more, right?”

  “Mmmm, maybe. As I said, it’s hard to tell. I’d need to see the actual wound to be sure. The determination of the range of fire becomes the most important aspect of our investigation.”

  “Okay. So make a guess. How far away, do you think, was this one fired?”

  “A guess? I don’t guess, Harry.” He shook his head and said, “In this case—with the lack of any stippling or gunshot residue, and the scalloping… the range of fire appears to be between three and five feet.”

  That was what I wanted to hear. “That much? You’re sure?”

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t swear to it; I’m not a ballistics expert. But I’ve seen a fair number of these types of wounds. The amount of scalloping, if that’s what it is, and the central hole is still compact…. Yes, Harry. I’d say three to five feet.”

  He paused.

  “But as to what actually happened,” he continued, “I have no idea. Could it have been an accident? If it was, it’s a new one on me. No. This was no accident. What the hell were they thinking?”

  “I don’t know, Doc. I’ve been asking myself the same questions. I don’t have any answers. I even went to the site. I may have found some DNA, on that tree stump you see in that fourth photo, but whether or not it’s any good, we’ll have to wait and see.”

  “Sorry, Harry. I wish I could help more, but I’d need to do a full autopsy, and get Snyder in ballistics to take a look at it, but that’s out of the question… unless….” He shrugged.

  “Unless I can get his mother to agree to exhume the body,” I finished.

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  I stood up. So did Jacque.

  “I’m seeing her on Friday,” I said. “I’ll ask her, see if she’ll agree. If she will, will you do it? She’ll pay you.”

  “Yes, of course, but she won’t need to pay me. Just get me a court order.”

  I nodded. “Shouldn’t be a problem if she agrees. Would you be willing to testify at the hearing?”

  He looked down his nose at me, hesitated for a moment, then sighed. “Of course. There’s no doubt that the man was murdered. Someone has to pay for that. I’ll need you to leave this stuff with me so that I can draft a report for the judge.”

  “No problem. We have more in the car. Right, Jacque?”

  “Three more sets.”

  I looked at my watch, then said, “We need to go. Look, thanks for taking the time. I have an appointment with Alex Harrison. He was with Nicholson when it happened, along with Ellis Warren and Heath Myers.”

  He let his breath escape in a rush. “Good luck with them. Let me know, Harry. I’ll do what I can.” He held out his hand. I shook it. So did Jacque, and we left him staring down at the photographs.

  One down, three to go.

  Chapter 15

  Thursday, January 12, 10:30 a.m.

  Assistant United States Attorney Alex Harrison was in his office in the federal building on Georgia Avenue just a couple of blocks from my own offices, but he was not in a good mood.

  At my knock on his open door, he looked up from the papers on his desk, beckoned, pointed to the two guest chairs, and looked down again.

  “Ten minutes, Starke,” he said, without looking up. “You’ve got ten minutes. What is it you want?”

  “Nice to see you too, Alex. This is Jacque Hale, my PA.”

  “Nine and a half minutes. Better get on with it.”

  “Okay, if that’s the way you want to do it. I’m here to talk about Peter Nicholson.”

  That got his attention. He looked
up at me, then leaned back in his chair, his hands gripping the edge of his desk as if he were about to push off from a boat dock.

  Alex Harrison was not a particularly imposing man: tall enough, fit, brown hair graying slightly, thin face, high cheekbones, thin lips. If you saw him in a crowd, you’d pass him by without a second look. In the courtroom, however, it was a different story. He was quick, decisive, thorough, and a winner.

  “Peter Nicholson?” he asked, frowning. “I haven’t heard that name in years. Why him? Why now?”

  “I had a visit from his mother the other day. She thinks her son was murdered. I do too, and I also think that either you, Heath Myers, or Ellis Warren—maybe all of you together—killed him.”

  I was watching him closely. His face drained of color, his eyes narrowed, and his lips tightened.

  “You’re out of your f….” He looked at Jacque. “You’re out of your mind, Starke. It was an accident. He fell on his gun, for Christ’s sake. In 2002.”

  “There’s no statute of limitation on murder; you of all people should know that, Alex,” I said mildly, still watching his face.

  He slowly shook his head, his mouth open slightly, his eyes still narrowed. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You seriously think that I could have killed him? I’m a US attorney, for God’s sake.”

  “Not back then you weren’t. You were a junior ADA.”

  He tilted his head back, stared up at the ceiling, closed his eyes, then opened them and looked at me angrily. “I should have you tossed out of here on your ass. The only reason I don’t is because I know you’re…. What the hell makes you think he was murdered?”

  Ah ha, Alex. You want to know what I know. Well, let’s see what we can do for you.

  “It’s pretty damned obvious if you have a half a brain in your head. All you have to do is look at these,” I said. Jacque already had the file ready, and handed it to me before I had the chance to reach for them. I tossed the photos onto his desk in front of him.

  “You’re a criminal prosecutor,” I said. “Tell me that scene wasn’t staged.”

  I waited while he looked at them. Finally, he looked up, shrugged, and handed them back to me.

  “Looks fine to me,” he said confidently, but I could see by the look on his face that it didn’t.

  “You’re telling me that you would be happy to go into court and testify that that scene is legit, that it hasn’t been staged?”

  “No, I’m not telling you that, because what you’re asking is hypothetical; it will never happen. I was there. I saw it, just as you see it in those photographs. It wasn’t staged. It couldn’t have been. Besides, both the medical examiner and the sheriff signed off on it.”

  “Yes, that sick son of a bitch Hands did, after Bowden made his decision, and he shut it down right there and then; there was no investigation, no forensics, just a cursory autopsy as required by the state. It lasted all of fifty-five minutes for Christ’s sake. They didn’t even check the damn gun properly. The lead detectives didn’t agree with Hands or Bowden,” I said. “They both thought the scene was faked. I know. I talked to Ron Fowler. He never was happy about the way it was, thought the whole thing was, and I quote, ‘covered up’….”

  He didn’t answer, so I continued. “Come on, Alex. Tell me what happened that day. Who found him?”

  “Heath did. He found him lying there, just as you see in the photographs. When I arrived, Ellis was already there. He was on his knees, feeling for a pulse, but there was none, and no, he didn’t move him. I called it in.”

  I nodded, my mind wandering, picturing the scene.

  “So,” I said. “Tell me about Judge Warren. Was he having an affair with Mary Ann Nicholson?”

  We stared at each other across the desk. The man was not happy; in fact, he looked decidedly uncomfortable. He leaned forward. “I’ve had enough of this. Screw you, Starke. Your ten minutes are up. I’m not saying another word, and you’d better have more than these few photos and the deluded ramblings of an old man before you start throwing accusations around. You mention my name in public, in connection with this… this… concoction of yours and I’ll sue your ass for every penny you have, you smug son of a bitch. Now get the hell out of my office.”

  So that was exactly what we did.

  Out in the corridor, I punched the button for the elevator, looked at Jacque, and laughed.

  “Well,” I said. “That went well.”

  “You think? I’d say he’s on the phone right now, warning his buddies.”

  “Of course he is. I’m banking on it that he is.”

  “But won’t that let them know that we’re onto them?”

  “Yup. Better yet, it will start their juices flowing, wondering what we know and what we intend to do about it. You noticed the only information I gave Harrison was a look at the photos and that I thought the scene was staged. He took it and ran with it. You only had to look at his face to see that his brain was in overdrive. Always leave them wanting more, Jacque. That way you can always get them to talk to you.”

  “So you think it was him, then?”

  “I think it could have been him. It’s too early to draw any firm conclusions yet, and I’m quite happy to let him and his two friends stew for a while. Let’s go have lunch with Myers, see what he has to say for himself…. How much would you like to bet that he’s talked to Harrison and is ready and waiting for us?”

  She smiled at me and shook her head. The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.

  Chapter 16

  Thursday, January 12, Noon

  Heath Myers was indeed waiting for us when we arrived at the country club. So was my father. They were at the bar, talking together. Myers was leaning on the rail, glass in hand, trying to look nonchalant. He didn’t. In fact his round, puffy face looked decidedly pale. Myers was maybe a year or two older than Alex Harrison, say forty-seven. He was a tall, overweight man with a spare tire that hung over his jeans and stretched the buttons of the blue-and-black flannel shirt almost to the breaking point. The jeans, shirt, Carhartt vest, and L.L.Bean rubber boots gave him a look that shouted construction worker, rather than the high-powered attorney I knew him to be.

  “Hello, Heath,” I said, and inwardly cringed as I did, because it came out sounding like Jerry Seinfeld’s “Hello Newman.” I felt Jacque’s elbow in my ribs and, out of the corner of my eye, August smiling and turning his head away.

  Myers looked at me like I’d just crawled out of the swamp at the rear of the seventh green. “Starke,” he said. “Who’s your friend? Amanda know about her? If she doesn’t, she soon will.”

  “And on that note,” August said, “I’ll leave you to it. Harry, when you’re done here, you’ll find me in the bar downstairs.” He slapped me on the shoulder as he passed by, still smiling. Hello, Jacque, he mouthed. She smiled.

  “Jacque Hale,” I said, grinning, “meet Heath Myers, attorney at law.” I looked him right in the eye, and continued, “Heath is to the law profession what Ray Blanton was to Tennessee politics. Jacque is my PA and, yes, Amanda knows her well.”

  “That’s slander, you piece of shit. I should sue your ass. Look, if you have something say, say it and get the hell out of my face.”

  “Tut tut, Heath,” I said mildly. “First, it’s not slander if it’s true, which it is. Second, I have quite a few things to say, so how about I buy you a drink and we go sit down somewhere quiet and talk?”

  “How about you stick your drink up your ass and we talk right here?”

  I looked around, making a show of it. There were two waiters working the bar and four club members within earshot. “Well, if that’s what you want, Heath…”

  “Fine, you arrogant son of a bitch. There’s a table over there, by the window.”

  I nodded, ordered a Blue Moon for me, a Campari and soda for Jacque, and nothing for my victim, who made his way to the table, parked himself with his back to the wall, and glared at me over his drink.

  It took a couple of
minutes for George to make our drinks. I could have had him bring them to the table. Instead, I decided to make Myers sweat. I turned my back to the bar, leaned on it, and stared back at him, a half smile on my lips. And yes, it was kinda funny. He sat very still, one hand holding his glass on the table. He looked calm enough, but I knew he was squirming on the inside.

  Finally, our drinks were ready and I walked over to the table, put my glass down on it, and held out a chair for Jacque. I made sure she was nicely settled, then parked my own rear end right next to her; that put both of us facing Myers across the table, and I could tell he didn’t like it. I didn’t blame him. I’d set him up like he was about to be interrogated—which, I suppose, he was.

  I picked up my beer, removed the orange slice, looked around for something to set it on…. Nothing. Oh hell. Once can’t hurt. I dropped it into the beer, took a sip, and replaced the glass on the table. By now he was becoming decidedly antsy. I decided to put him out of his misery. Sort of.

  “So, Heath,” I said. “I know Alex called you—” the look on his face told me that I was right “—and that you know why I’m here. So let’s get right to it. Which one of the three of you killed Peter Nicholson? Was it you?”

  I thought his head would explode. His face grew even redder, his eyes became slits, and he visibly tensed; his knuckles whitened as he gripped the glass. I had to give it to him, though. He quickly got himself under control. He relaxed, sat back in his seat, and smiled at me…. Well, it wasn’t really a smile; it was more of a snarl. It was a look that reminded me just what a dangerous, vicious piece of work Heath Myers really was.

  I’m going to have to watch this one.

  “You’re one crazy son of a bitch, you know that? No one killed Peter. He tripped and fell and shot his own stupid self. He was a klutz, accident prone. Hell, I once watched him shut his hand in the car door, and I know he fell down the steps here at the club at least twice. It was an accident. The sheriff said so and so did the medical examiner.”

  “All you had to do was say no, Heath. Jacque,” I said, holding out my hand.