by Blair Howard
She nodded. “Apparently Dillon was his shoulder to cry on. They met several times over those final four weeks, and Dillon says that Nicholson told him that he had confronted his wife and given her an ultimatum: it was either him or Warren. He also told him that they’d had one hell of a bust up, but that in the end she’d chosen him and promised to break it off with Warren.”
“Wow. What about Warren? Did he confront him too?”
“I asked Dillon that, but he said he didn’t know. He also said he doubted it, because Nicholson was a wimp—his words—and didn’t like confrontations.”
“So,” I said, thinking out loud. “If Mary Ann had indeed broken it off with Warren….”
“Yep. Motive. I’d say Warren was hooked and wasn’t about to give her up.”
I nodded. I knew Warren well, and he wasn’t used to being told no. So why would Nicholson agree to go hunting with him? I wondered. I guess old friendships die hard, and he must have believed that the affair was over, that his wife’s promise was good, and he was willing to forgive them both…. One thing is sure: they ended up in the forest together and Peter Nicholson died. But was it Warren who killed him? All three of them had motive, means, and opportunity. How the hell do I figure it out now after all this time?
Motive? Only Warren had something to lose: Mary Ann. The other two had already lost a bunch of money—so revenge would be their motive; Warren had made money, so that wasn’t it. But Mary Ann? Maybe that was it. Hmmm. So Warren then? Yeah, but….
“Okay, Heather. That will do for now. If I need you, I’ll give you a buzz. Well done. I appreciate it.”
She nodded, got up, and left me alone with my thoughts.
How? How? How? One of them ambushed the poor son of a bitch. The most likely suspect is Warren. He sure as hell has the temperament for it, and he was the only one with something to lose, but the other two…. Back then ninety thousand was a whole lot more money than it is today, and so was seventy-two grand, so rage, revenge….
I stared down at my notes. They helped, but not enough. I still knew only two things for sure: Peter Nicholson’s death was no accident, and only one of three suspects could have killed him. One more thing: how the hell did Warren manage to make money when the other two lost so much? And if Nicholson gave Warren the heads up, why not the other two? That alone would have made Myers and Harrison angry enough to kill.
I had almost no evidence, no science—yet—but I did have motives, which didn’t help a whole lot because they all had at least one.
I picked up the remaining DVDs, then put them down again. Time for those later.
I grabbed the cardboard box containing what little evidence there was and dragged it closer to me. I looked inside, took out the forensics report and the baggies containing the spent and live shotgun shells. The bag contained two smaller bags, each containing 12-gauge cartridges. The smaller of the two contained just two shells: both Winchester—one spent, the other live; both were 2¾-inch, 1¼-ounce number fours. The label on the bag stated they had been taken from Nicholson’s gun. The label was signed by Lieutenant Wade Brewer. The other bag contained eight live shells, also Winchester, and identical to the two in the smaller bag. The label stated that these had been taken from Nicholson’s right vest pocket. It was also signed by Brewer.
I dropped both bags into the box and picked up the plastic bottle containing shotgun pellets. I hefted it, turned it over and over in my fingers, then sighed and dropped it into the box. I looked at my watch. It was already after five; I’d had enough. It was time I went home, and I did.
Chapter 18
Friday, January 13, Noon
I woke early that Friday morning to yet another rainy day. No run for me. I left Amanda sleeping, showered, sat down with a cup of coffee in front of the picture window and looked out into the darkness and gloom; we were once again enveloped in a thick, heavy mist, up in the clouds, and I began to wonder if maybe I’d made a mistake moving to the top of the mountain. Then I remembered what it was like on good days.
Nah!
I hadn’t been sitting there long when a pair of hands slipped over my shoulders from behind.
“Hey you,” I said, without turning. “It’s only five thirty. What are you doing up this early?”
“I missed you,” she said, massaging my shoulders. “I was waiting for coffee, but you didn’t bring me any.”
“I didn’t want to wake you.” I turned in my chair to face her. She was wearing red-and-black striped satin pajamas from Victoria’s Secret; what she didn’t have on under them was no secret at all. I turned further, slipped my arm around her waist, and pulled her down onto my lap.
“Hey,” she growled. “Coffee. I need coffee, and I haven’t cleaned my teeth yet. My breath smells like an old dog’s.”
I kissed her anyway. “‘Old Dogs and Watermelon Wine.’ Tom T. Hall sang that, I think. No, honey. An old dog you definitely are not.” I kissed her again, and she giggled and wriggled out of my grasp.
“Coffee first,” she whispered in my ear, “and then we’ll begin the day with a….”
I thought she was going to say “with a bang,” but she didn’t finish the sentence. If she had, it would have been an understatement. We hadn’t been married more than a few weeks, but I already knew it suited me well. Amanda? She never said, but nor did she ever complain. Coffee? Yes. Breakfast? No.
She decided to come into town with me that morning. We took one car. I drove. The mountain road was a bear, more raging river than asphalt, and foggy to boot. It was a relief to finally emerge onto Broad Street. From there, however, even in the rain and rush hour traffic, with a quick stop at my father’s house to pick up some papers I needed, it was an easy twenty-minute drive into the office. There Amanda took the car and headed for Channel 7.
As always on Friday morning, I called the staff together in the conference room for a breakdown of the work in progress for the week so far.
Aside from my own case, it was all routine, quickly dealt with and put aside, and to be honest, I wasn’t that interested anyway. I trusted my team, especially after having left them alone for six weeks. That being so, I left Bob and Jacque to handle the meeting, poured myself a fresh cup of coffee, and retreated to my own office. I needed to think.
Jacque, bless her, had already turned on the fire and the room was quiet, just as I like it, but for some reason I couldn’t relax. After ten minutes and a cup of coffee I went to my desk and picked up the bag of 8mm videotapes from the box.
I set aside the three I’d already watched, the interviews of the three suspects, and sorted through what was left: three that documented the crime scene in detail—Yeah, that’s what I’m calling it: a crime scene—one of Detectives Brewer and Fowler onsite taking the initial statements from the three witnesses, and two more documenting their own and Dr. Bowden’s cursory inspections of the site and his interview by Brewer.
I inserted the Brewer/Fowler disk and watched as the two detectives went through the motions of interviewing the three men. They talked to them as a group. Fortunately, the camera operator had a sense of what he was supposed to be doing, but the video quality was poor and the sound was… well, maybe the wind was blowing; it certainly sounded like it.
From time to time, Sheriff Israel Hands could be seen standing at the perimeter of the site, watching the proceedings like a malevolent crow. It was obvious he was there only because he had to be.
Both detectives asked questions of the group, and both took notes. I wonder what happened to those, I thought as I sorted through the box, knowing damned well they weren’t there.
Brewer took the lead; Fowler did his best to dig for information but the old man, Brewer—he had to be close to retirement even then—was constantly cutting him off, nodding his agreement as the three mouseketeers did their best to convince him it was an accident. Hmmm. Had Brewer been in on the fix, I wonder?
I ejected the DVD, slid it into its pouch, and flung it down on the desk. What a damned
fiasco.
The Bowden disk was no better. Bowden wandered around the body, both hands in his pockets, head bowed, looking for all the world like Winston Churchill the night after one of his famous binges. The only time he got closer than six feet to the body was when he bent down to feel for a pulse. He did speak at some length to Ellis Warren, though what passed between them is anybody’s guess; it certainly couldn’t be heard. Warren talked and Bowden nodded, glancing now and again at the body. Finally, he nodded, leaned in close to Warren’s ear, said something, clapped him on the arm, then turned and walked away. I watched in awe what had officially been deemed the medical examiner’s inspection of the body and the site.
The next video was a little better, barely. It showed Brewer and Fowler already onsite. They were alone with the body, but again the sound was overwhelmed by a discordant electronic hiss that made the words unintelligible. I wonder if Tim could do something with it. Hah, at least they’re wearing gloves. And that was all they were wearing: no booties, no coveralls. They wandered around the body together. Brewer seemed to have little to say, but Fowler, I could tell, was asking questions to which the answers were obviously yesses and nos. Fowler did spend some time crouched beside the body seemingly checking out the gun, and he did look several times along the body in the direction of the trailhead, and back along the trail too. He stared at Nicholson’s boots, but he didn’t touch them and, on a couple of occasions, looked at Brewer and spoke to him loud enough to be heard by the camera.
“You think this looks right, Wade?” The only answer he got was a shrug. “I don’t like it. There’s something weird about the gun. What do you think?” Again the shrug and a reply I couldn’t hear, but Brewer was shaking his head as he spoke.
So they really did think there were problems.
The video ended. I played it again. Then I played the interview scene again. This time I watched closely; I watched the faces of the three men as they told their story and this time I knew they were just going through the motions, all three of them. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could see them speaking: they were stone-faced, expressionless… emotionless, and that was not how people are when a friend has been killed. I watched the video through a couple more times before I finally ejected it and reinserted the Brewer/Fowler tape. This time I watched Brewer’s face.
I’m not going to tell you the man had a personality, but compared to the three stooges, he was animated.
Sheesh!
***
Helen Nicholson arrived just before noon. Jacque showed her into my office and offered her coffee, which she declined, and then Jacque turned to leave.
“I’d like you to stay, Jacque,” I said. Mrs. Nicholson looked surprised, but she said nothing and I didn’t explain. “Let’s sit over here. It’s more comfortable.”
I took the chair on one side of the coffee table; Jacque and Helen Nicholson sat together on the sofa opposite.
“First,” she said. “I won’t be able to stay for lunch. I have an appointment. Second, I’d like to know what progress you’ve made, if any.”
“Some. Some.” I paused. Oh boy. This is not going to be easy.
I decided to answer her question and then ease into it, but before I could:
“Ms. Hale—” she turned her head to look at her “—said you need my DNA. May I ask why?”
“You may,” I said. “You’ll remember that we found blood on the tree stump. I think it’s Peter’s but I can’t be sure unless the lab has a reliable comparison. We don’t have Peter’s, but we do have yours, and that will work fine….” I paused, unsure of how I was going to say what needed to be said next.
“I’ve gone over what little evidence there is, and I’ve talked to Detective Fowler and Dr. Sheddon. We are all of the same opinion: your son was murdered. The problem is proving it. Yes, everything points to it, and there’s expert opinion to back it up. That being said, there will also be plenty of experts who say the opposite. We all feel that the wound was not made as a result of contact with the muzzle of the weapon, that he was shot by someone standing several feet away from him, but to prove that….” I hesitated. Here we go.
“Well, go on.”
“We need a second autopsy of the body.”
Her mouth dropped open; the color drained from her face. She stared at me across the desk.
“You want to disinter him?” It was barely more than a whisper.
“Yes.”
She shook her head violently. “No. No! I can’t allow that.”
I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, hands clasped together. “I know how you must feel….”
“No. No you don’t,” she said quietly, staring down at the carpet. “You have no idea how I feel…. I can’t… I won’t allow it.” She looked up at me, her face set.
I leaned back in my chair and nodded.
“Mrs. Nicholson,” Jacque said, placing her hand on her arm. “There’s no other way. The photographs are inconclusive. Dr. Sheddon and Ms. Snyder must be able to examine the wound.”
She snatched her arm away. “Snyder? Who’s Snyder?”
“She’s a ballistics expert; very good at what she does.”
There were tears rolling down Mrs. Nicholson’s cheeks. “I can’t do it, Harry. I just can’t. He’s… he’s with Chester. In the same plot. It would mean disturbing both of them.”
She took a tissue from her coat pocket and wiped her eyes; her mascara had run, and she had two black eyes.
“Well,” I said, “I understand how you feel. I’ll do what I can, but….”
Can I use the restroom, please?” she asked. Already rising to her feet. “I need to clean up.”
“Of course. My private bathroom is through that door. My wife keeps some things in the right-hand cupboard. Help yourself.”
She nodded, looked disconsolate, went to the door, opened it, looked back at me, hesitated, and then closed it behind her.
“Well,” Jacque said. “That’s that, I suppose. What now?”
“Now we give her a little time to think. Maybe she’ll come around.”
As it happened though, we didn’t have to give her time at all. She emerged from my bathroom some ten minutes later, her face set, grim.
“You really think it’s necessary?” she asked, sitting down again, crossing her feet and folding her hands in her lap.
“I do,” I said.
“Then do it. I have to know who killed him, and I want them to pay for it. How do we do it?”
“I need you to sign this for me,” I said, handing her the petition I’d had my father draw up the evening before.
She leafed through the three pages. “What is it?”
“It’s a petition to have Peter exhumed. I had August draw it up last night. He’s also agreed to represent you in the matter, if that’s all right with you.”
It must have been, because she asked for a pen and, without another word, scribbled her signature and initials in the appropriate places and rose to her feet.
“I have to go,” she said quietly. Jacque opened the door for her, but she turned to look at me in the doorway. “You’ll keep me informed?”
“Of course. As soon as I know something—” But she closed the door before I could finish, leaving Jacque and me staring at the polished wood.
“What now?” Jacque asked.
“Now we get this into the hands of a judge.” I looked at my watch. It was not quite one o’clock. “Let’s go,” I said. “The quicker we get this done the better. The minute Warren gets wind of it… well, things will hit the fan.”
We walked the four blocks to the courthouse on Market Street and went straight to the criminal court clerk’s office, where I handed the petition to the clerk himself, John Hammond, a man I’d had plenty of dealings with over the past ten years.
He looked at it, looked up at me, looked at it again, then said, “You can’t be serious.”
“As a heart attack.”
“I remember this,” h
e said. There was a look that could only be described as awe on his face. Then he smiled. “I’m going to enjoy this, Harry. Can’t wait to see the look on Warren’s face when he finds out. Might just have to tell him myself.”
“When can you get it in front of a judge, John?”
“This afternoon. I’m thinking Judge Harris. He has a full docket, but he’s the one you need, and he’s no friend of Warren’s. I’ll call you when I know something.”
And he did, later that afternoon. The hearing was set for Wednesday February 1 at ten in the morning.
And now we wait.
Chapter 19
Sunday, January 15
I played golf with my father that Sunday morning. The weather was fine and the course was in the best condition I think I’ve ever seen it in winter. As usual, Henry Strange and Larry Spruce completed the foursome; I partnered with Larry. The stakes were high: ten dollars on the game, two-dollar birdies, and free drinks for the winners. And, as usual, it was August and Strange that walked off the course as the winners, but only by a single hole. Birdies were even, so the tally was that Larry and I had to hand over a ten-dollar bill each and open a tab for the drinks, which we did.
Amanda and Rose were already seated in the great bay window that overlooked the ninth green. Henry and Larry would stay for a couple of drinks, then head on home; we almost always had Sunday lunch at the club, and it was the plan that day too.
“So, Harry.” Strange leaned back in his chair and stared at me over his glass, a wry smile on his lips. “Once again the city is abuzz with your exploits. You do like the limelight, don’t you?”
“Not especially. You’re talking about the petition, I guess?”
“Right. Do you have any idea of the stir you’ve caused? No? Amanda—” he turned to look at her; she tilted her head, eyes questioning “—I’m surprised you haven’t been dragged into it. The media is all over it.”
“They are?” I asked. “I haven’t heard anything.”
“You will, Harry my boy. You will.”