by Blair Howard
“Hey,” I said as she came in. “Did Mike Willis find anything?”
“For God’s sake, Harry. Let me get through the door, will you?”
“Yeah, sit down, sit down…. Well, did he?”
She sighed, set her coffee on my desk, and said, “Yes. He found three hairs on the driver’s seat and headrest. Dark hairs. Helen is blonde, so they’re not hers. I had him send them to the lab for DNA testing. I’ve also had him send a tech to the owner for a sample. The hairs could be his, so we need to be able to eliminate him. There was nothing else. No prints. Mike thought there might have been something on the cab floor—it’s been wet outside for days—but there wasn’t. Those three hairs are it, and without a suspect to match them to….”
“Oh, we have suspects. What we don’t have is their DNA, and how the hell we’re going to get it I have no idea.”
She nodded. “So why don’t you take me through it? Might as well begin at the beginning.”
The box of evidence was still on my desk. I asked her to grab it and take it into the conference room where I had my board set up. Then I made myself coffee and joined her there. We spent the next two hours going over everything. When we were done, she leaned back in her chair, looked at me thoughtfully, and said, “You really don’t have a damned thing, do you? Harry, it could be any one of those three,” she said, and waved a hand at the suspects on the board. “There’s no way, with what you have here, that you can pin Peter Nicholson’s death on any of them—or all of them. They, he, whoever, got away with it. It’s done. Over.”
I stared back at her.
Damn it. She’s right. “If we get permission to exhume him, all we’ll get out of it is a change of cause of death. But I promised Helen I’d find her son’s killer and, one way or another, that’s what I intend to do.”
“One way or another? Harry….”
I shrugged. “Look, I think it was Helen’s request for an exhumation order that was the direct cause of her death. If that’s true, one of those three—” I pointed toward the board “—killed her. The question is why he, whichever one it is, doesn’t want Peter dug up.”
“And you think you know, right?”
“No, I don’t know,” I said, frustrated by the question. “Not for sure. You’ve looked at the photos, the videos, the autopsy report. He died of a single shotgun blast to the chest. Even if we exhume the body, what’s to find?”
I paused, thought for a moment, then continued, “Right now, whoever it was who killed Helen is thinking he’s covered his tracks, that the exhumation can’t go forward, but I’ll rope in Steve Walker and Doc Sheddon. Law enforcement and the medical examiner have the authority to independently request a body be exhumed if there’s a compelling reason to do it, and a botched first autopsy and a doubtful cause of death are, in my opinion, damned good reasons.”
She nodded. “Good luck with that. Unfortunately, my only interest in your cold case is the impact it has on my investigation…. I need DNA samples from the three amigos up there to compare with the hairs Willis found in the truck.” She turned and stared at the photographs of Warren, Myers, and Harrison. “But we’re not going to get a court order using a fifteen-year-old closed case as leverage.”
“And we sure as hell can’t just go ask them,” I said, thinking out loud. “Hmmm. They’re all members of the club. Warren shouldn’t be too difficult. He plays golf with August now and then. The other two… I don’t know. It might be a long wait, but I have all the time in the world.”
“Hah,” she growled. “You might, but I don’t. I have the chief breathing down my neck. Helen Nicholson was friends with his wife.”
“Well, there’s not a whole lot we can do right now. It’s going to take four or five weeks until Willis gets the results on the hairs back from the lab. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do about obtaining DNA samples from the suspects.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to offer?”
“Unless you can come up with something else, yeah.”
“Wow, Sherlock. You must be losing it.”
I grinned at her. “Maybe, maybe not. We’ll see. You want to attend the exhumation hearing with me next week?”
“Sure. Why not. You wanna come to Helen Nicholson’s post tomorrow morning? Doc’s scheduled it for nine.”
“Not only no, but hell no. Give me a call when it’s done, though.”
She nodded. “Well, it’s time I got back to the department. I want to go through all that crap you left me again. Maybe I’ll find something you missed.” She smiled as she said it.
I smiled back. “Yeah? That would be a first.”
“Not hardly,” she said, closing the door behind her, leaving me staring up at the three enigmatic faces on the board. I could have sworn they were mocking me.
Chapter 24
Wednesday February 1, 9:00 a.m.
The next few days dragged by in much the same vein as the ten that had gone before. There were no new revelations, either about the Peter Nicholson case or his mother’s. The weather didn’t improve and neither did my mood. I spent a long weekend brooding about both cases. I watched the videos until my eyes hurt, again without learning anything new.
Sunday came and my weekly round of golf with August and his buddies was canceled due to the incessant rain. We did, however, join them for lunch at the club. I would rather have stayed home, but I figured I might be able to grab some DNA. The Warrens were always there, no matter the weather. This time, however, they were not. Still, lunch was good, and we always enjoy spending time with my old man—and Rose, bless her. She’s a trip.
I didn’t hear anything from Kate either, not until the Tuesday afternoon before the hearing, and then only to confirm that she would be attending. We agreed to meet at my office and walk to the courthouse together.
And that Wednesday morning, the weather changed. I woke to a clear sky full of stars, and I felt good. Was it an omen of good things to come? I hoped to hell it was.
***
Judge Harris peered over the top of his glasses at my father and said, “Mr. Starke. You are petitioning the court for permission to exhume the body of one Peter Nicholson, and you are doing so namely on behalf of the decedent’s mother, Mrs. Helen Nicholson, the Hamilton County Sheriff’s Department, and the Hamilton County Medical Examiner. Is that correct?”
“It is, Your Honor.”
“But it’s my understanding that Mrs. Nicholson is herself now deceased, and that the decedent’s next of kin…” he looked at his notes “…Mrs. Mary Ann Warren, does not wish the body of her late husband to be disinterred. Is that also correct?”
“It is.”
“Then I fail to understand why we’re here,” Harris said, leaning back in his chair. “Please explain, sir.”
“Your Honor,” August said, “Peter Nicholson’s death is highly suspicious and its cause as recorded by the medical examiner at the time is not supported by the results of the somewhat limited autopsy performed at the time of his death. The co-petitioners argue that the interests of justice require an exhumation and a full and proper postmortem examination."
It was at this point that John Dooley, the Warren’s attorney, rose to his feet and said, “If I may, Your Honor?”
The judge peered over his glasses at him and then at August, who nodded.
“You may, Mr. Dooley.”
“Your Honor, my client—” he turned slightly toward Mary Ann, who was seated next to him, and it was just her; Ellis Warren wasn’t present “—the deceased’s ex-wife and next of kin strongly opposes the proposed course of action. Her husband was the victim of a horrendous accident, as was established at the time of his death, and she maintains that it would be an egregious act of disrespect to, and I quote her own words, ‘dig him up after all this time.’ Therefore, Your Honor, I respectfully request that you dismiss the petition and let her late husband rest in peace. Thank you.”
Again, Harris consulted his notes. “We’ll see, Mr. Dooley.
Mr. Starke,” he continued. “The cause of death as listed on both the death certificate and the autopsy report is accidental. The decedent tripped and fell on his shotgun. The gun went off and he died as a result of the wound he received. Am I to understand that the petitioners are disputing the cause of death?”
“They are, Your Honor. It is our contention that the initial autopsy was incomplete, flawed, and that a second autopsy could establish that the cause of death was not an accident, but homicide. We believe that a second forensic examination of the wound is needed to pinpoint the exact type of weapon and how it was used to inflict the killing shot. We further contend that Peter Nicholson did not fall on his gun, but was shot to death by a person or persons as yet unknown, and we have discovered new evidence to support that belief.”
“Yes, so I understand….” He thought for a moment and then continued, “Mr. Starke, I’m not in favor of disinterment. Public policy is that the sanctity of the grave should be maintained and that, once buried, a body should not be disturbed. Courts, this one included, do not order or permit a body to be disinterred except in extraordinary circumstances, where the court can be persuaded that disinterment would further the interests of justice. But the need for an autopsy might be one such circumstance. My reading of the law states that courts may permit a body to be exhumed and an autopsy to be performed in order to discover truth and promote justice. So, Mr. Starke. If I am to grant an order of disinterment for the purpose of such an examination, good cause and exigent circumstances must exist. That appears to be what we have in this case, but….”
He looked at Mary Ann Warren and her lawyer. “Mr. Dooley. Can you give me a good reason why I should not grant the petition?”
Dooley rose to his feet. “I can, Your Honor. My client strongly objects to her late husband’s remains being disturbed on the whim of a distraught mother who happens herself to no longer be living. Furthermore, the cause of death was clearly defined at the time by both the medical examiner and the Hamilton County sheriff as an accident. The petitioners cite new evidence, but as far as I can see, there is nothing new. They, Sheriff Walker, Dr. Sheddon, and…” he looked around at me and shook his head as if in disbelief “…and the private investigator Mr. Starke, have simply trotted out what was already available to the authorities at the time of Peter Nicholson’s death and have offered nothing more than a different interpretation of it; an entirely subjective interpretation, I might add, and one not borne out by the facts. I therefore repeat my request that you dismiss the petition and allow poor Mr. Nicholson to remain at rest and in peace.”
“Yes,” Harris said, dryly, as he looked over his glasses at me. “I’ve seen the evidence, and I do agree there are some anomalies. In fact, it appears to me that the 2002 investigation of the incident was somewhat… sloppy, shall we say? Even so, I’m not sure you’ve met the requirements: good cause and exigent circumstances. I’m still of the opinion that there may not be enough here to support such a drastic step as disinterment.” He looked at my father. “Mr. Starke?”
“Your Honor,” August said, “I understand your concern and believe I can show both good cause and exigent circumstances. I’d like to call upon Mr. Harry Starke to offer an explanation of the petitioners’ interpretation of the evidence and his opinion as to the cause of Mr. Nicholson’s death.”
Harris looked at Dooley. “Any objection?”
I suppose Dooley must have realized that there was no point in objecting to my giving evidence, because he didn’t. He did, however object to my offering an opinion as to the cause of death, stating that only a qualified medical doctor could do that.
“My apologies, Your Honor. Mr. Starke will not be offering an opinion as to the cause of death, merely the manner of death. As a homicide detective of more than sixteen years, he more than qualifies as an expert witness and as such will testify that the evidence—the original evidence—shows that the manner of death was not an accident but a homicide.”
I thought that Dooley was going to object to the use of the semantics. In fact, he half stood and opened his mouth to do so, but changed his mind and sat down again.
Anyway, Harris agreed with August and I was duly sworn in. I was then asked to identify myself for the record. That done, August asked me to explain my interpretation of the evidence.
“Mr. Starke. You were hired by Mrs. Helen Nicholson to investigate the death of her son, which occurred while he was out hunting in Prentice Cooper State Forest on Friday May 3, 2002. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And during your investigation, were you afforded the opportunity to study the evidence retrieved by the sheriff’s department and the reports generated by the detectives from that department and from the medical examiner’s office?”
“I was.”
August nodded. “I understand, Mr. Starke, that your studies caused you to have doubts as to the true cause of Mr. Nicholson’s death. Is that also correct?”
“It is.”
“In that case, I’d like you to explain your findings to the court.” And he sat down.
Now you should understand that I, that is, we didn’t want to provide the Warrens and their attorneys with everything we had. My job was to provide the judge with just enough to persuade him to grant the petition. I had a plan which I hoped would do just that, but I was prepared to go further, if I had to. I began by stating the basic reasons I believed that Peter’s death was no accident. But having said that, I soon found that I had opened myself up not only to questioning, but to ridicule.
“So, Mr. Starke,” Dooley said with a sarcastic smile. “That’s quite a fantasy. You can read palms too, I bet.”
“No.”
“You have the second sight, then?”
It’s been said that I do, but I’m not going to hand that one to you.
“No.”
“Then you must have been there, in the forest, all those years ago,” he said sarcastically.
“No.”
“No. You weren’t there. In fact, no one was there when Mr. Nicholson died, so how could you possibly know what happened?”
“Mr. Dooley. I beg to differ. Someone was there, as I have just explained in detail. Would you like me to go over it again so that even you can understand it?”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Starke, thank you; I understand perfectly well. You say that it’s impossible for the body of Peter Nicholson to have landed on top of the gun as shown in this photograph?” He handed it to me. I recognized it as a copy of one that I’d gotten from Sheriff Walker.
“That’s correct. It would not be possible.”
“What if I told you I could produce an expert witness that would testify that it’s entirely possible for it to have happened that way?”
I shrugged. “Then that person would not be an expert, and I could produce at least half a dozen more experts that would support the impossibility of what you see in this photograph…. Mr. Dooley. Have you ever fired a 12-gauge shotgun?”
“You are here to answer questions, Mr. Starke, not—”
“No, no,” Harris said, resting his chin on his clenched fists. “I’d like to know the answer. Have you ever fired such a shotgun, Mr. Dooley?”
“No, Your Honor, I have not.”
Harris nodded. “I thought not. Make your point, Mr. Starke.”
“It involves one of the basic laws of physics, Your Honor. I’m sure you’ve heard of it: Newton’s Third Law. It states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”
Judge Harris nodded. “And it applies in this case?”
“It does. When a bullet is fired from a gun, the force of the internal explosion pushes the bullet forward as a projectile. This is an action. The sudden recoil of the gun caused by that same internal explosion is the equal and opposite force applied by the explosion to the bullet. But a .22 would have little recoil when compared to a .45. In this case, however, we have a 12-gauge shotgun which produced, by comparison even to a .45,
a massive internal explosion against more than an ounce of lead.” I looked up at the judge; he nodded.
“The reason I asked Mr. Dooley if he’d ever fired a shotgun was because if he had, he would have known that the gun in this case could not possibly have ended up where it did, cuddled closely beneath Peter Nicholson’s chest. If he’d ever fired such a gun he would remember the tremendous violence of the recoil. He would also know that if such a gun is not held tightly to the shoulder, the recoil could, and probably would, inflict serious injury to the gunner. Your Honor, such haphazard handling of such a weapon has been known to break, even shatter, the clavicle.”
Again the judge nodded, but now he was staring at Dooley, and I’m sure he knew what was coming next.
“So,” I continued. “We know that he had to have been holding it loosely, in one hand, probably his right hand, but here’s where things get a little tricky. There’s no possible way that gun could have fired by accident, not unless he was carrying it with his finger on the trigger, and no one, not even a rookie, ever does that. It’s dangerous, and a gun that size is just too heavy.” I paused and looked out at the faces. There wasn’t a smile among them.
“But let’s say—” and I smiled as I continued “—just for argument’s sake, that he was indeed carrying his gun with his finger on the trigger, and that he had inadvertently pulled the trigger and fired the gun…. Where do you suppose the gun would have been aimed? Not at his damned chest, that’s for certain. And then we have to consider that pesky Third Law. Even if he’d been a contortionist and somehow managed to point the thing at his chest, the recoil would have sent it spiraling into the air…. It would have landed perhaps a dozen feet from the body, not underneath it. No…. Someone else was holding the gun, or a gun; someone else pulled the trigger; someone else killed him; and someone else staged the scene to make it look like an accident.”
The courtroom was silent, and then Judge Harris asked quietly, “Suppose he dropped the gun. Could it have gone off accidentally when the butt hit the ground?”