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

by Blair Howard

  “No, Your Honor. That’s not possible. I myself have done extensive research and this particular brand has been deemed to be one of the safest guns available. Not only that, I have it on good authority that Peter Nicholson was properly trained in the use of firearms of all types and was very safety conscious; he habitually carried his shotgun with the breach open.”

  “I’ve heard enough.” Harris banged his gavel. “Petition granted.”

  ***

  “I have a feeling we’d better get this done as quickly as possible,” August said to Doc Sheddon as we stood together in the lobby outside the courtroom. “I have no doubt Dooley will appeal the decision on Mrs. Warren’s behalf.”

  “I agree,” Sheddon said, “and I’ll get right on it. Give me five minutes; I’ll make a couple of calls.” He reached inside his coat, took his cell phone from his pocket, and turned and walked a few steps along the corridor.

  “It’s all set,” he said when he returned. “Tomorrow morning at five o’clock. I intend to be there. How about you, Harry? Kate?”

  Kate nodded. “Might be interesting.”

  I nodded, and said, “Of course. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No,” Sheddon said. “I’ve arranged for lights and a machine and a small flatbed truck to be at the cemetery at 5:00 a.m. I understand he was buried in one of those concrete vaults. It shouldn’t take long to get him out of the ground…. but that vault is a bit of a problem. It won’t fit through the doors at my lab, so we’ll have to use the motor pool’s forklift to get the thing off the truck bed. We’ll open it there. The casket itself will fit in the back of my Suburban. It’s just a few hundred yards from there to my lab. I’ll try to get through it all before we get served with a restraining order.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll see you at five.”

  “That’s it then,” he said. “I’m heading home to get some rest. Tomorrow with be a busy day. Have a good night everyone.”

  Chapter 25

  Thursday, February 2, 5:00 a.m.

  When I drove through the gates of Lakeshore Memorial Gardens the following morning it was just a couple of minutes after five o’clock, and the weather had turned nasty yet again. It was raining steadily, a black and dismal morning, and again I wondered if the omens were against us.

  Doc was already at the gravesite when I got there, standing under an umbrella. How long he’d been there, I didn’t know, nor did I ask. I could tell he was in no mood to chat. He simply nodded at me and turned again to watch the men working just a few yards away.

  A generator was running quietly, four sets of lights on poles were in place, and a backhoe was growling away, already clearing the sod from the grave.

  Doc was right. It didn’t take long. The grave was quickly opened and two sets of chains were attached to the backhoe’s bucket. Minutes later, the concrete vault containing the casket and body of Peter Nicholson was deposited on the truck bed. From Lakeshore they took it to the motor pool on Amnicola, where they removed the vault from the truck, the casket from the vault, and slid it into the back of Doc’s SUV, which he drove two blocks to the Hamilton County Forensic Center.

  By eight o’clock that morning he had opened the casket and was ready to begin work. Those present to witness the procedure included me, of course; Carol Owens, the Center's forensic anthropologist; Kate; Sheriff Walker; and… Thomas Dooley Esq., attorney for Ellis and Mary Ann Warren.

  I peered over the rim of the casket. Woah. I was startled to see a well-preserved body, not the decayed corpse I was expecting. The cheeks were hollowed, the mouth open, the skin stretched tightly over the bones of the hands, but other than that he might well have been interred only a couple of weeks ago, rather than the fifteen years it actually was.

  The body was lifted gently from the casket and laid on the autopsy table. Its clothes were removed. Carol slipped the wedding band off the third finger of his left hand and handed it to Dooley for safekeeping.

  Doc then bent over the body and began to examine the wound.

  “The entry wound is elliptical, indicating that the shot was fired from left to right at a sharply downward angle. The shot entered to the left of the sternum and appears to have traveled downward through the left lung and the heart. I’ll be able to tell you for sure when I open the chest cavity.” He reached for a set of metal calipers.

  “The hole measures one inch in width, and….”

  And so it went. At one point Kate left and came back with a Twix bar from the vending machine. I stayed the whole way through.

  Four hours later, Sheddon had found five more number four pellets in the rear of Peter’s chest cavity and come to the conclusion that the death had indeed been a homicide. He gratefully accepted the coffee Carol handed to him, and took a step back from the autopsy table.

  We said nothing. He gets around to telling his story in his own good time, so we let him stand, sip his coffee, and stare down at the body. Finally, he set the cup down and began.

  “He was leaning slightly forward when he was shot. The shot entered the body above and to the left of the sternum,” he said, as he stepped up to the table and surveyed his handiwork. “It fragmented the third rib, passed though the apex of the left lung, and the heart. Death would have been virtually instantaneous.” He stood with his arms folded, his chin on his chest, staring down over his glasses at the open cavity.

  “And the rest of it is like I told Harry based on those photographs. No gunpowder residue or burn marks on the skin, and the scalloping indicates that the pellets had already begun to spread when they entered the chest. Based on the extent of the scalloping, I say that the shot was fired from between three to five feet away.

  “Furthermore, when we examined the clothing he wore that day, we found nothing to indicate that the victim fell on his weapon. What blood there is on the gun was transferred after death, most likely when it was placed under the body.

  “The angle and position of the wound indicates to me that he was either seated or crouched down when the load passed through his clothes and chest.”

  He sighed, then said, “Someone went to a great deal of trouble to stage the scene to make his death look like an accident.”

  He sipped his coffee, looked around at our silent faces. “So, people, what we have is an intermediate-to-distant range shotgun wound, not a contact or near-contact wound. Therefore, it is my intention to amend the death certificate. The cause of death is homicide.”

  I looked across the remains of Peter Nicholson at John Dooley. His face was a mask, expressionless, but it was obvious he wasn’t happy with the verdict. Inwardly, I smiled. Outwardly, I was as solemn as he was. But then it hit me.

  I already knew it wasn’t an accident. I know no more now than I did when I walked in here four hours ago.

  “Doc,” I said. “I’m going to need a DNA sample. I was going to have Mrs. Nicholson supply it, but she’s gone…. And a sample from the victim would be even better.”

  “I object to that, Dr. Sheddon,” Dooley said. “Peter Nicholson’s body has already been violated terribly by this… this travesty.”

  “Yes. His body sure as hell has been violated, but not by us,” Doc said, fishing inside the chest cavity and extracting a small piece of tissue. “This should do it, I think.” He held it up to the light. “Carol. Bag this for Harry, please.”

  Dooley glared at him. “Hurrrumpf!”

  “I think we’re done here,” Sheddon said. “Tidy him up please, Carol. Let’s get him back to Lakeshore where he belongs. Harry, Kate, Walker, is there anything else you need before we put him back to rest?”

  I shook my head, as did the others.

  “Good. You’ll have my report by the end of the week. You too, Mr. Dooley,” he added dryly. “Now, if you don’t mind. It’s been a long morning. I need coffee and food, and quickly. Anyone want to join me?”

  No one did. I headed back to the office to get my sample off to DDC. Kate headed back to the department, Steve Walker to his
office, and John Dooley…. Well, who the hell cared?

  Chapter 26

  Friday, February 3, 9:00 a.m.

  When I got in on Friday I shut myself in my office and spread everything out on my desk. The weekend was looming large in my thoughts, but not as large as the deaths of Peter and Helen Nicholson.

  The DNA results for the blood on the wood chips and the samples taken from Peter Nicholson’s shotgun had arrived on the nineteenth, the day after Helen died. The results for the chips were inconclusive; the samples were too degraded. The only thing they could say for sure was that the blood was human. Human? As evidence, that didn’t mean a whole lot. We’d never know for sure if it was Peter’s, but I was certain it was, especially when I read that the blood spatter on the gun was a match; it was his blood, and the only way it could have gotten there was for the gun to have been leaning against the stump when he was shot, just as I’d thought.

  I was almost sure his killer and Helen’s were the same person, and I had a strong suspicion about who it was, but even when I had the DNA results from the hairs Mike Willis found in the truck, I couldn’t prove a damn thing without something to compare it to.

  I got up from my desk, wandered out into the bull pen, took note of what was going on, but it didn’t register. I made coffee and went into the conference room, to the board with the photos of Dewey, Screwum, and Howe on it, and for a long moment I just stood there, staring at them. They, in turn, stared back at me. Were they smiling at me? Ellis Warren was, but the others….

  Yeah. You are, you bastards. You’re mocking me.

  I took their abuse for a little while longer, and then I’d had enough. I turned away and, coffee in hand, returned to my own office and dumped myself despondently behind my desk.

  I sorted through the photographs of the wound, both the old ones and those made during Doc Sheddon’s second autopsy.

  Okay. When you’re stuck for answers, go back to basics, and first and most important of those is that every killer either leaves something at the scene or takes something away. So what have I missed?

  I sorted through the box, and took each piece of evidence out and laid it on the desktop. I retrieved my magnifying glass from the desk drawer and, as I leafed through the photographs, I studied every inch of them, and then…. Hmmm. I wonder. Hah!

  I sat back in the chair, magnifying glass in one hand, photo in the other. Finally I laid both down on the desk, kicked back, stared up at the chandelier, and smiled.

  Which one is the most likely to talk to me, I wonder?

  ***

  “Hello. Who is this?”

  “Hello, Heath. This is Harry Starke. I wondered if I could have a quick word.”

  “Starke? What the hell do you want? How did you get my private number?”

  “Ah now, Heath. That would be telling. Let’s just say I’m a detective, and leave it at that.”

  “You’ve got some nerve. What do you want? I don’t have time to waste with you.”

  “I just have a couple of simple questions. Were you wearing a ball cap that day in Prentice Cooper?”

  “What? Probably. Why?”

  “What color was it?”

  “How the hell should I know? It was fifteen years ago, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Think about it, Heath. It’s important. It could get you out of this mess.”

  I could almost hear the wheels turning inside his head. “I… I… green. It was a Packer’s cap. I’m a fan… was a fan.”

  “You sure, Heath?”

  “Yeah. I remember now. I had two of them. I wore one most of the time I wasn’t at work. Hell, I think I still have one of them, somewhere. So, yes. I’m sure.”

  “How about Harrison? Was he wearing one?”

  “Yeah. He’d just bought a John Deere lawn tractor. They were on sale and the dealer had thrown in the hat too, so it was brand new. He wouldn’t shut up about that mower.”

  “Good. That’s good, Heath. Now how about….”

  “Warren? He was wearing a white one.”

  “White? You’re sure?”

  “Well, pretty sure. He liked white: golf jackets, golf gloves, hats, golf bag. He still does. You’ve seen him at the club; hell he even wears white pants these days.”

  “Okay. Final question, and this is the big one. What color cap was Peter Nicholson wearing?”

  Silence. For several seconds he didn’t speak, then, “He wasn’t wearing one, I don’t think. If he was, it would have been a first. He didn’t like them. Said they messed up his hair.”

  I nodded to myself, smiling. “Thanks, Heath. I appreciate you taking the time.”

  “Are you going to tell me why you needed to know?”

  “Not right now, but later. Listen. I may need to talk to you again. Would you mind?”

  “Who are you trying to hang for this, Starke? It was an accident. I know; I found him.”

  “I’m not trying to hang anyone, Heath. I just want to find out what happened that day. So, can I call you or not?”

  He was silent for a moment, then said, “Yeah. If it will help put an end to this mess, I suppose so.” He sounded tired.

  “Great. Thanks again.”

  I disconnected the call, leaned back in my chair, and stared at the photograph of Peter Nicholson’s body lying facedown on the trail, the white ball cap lying nearby.

  I need to call Kate. So that was what I did.

  I hit the speed dial on my iPhone and waited, and waited, and then heard, “You’ve reached….”

  Hell.

  I waited until the greeting finished, and then, at the beep—I hate that friggin’ word—I left her a message to call me as soon as she could. Then I called Mike Willis.

  “Harry,” he said, “you really are psychic. I was just about to call you. Can you come over?”

  “You’ve got something for me?”

  “Maybe. Twenty minutes, yeah?” He was smiling. I could tell.

  “Yes, twenty. Listen. I just tried to call Kate, but had to leave her a message. Is she in the building, do you know?”

  “I think so. I saw her about thirty minutes ago. You want me to have her join us?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Mind? Hah. It will be my pleasure.”

  “Good. See you in a few.”

  ***

  They were waiting for me in the lobby of the Police Services Center.

  “Let’s go through to my office,” Willis said. “I have something to show you that might be of interest.”

  His office was on the second floor of the building, and not much bigger than a closet. The shotgun and the bag of clothing I’d left with him were both on his desk. There wasn’t really anywhere else to put them.

  “Take a seat,” he said, easing himself down into the worn office chair behind the desk. “I’ve asked Joanne Snyder to join us. She should be here any minute.”

  Barely had he finished the sentence than Joanne walked in, a small, somewhat elderly woman with graying hair and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that made her look like a snowy owl. She also wore a white lab coat, open to reveal a white roll-neck sweater and dark gray pants. The ensemble completed the snowy owl look.

  “Hey, Joanne. You know Harry Starke, right?”

  “Oh yes. Hiya, Harry.”

  I got up from my seat and offered it to her. She refused, saying she preferred to stand.

  “Okay, then. Let’s get on with it,” Willis said. He looked at Snyder. “You want to go first, or shall I?”

  She shrugged. “Go ahead.”

  “Right. So, guys, I took a long hard look at the clothing; the gun, you already know about.” He looked at me. I nodded.

  “There are no powder burns on the vest, shirt, or undershirt around the hole. There is, however, high-velocity impact blood spatter—microscopic droplets, mist in the fibers of the cuffs and sleeves of Peter Nicholson’s shirt, more on the left sleeve than on the right. The direction of travel is outward from the chest, indicating th
at the victim had his arms raised in a defensive posture like so.” He raised his own arms to demonstrate and, with his right hand, indicated the inside of the left forearm. “Why it was not found during the first investigation I have no idea, but it should have been.

  “And I’d be willing to bet,” he continued, “that similar spatter was present on the backs of both hands, especially the left. There were also microscopic traces of grass stains on the knees of his pants. I think he may have been on his knees when he was killed.”

  “That’s what you said last time I was here, and it fits with Doc Sheddon’s findings,” I said. “He said he thought Nicholson might have been crouched down when he was shot.”

  Willis nodded. “Right. Good. That makes sense. So let’s talk about the blood spatter. High-velocity impact blood spatter, such as we have here, produced by an extremely powerful weapon, such as a 12-gauge shotgun, would travel perhaps five to ten feet from the source. It would be present as droplets, microscopic droplets, and mist. Spatter is present, as we already know, on the cuffs and sleeves of the victim’s shirt and, as we discussed last time, it’s on the weapon, but not where we’d expect it to be. That being so, we know this is not the weapon that killed him.” He looked at me, then Kate, then back at me. We waited patiently for him to tell us.

  Why is it that all these folks think they have to be showmen? Get on with it, man.

  “Yes, Mike we know that, but you’ve found something else, right?”

  He nodded, grinned, pulled on a pair of latex gloves, and reached into the bag. When his hand emerged it was holding the baggie that contained the white ball cap.

  Damn! I knew it.

  He took the cap from the baggie and held it in front of him, the fist of his right hand inside it.

  “Two things,” he said. “One, I found five hairs caught in the buckle and four more inside the cap itself; three with the follicles still intact. Second, there’s high-velocity impact blood spatter present on the bill, here.” He pointed with his left hand.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’d expect to find blood and hairs on and in the cap, which is why I called you. What’s the problem?”