by Blair Howard
“Yes, and I would have expected it too, but here’s the thing. The blood spatter is traveling in the wrong direction. It should be going from in to out, under the bill, but it’s traveling from out to in, and it’s on the leading edge of the bill. The direction of travel is toward the front of the cap, like this.” He pointed at me and then reversed his finger so that it was pointing at the bill of the cap as he held it up. “That means that Peter Nicholson wasn’t wearing this cap when he was shot; his killer was…. You’re… not surprised.”
I smiled, looked at Joanne, then at Kate—her eyes were wide. “Surprised?” I said. “A little, but I sure as hell was hoping, too. I spent half the morning and most of the last two weeks trying to figure out what the hell happened that day, and I just couldn’t. So I went over the photographs again and again: nothing. Then I noticed the cap lying on the ground behind the body. Just how far, I couldn’t exactly tell, but I figured at least ten feet. Then it struck me: it was in the wrong place. Think about it. He fell forward onto his face, yeah? If he had, his cap would have come off, but it would have landed in front of him, not behind. So I figured maybe it wasn’t his cap at all, and if it wasn’t, it probably belonged to the killer.”
I looked sideways at Kate. She was shaking her head.
“What?” I asked her.
“Damn it, Harry. I never would have spotted that….”
“You would have if you’d studied the photos as much as I did.”
“So, Mike,” she said. “The hairs from the cap. We have DNA, right?”
He nodded.
“How long will it take?”
“Two, maybe three weeks.”
“Have you sent them off yet?” I asked, mentally crossing my fingers.
“Nope. I was going to do it after you’d gone.”
“I’ll do it,” I said taking the evidence bag from him. “I’ll send them to DDC. I can get it done quicker. One week, maybe less.”
“But—”
“It’s okay, Mike. The chain of custody was broken years ago. Now it’s all academic. Helpful, but circumstantial at best. How long before you get the results back for the hairs you found in the truck?”
“Hmmm.” He flipped the pages of his desk calendar. “I sent them off on the nineteenth, so… the results should be back… by the eighth?”
“So,” I said. “Today’s the third. If I get this cap off to DDC this afternoon, I should have the results back by Friday the tenth. Kate, we need DNA samples from Judge Warren, Heath Myers, and Alex Harrison.”
“Hah. Good luck with that one. How are you going to pull that off?”
“Well, I was hoping you might help. Look, we know one of those three killed Peter Nicholson, and probably Helen Nicholson too. I’m pretty sure the cap belonged to Ellis Warren. He was wearing a white cap that day….”
“How the hell do you know that?” Kate asked.
“I asked Heath Myers. He remembered. He also told me Nicholson wasn’t wearing a cap, that he never wore one, didn’t like them; they spoiled his hair.”
“He talked to you?” she asked skeptically.
“I thought he might. I never liked him for it, so I figured he had nothing to hide and so might be willing to talk, and he was. But that aside, we have, or will have, DNA from the truck that killed Helen, and from this golf cap, but without DNA from our suspects to compare it to, it’s useless. We need samples. So, Kate, can you help?”
She dropped her chin, closed her eyes, and thought; her ponytail flopped over her shoulder, hiding her face. Then she looked up and said, “Jeez, Harry. You’re asking a lot. I’ll help, but how the hell do we do it?”
I nodded. She was right. It was asking a lot, but it had to be done.
“As I said, I like Warren for it, so Amanda and I will tackle him. I’ll find out from August when they’re next scheduled to play together and I’ll make sure we’re there when they come off the course. August will invite us for drinks and I’ll get it then. Myers may not be a problem. I don’t think it was him. He was quite cooperative earlier. After I have Warren’s I’ll just flat out ask him for a swab. If he has nothing to hide, and I don’t think he does, he’ll do it. If he’s innocent, he’ll want us to know, right?”
She nodded. “So that leaves me with Harrison, then. Christ, Harry. The man’s a US attorney. How the hell am I supposed to pull that off?”
I grinned at her. “You’ll think of something. He sure as hell is not going to let me near him.”
She sighed, a big one. “Okay. I’ll think of something. I wonder what we have going on in the department that I can go to him for.” She shook her head. “It may take a few days, but I’ll get you what you need.”
I turned to Willis. “You have more for us, right?”
“I don’t, but Joanne does. Joanne?”
“Yes, well.” She picked up the gun from the desk, looked first at Kate, then at me. “This weapon did not kill Peter Nicholson.”
Okay. I already knew that.
“And I can also tell you that he wasn’t killed with a 12-gauge shotgun.”
Whoa. That’s a new one.
“What? Are you sure about that?” I asked.
“Positive. For several reasons. The most compelling being that I was unable to replicate the wound or the scalloping. The shells recovered from Nicholson’s gun—one fired and one live—and from his vest pocket were all identical 2¾-inch, Winchester 1¼-ounce, number four 12-gauge shells. There are 135 number four pellets to the ounce, so those particular shells would have held 168.”
She placed the gun back on the desk and continued, “Just to be sure, I bought a box—same brand, same size—and I opened three of them and counted the number of shot; each held exactly 168 pieces, but we have only 152 pieces: 147 in the plastic bottle and the 5 Doc Sheddon recovered from the body. Thus, if he’d been shot with his own gun, we’re short 16 pellets. Even if the gun had been fired from five feet, the scalloping indicates that none of the shot could have missed the body, and we know from the X-rays Doc made that there are none left inside the body. That also indicates he was not killed with his own gun.
“Now, as I said, I was unable to replicate the wound using this gun, and I tried; believe me, I tried. Oh, and by the way, Harry. You owe me two hundred bucks for three pigskins, and I got a deal on them at Larry’s Pork Skins. I hope that was okay.”
“You know it was. So tell us.”
“Okay, here we go. We know from the scalloping around the wound that the shot was made from three to five feet away—the end of the barrels, that is. That would put the trigger some five and half feet to seven and a half feet from the victim. Anyway, I stretched the skins on some homemade frames that the maintenance department made up for me. I used this gun, fixed to a rig—one of my own, loaded with identical Winchester shells to those found in the gun—to fire six shots at varying distances ranging between three and five feet. To reproduce a wound, of the same shape and with more or less the same pattern of scalloping, I had to fire the gun at a distance of exactly forty-one inches, roughly three and a half feet. And at a stretch we could go with that, but here’s the problem: the wound itself was way too big. Again, this proves that this is not the gun that killed him. It also proves that the gun that did kill him wasn’t a 12-gauge.”
“Okay, so you say,” I said. “But then what was it?”
“Give me a minute and I’ll show you.”
She left the office and returned a couple of minutes later holding a second shotgun. It looked almost identical to the one on the desk, but I knew that it couldn’t be.
“This,” she said, holding it up with both hands, “is a Browning Citori 16…. A 16-gauge shotgun, with which I was able to replicate the wound pretty closely. My experiments with the pigskin show direction and angle of shot, the shape and size of the wound, and an almost identical pattern of scalloping and, by the way, I do have photographs for you, and I’ve preserved the skins with each shot identified by number and by weapon. If needed, i
t can all be placed in evidence, and I am prepared to testify to the veracity of my findings.
“So,” she continued, “I did some research. Guess what? A 16-gauge, 2¾-inch, 1⅛-ounce, number four shell holds… exactly 152 number four pellets. Voila!” she said, triumphantly, then looked at us each in turn. “No comments?” she asked, somewhat disappointed.
“I believe you,” I said, not quite knowing what to make of her revelation, and not quite sure that it changed anything. We already knew he didn’t kill himself, that someone else must have done it. The type of gun used—a 16-gauge shotgun—only reinforced the fact. I wonder what types of guns the three mouseketeers were using that day. If I read it correctly, even if one of them was carrying a 16-gauge, it wouldn’t help a whole lot. All we’d have would be an indicator that that person might have been the perp, but that’s all. It’s still circumstantial. Damn!
“Well,” I said. “That’s all very interesting, but….”
“Hell, as far as I can see,” Kate said, “it’s just one more wrinkle in the cloth that needs smoothing out. We already knew he didn’t kill himself. All this does is show us how he might have been killed. But as for who….” She shrugged.
“Okay folks,” I said, rising to my feet. “Thanks for everything you’ve done. I need to do some thinking. In the meantime, Joanne, I’ll send you a check for the two hundred. Again, thank you for that.”
Kate accompanied me to the elevator and down to the lobby on the first floor. Neither of us spoke on the way down. It wasn’t until we reached my car on the far side of the lot that she spoke.
“Harry. It all hinges on the DNA, right?”
“Yup. I’m afraid so. Everything else is just… fluff. 16-gauge or not, I’m still convinced it was one of the three that killed him, and Helen, and I’ve still got my money on Ellis Warren. He not only had the most to gain by killing Peter—Mary Ann—but also the most to lose if he didn’t—possible exposure for insider trading, though that’s also conjecture at this point; I’ve got Ronnie digging into it…. We need those samples, Kate.”
She nodded. “I’ll do my best. Talk to you next week, Harry. Give Amanda my best, okay?” And she turned and walked back into the police department.
Me? I returned to my office, had Jacque priority overnight the golf cap to Lindsey Oats at DDC, and then left. It was just after noon and I’d had enough. The only place I wanted to be was Lookout Mountain, with a little homemade cottage pie, a couple of shots of Laphroaig, and Amanda.
Chapter 27
Monday, February 6, 9:00 a.m.
My plan for the weekend was to clear my head, put the case out of my mind for a couple of days, but I couldn’t. I spent most of the weekend going over my notes, the evidence—photographs, reports, etc., and by the time Monday morning rolled around I was more convinced than ever that Ellis Warren had indeed murdered Peter Nicholson.
Did he murder Helen Nicholson too? I had a hard time believing that, but what other answer could there be? What motive could there be? Fear of what Peter’s second autopsy might reveal? That was a nonstarter; the autopsy had revealed nothing we didn’t already know, or suspect. But then again, criminals think differently from regular folks. Most of them make mistakes of one sort or another. In the past, I’ve found that guilt can drive the imagination wild, and a killer to try to cover up evidence that may not even exist. But a circuit court judge?
It wouldn’t be the first time, and they put their clothes on the same way everybody else does. And Ellis Warren sure as hell has a lot to lose.
There was no doubt that Warren didn’t want to give up Mary Ann, and we knew that Nicholson had given Mary Ann an ultimatum—and that she’d agreed to give up her affair with Warren. Then there was the insider trading thing. Were they guilty of that? If so, we’d probably never know, but if Nicholson threatened to expose him… if he didn’t want to lose her…. Double motive. But was he desperate enough to kill Nicholson over it? Did he shoot him in the heart with his 16-gauge shotgun or was there another solution? Did he even own a 16-gauge shotgun?
There’s no mention in the reports of who was shooting what in the reports, either. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. Israel Friggin’ Hands! Someone should have checked those guns.
But if Warren did have a 16-gauge, I’ll bet he still does. Guns are like children. We hate to give ’em up.
I flipped through the pages of the notes taken that day in 2002, and the reports, and I watched the videos for… I dunno, what must have been the tenth time, and I learned no more than I already knew, which wasn’t a whole hell of a lot.
And nowhere could I find any references to shotguns other than the one found under Nicholson’s body.
I looked at my watch. It was just after ten o’clock. I sat there for several minutes debating whether or not I should drive to Atlanta and try to talk to Israel Hands. In the end, though, I decided it would be a waste of time. The man had hated my guts before I put him away, and it was hardly likely he’d talk to me now, or even see me.
Ron Fowler, though. Now there’s a thought. I need to get out of here anyway, get some fresh air. That gas heat is killing me.
***
Ten minutes later I was parked outside Ron Fowler’s tri-level on Cloverdale Loop. I saw the curtain move and decided I’d better do the same.
I locked the car and walked the path to the front door. Before I could thumb the bell, however, the door opened and there he was. I might have stepped back in time three weeks, for he was wearing the exact same jeans and plaid flannel shirt as he had been before, or else ones just like them.
“Come on in, Harry. I was hoping you might drop by again. I saw that they’d dug him up, Nicholson, and I was curious to know what you found. Sit down, man. Sit down. You want some coffee? I just made some.”
“Sure. Why not. A little cream, no sugar.”
“So what’s going on?” he asked, sitting down at the kitchen table across from me. “I never thought I’d see the day. What did they find?”
“Not much, Ron, unfortunately. Tell me,” I continued, “how well do you remember that day in the forest?”
He shrugged, squinted at me across the table. “Like it was yesterday. I still can’t believe how they handled it. Maybe Doc Bowden just couldn’t be bothered. It weren’t no accident, Harry.”
“Yeah, Ron. I know. It was sloppily handled at best, and a criminal cover up at worst.”
“Hey, Harry. Go easy, will ya? Israel called the shots. We did as we were told. He and the doc said it was an accident, so an accident it was. You didn’t screw with Israel, you know that; you know what a rat’s ass he could be.”
I nodded. He was right. Hands had been a law unto himself.
“Ron, could one of those three have been paying him off?”
He looked down his nose at me, squinted, shook his head, slowly. “I… don’t know. Could have been. There was some talk. He was a crooked son of a bitch. There was one time—”
“Look, that’s actually not why I’m here. You say you remember that day well, right?”
He nodded.
“Okay, so which one of them had a 16-gauge?”
“A what?”
“A 16-gauge shotgun?”
“Whoa. That’s not one I expected. Lemme think a minute.” And he did. He closed his eyes and he thought, for a long time. So long I thought he’d fallen asleep.
“None of them,” he said eventually.
“…What?”
“You heard me. None of them had a 16-gauge. They all had 12-gauges, fancy 12-gauges. That’s how I know. I figured that between the four of them, they were carrying close to a hundred thousand bucks worth of shotguns.”
“You must have it wrong, Ron. One of those three was carrying a 16-gauge. Peter Nicholson was killed with a….” Damn. I’ve said too much.
His eyes were wide. “No way! I don’t believe it.”
“Ron. I never said that, you hear? You can’t let it out. If you do, you’ll screw up the investigation.”
“Harry? Look at me. Look me in the eye.”
I did.
“I was a cop, remember? A good cop. I know how it works. I won’t say a word; you have my word on it. But a 16-gauge you say? You’ve got to be shittin’ me. Nope. I swear it, Harry. They were all carrying 12-gauges.”
I leaned back in my chair. Christ. If what he says is true, it makes Doc and Snyder look like a couple of clowns. Say it ain’t so, Ron. Say it ain’t so.
“Ron,” I said, shaking my head. “Joanne Snyder is prepared to testify that Nicholson was shot with a 16-guage loaded with number four shot.”
“Then she’d be wrong. They was all of them carrying 12-gauges. I’d swear to it.”
“Well,” I said, more than a little pissed off, “that means one of two things: either Joanne is wrong, or it wasn’t one of them that killed her.”
“Sorry, Harry.”
“Sheesh. That’s all I needed. Now what?”
He simply shook his head.
I told him goodbye and left, wishing to hell that I hadn’t seen him. Damn! Damn! Damn!
I sat for a minute inside the Maxima outside his home, thinking, then I dialed Joanne Snyder’s direct number at the PD.
“Joanne. This is Harry Starke. I have a problem.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Look, I’ve just spent the last thirty minutes with Ron Fowler. He was one of the detectives on the Nicholson case back in ’02. He swears they were all carrying 12-gauge guns, that there wasn’t a 16-gauge between them. Are you sure you got it right?”
That was met with stony silence.
I sighed. “Sorry, Joanne, but I had to ask.”
“Yes, well. Call me if you need me.” And with that, she hung up, and I felt…. Well, not good, that’s for sure, and I drove away from Cloverdale Loop wondering what the hell I was going to do next.
Next, I called Kate. “Hey,” I said when she picked up. “I had questions, so I went to see Ron Fowler again. He was one of the detectives on the case back in 2002. I told you. Remember?”