by Blair Howard
“I remember. I also remember you told me the whole thing was shoved under the rug. Was he responsible for that?”
“No, just the opposite, in fact. He never did believe Nicholson’s death was an accident, but Israel Hands closed the investigation before it had even started. Anyway, look. I have a problem. I wanted to run it by you. Okay?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Joanne Snyder’s inspection of the wound, and her experiments, indicate he was killed with a 16-gauge shotgun, not a 12-gauge. That’s why I went to see Fowler. I found no record of the other three guns ever being taken into evidence, or any reference in any of the reports as to who was carrying what. One of the three had to have been using a 16-gauge, right?”
“Makes sense.”
“Right, but who? It was a long shot, but I figured Fowler might remember, and he did, and therein lies the problem. He swears that none of them were using 16-gauges, that they all were carrying 12-gauges.”
“Yep. You do have a problem. So what’s the answer?”
“One of two: either Fowler made a mistake or….”
“Or Joanne did,” she finished for me. “Oh please tell me you didn’t.”
“I did, and she’s pissed, but I had to ask her. There were only three people with Nicholson in Prentice Cooper that day and one of them killed him. So one of them, Joanne or Fowler, made a mistake.”
She was silent for a moment, then, “You think?”
“Come on, Kate. Had to be.”
“My money’s on Fowler. Look, Harry. You know as much about shotguns as I do, which isn’t a whole lot, and I’d bet Fowler’s the same. There’s very little difference, as far as I know, between a 16-gauge and a 12-gauge. They look practically identical. He made a mistake. One of them had to be a 16-gauge. Had to.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I don’t see Joanne screwing it up, so there’s no other answer, unless there were more than four of them there that day, and there’s no record of anyone else. If there had been… well, there couldn’t have; we’d know.”
“I talked to Mike a few minutes ago,” she said after a moment. “He said we should have the DNA back on the hairs from the truck either Thursday or Friday. I asked him to call the lab and give ’em a push. He said he would. Any news from your DNA lab?”
“No. I had Jacque FedEx the sample to them before we left on Friday. I’m paying for a rush job, so I should have something back by the weekend. In the meantime, we need those samples. Have you figured out how you’re going to get Harrison’s?”
“Nope, but I will. As soon as I get it, I’ll let you know. Gotta go, Harry. It’s busier in here than a Chinese sweatshop. Later, okay?”
I told her yeah, and she disconnected. I wanted to go home, but I had too much on my mind.
So, without a 16-gauge, what the hell do I have? A couple of hairs in a damned hat, if that. The way things are going, they probably belong to Peter Nicholson’s cat.
In the meantime, I need to figure out how to get samples from Warren and Myers. Warren shouldn’t be too difficult. He’s playing nine holes with August on Wednesday; they’re having lunch together. I’ll maybe be able to pick up something from the table. Myers, though....
I hesitated for a moment, and then looked up Heath Myers’s phone number.
“Heath. It’s Harry Starke. You got a minute?”
“Damn it. Not again. What do you want this time?”
“Look, Heath. I think I’m close to closing this Peter Nicholson thing out. You told me you had nothing to do with his death, and I believe you. Thing is, though, it all comes down to DNA….”
I waited for a response. I got none.
“You still there, Heath?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. And the answer’s no.”
“Jeez, you don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“Yeah, I do. You want me to give you a DNA sample. The answer is… no!”
“Now why the hell not? If you had nothing to do with it, why wouldn’t you?”
“Look, I had that slimy little bulldog from Channel 7 here only this morning, asking questions—loaded questions. I gave him nothing, but when did that ever stop ’em making shit up, destroying people’s reputations? You got a big mouth, Starke, and you like the attention, so no. Now leave me the hell alone.” And he hung up.
Well, so much for that. How the hell am I going to get it?
Chapter 28
Wednesday, February 8, 11:45 a.m.
Two days later, I still hadn’t figured out how I was going to get a DNA sample from Heath Myers. I’d considered going through his trash, but I hadn’t sunk quite that low… yet. As for Ellis Warren, I decided to take Amanda to lunch at the club that Wednesday. She was back at Channel 7, but for a possible story she was able to get an extended lunch break.
We arrived at the club around 11:45 and found August, Warren, and… Mary Ann.
Damn it. August should know better.
Barely had we walked into the lounge when my father spotted us. I’d already made him aware of what I wanted, and he’d agreed to play along.
“Harry!” He stood and waved us over; I glanced at Mary Ann. Uh oh, this could get ugly.
“Harry, Amanda, join us,” he said as we arrived tableside. Hah. You should have seen the look Mary Ann gave him. I smiled, inwardly of course, and almost declined, but then I thought how much fun it would be to spend a little time playing with them. So we did; we joined them.
I thought Mary Ann was going to have a conniption fit; her husband wasn’t too happy either. Just to stoke the fire a little more, I took the seat next to her. She recoiled like a snake confronted by a mongoose.
“So,” I said brightly, “how did it go, Ellis? Dad beat you again?” I could tell by the look on his face that I’d hit a nerve… or maybe it was something else. Whatever. He didn’t answer, but August did.
“Not by much, just a couple of holes, and he hasn’t paid up yet, have you Ellis? You owe me a hundred.” Not so subtle, that, but August never was one to beat around the bush.
So Ellis pulled out his wallet and flipped a single bill across the table. August grabbed it and, with no little relish, waved it in the air to attract George.
“Drinks on me,” he said loudly, then, “No! The drinks are on Ellis. Bombay gin and tonic for me, and whatever these good folks would like.” He handed the bill to George, telling him to let him know when it was gone.
“Such bad manners,” Mary Ann whispered under her breath, but making sure it was loud enough for me to hear. I simply grinned at her; the sneer I received in return would have curdled fresh cream. She could be volatile, Mary Ann, and I wasn’t at the top of her popularity list.
Now lunch at the club, on any day, is a fairly casual affair, and that Wednesday was no different to any other—slightly slower, if anything, and lunch at our table went even slower, the atmosphere was… frosty would be putting it mildly. Finally, though, it was over. August had the bill put on his account and the Warrens said their thanks and got up to leave; August went with them, leaving us alone at the table.
I had my back to the door and I didn’t want to turn around, so I watched Amanda as she watched them go. She nodded and, using two fingers on the inside, I picked up Warren’s glass. Shielding what I was doing from the room, I took a paper evidence bag from my pocket and dropped the glass inside, and we were out of there.
One down, two to go. Now I needed a sample from Myers.
Chapter 29
Thursday, February 9, 8:00 a.m.
I was on edge that following morning. I hadn’t slept a whole lot; in fact, I’d watched the clock for most of the night. At one point I stepped out onto the patio to try to relieve the tension. It was a beautiful night, but cold as hell, and all I managed to do was wake myself up even more. Finally, around four in the morning, I gave up, dressed in sweats, and headed out on East Brow Road. I don’t remember much about that run; I was lost in thought, trying to put a face to my killer, but all I go
t was shadows—ghostly, featureless images that taunted and teased but did little other than deepen my feelings of inadequacy. How far I ran that morning, I have no idea, but I was gone for more than an hour, and when I returned I was sweating like a pig, and Amanda was waiting for me, a look of deep concern on her face.
I took to the shower, spent fifteen minutes under the hot deluge, and emerged feeling somewhat better.
We had breakfast together and then I left for the office early, way too early. When I arrived I realized I’d left my office keys at home. Hah! A great start to the day. I sat in the car for almost thirty minutes before Jacque arrived and let me in, and by the time she did, just before eight, I was in a filthy mood. Yes, I could have called her, but… hell, it wasn’t her fault. She was followed, one by one, by the rest of the crew, and by eight everyone was at work… except me. I, as usual those days, had nothing to do. And so, from eight until ten o’clock, I harassed my poor employees mercilessly, and then the FedEx van arrived.
I grabbed the package from the driver and, grinning, but full of trepidation, I went to my office and slammed the door behind me, yelling at Jacque to hold my calls and that I wasn’t to be disturbed.
I slit open the package and pulled out a sheaf of reports from DDC. I set them in a pile in front of me and then settled down to study them. What I read was really no surprise.
First, the DNA reports on the hairs and blood in and on the cap found near Peter Nicholson’s body. Lindsey had compared the hairs to the sample taken from his body at the second autopsy, and the blood spatter on the side of Peter’s shotgun. The blood samples from the cap and the Browning were a match, indicating that they all had been generated by the single shot that killed Peter. She had also compared his sample DNA with the hairs found in the cap: no match—the hairs did not belong to Peter, as I had expected.
But that’s good. Now we know. Now all I need to do is figure out who they belong to.
I had a copy of Lindsey’s report on the hair found in the cap copied, and then I had Leslie deliver it to Mike Willis, and then I waited impatiently for him to call me, which he eventually did. It was almost noon.
The DNA results from the hairs found in the truck had arrived in his office at around the same time FedEx had delivered mine. He confirmed the match: both samples—the hairs from the truck and from the cap—came from the same person. So now we knew for certain we were looking for one killer. Unfortunately, we still needed samples to compare them with.
I had Warren’s sample, and I knew that by then it was already in Lindsey’s lab at DDC. I still hadn’t managed to obtain a sample from Myers, but I wasn’t too worried about it. If I needed one—and I was pretty sure I wouldn’t—I’d figure out a way to get it later. No, I was all but certain Heath Myers had had nothing to do with Peter Nicholson’s ‘accident,’ or the horrific death of Peter’s mother. Don’t ask me why; it was just a gut feeling I couldn’t get rid of. No, my money was on Ellis Warren. The only other possible suspect was Alex Harrison. Now all I needed was for Kate to pull through with a sample from him.
As if in answer to a psychic message, there was a knock on my office door. It opened, and Kate walked in.
With no ceremony whatsoever, she deposited a small plastic evidence bag on the desk in front of me. Inside, I could see a piece of well-chewed gum.
I looked up at her. “Harrison?”
She nodded.
“Wow. How did you manage that? Wait. Jacque!” I called. “First I need to get this on its way to DDC.” So I sent it off with Jacque, then called Lindsey and told her it was on its way and to put a rush on the report. That done, I turned to Kate, who was now seated across from me.
“So,” I said. “How did you get it? How the hell did you get in to see him?”
“You know, Harry… I couldn’t come up with a single believable reason why I needed to make an appointment to the United States attorney, not without making him suspicious, so I just went over there and knocked on his door. Told him I was passing and wanted to say hello. It was just that easy. Alex has always had a thing for me. Anyway, he offered me coffee and I accepted. Now, unfortunately, I’m committed to having lunch with him tomorrow. He really is a tedious man.”
I smiled and shook my head. I could just imagine his reaction when she walked in the door.
“And the chewing gum?” I asked.
“A gift from the gods. I asked to use his restroom; he’s big wheel, has one of his own. I was hoping I might get a hair sample, but there wasn’t a comb… but then I noticed the wastebasket next to the sink. What can I say? It’s not admissible, but if the result of the DNA test is positive, we should be able to get a warrant for… well, for something…. Or I can just steal his napkin after coffee tomorrow. That would be admissible.”
“We still don’t have a sample from Myers, but we did get one from Warren, though he doesn’t know it, and that one is admissible. Great minds think alike: I grabbed his glass from the table after he’d left. I’ve already sent it to the lab. We should have results back from both samples in a few days.”
Sheesh. It’s a good thing Helen paid up front. We must be into DDC for eight or nine grand by now.
She nodded, then frowned and said, “What about the gun, Harry?”
And right then and there, a deep gloom descended on my shoulders. I knew exactly what she was asking.
“The one that killed Peter Nicholson?”
“Yeah. Joanne came to me earlier this morning. She’s not happy. She’s a little upset that you’re doubting her findings.”
I shook my head. “I really need to apologize to her. It’s not that I doubt her; it’s just that what she found doesn’t fit neatly into my package. I mean, a 16-gauge? I dunno, Kate.”
“Harry. If Joanne says he was killed with one, he was. You can take it to the bank.”
I nodded. “So Fowler had to be mistaken. Hell, Kate. The man was adamant, but if he was wrong….”
“If he was wrong, who the hell was carrying a 16-gauge that day?” She finished for me.
“It had to have been Warren,” I said. “I don’t like Myers for it… or even Harrison, but… ah! How the hell do we find out?”
“We need to go looking for a 16-gauge shotgun—at the Warrens’, first. Then….” She trailed off, unsure.
“Sure, but we have no probable cause. We have no DNA matches for anything, at least not yet. Still, I hate sitting around on my hands, waiting. I wonder….”
“What?”
“I need to make a call.”
And so I did.
“Henry?” I said when he picked up.
Judge Strange? Kate mouthed. I nodded and smiled.
“Hey, Harry. How the hell are you?”
“I’m good, Henry….”
He waited.
“Henry, you remember telling me that if I thought there was anything you could do to help with the Nicholson case, you would?”
“Ye-es….”
“Well, I do, and there is… something. I need your help. I need a warrant to search Ellis Warren’s house.”
I winced. I could imagine the stunned look he must have had on his face, and his silence only confirmed it.
Finally: “Go on, Harry.”
“I have the DNA results back on the cap they found near the body—the hairs in the cap—and the hairs they found inside the truck that killed Helen Nicholson; they do match. Whoever killed Nicholson also killed Helen.”
“So…” he said cautiously, “what you’re telling me is that you don’t have anyone to match them to?”
“No. Not yet—”
“Then….”
“Yeah, I know, but I have Myers on record and he swears that Warren was the only one wearing a white cap that day, and that Nicholson wasn’t wearing one at all.” Oh hell. I hope I can get away with this.
“You have him on record? How on record?”
Oh he’s sharp, is Henry.
I sighed, then said, quietly, “I recorded the conversa
tion.”
I looked at Kate; she was gobsmacked.
Henry was silent for a moment. “And he doesn’t know you recorded the conversation, I assume.”
“No. He doesn’t. And, Henry, you know better than I that Tennessee is a one-party consent state. I didn’t have to tell him. Jeez, Henry. You know Myers. He wouldn’t have talked to me if I had.”
“Relax, Harry. You doth protest too much, methinks. It was unethical of you, yes, but legal? Also yes. So why do you want the warrant?”
“Okay, so Warren was wearing a white cap. A white cap was found at the scene with Peter Nicholson’s blood on it, and hairs inside it are a DNA match to hairs found in the truck that killed Helen, which means that whoever was wearing that cap that day killed both of them…. And I’m looking for…” I hesitated “…the shotgun. A 16-gauge shotgun. Okay,” I said quickly, “before you say no, the gun goes with the cap, and the hairs; we know that Peter Nicholson was killed by a shot from a 16-gauge. I need to find that gun, and I think it belongs to Warren. If he was wearing the cap that we know the killer was wearing…. He has to own the gun too.”
“Oh, Harry. Harry, Harry. That’s mighty thin, mighty thin indeed….”
I waited silently while he thought about it.
“Harry, if I didn’t know you…. If I wasn’t sure you had all your ducks in a row and quacking fit to be tied, I wouldn’t even entertain it. As it is…. Have Kate write it up the way you want it, and I’ll sign it. And I want a copy of that recording. Don’t know if it’s enough to cover my ass if Ellis decides to object, but it will have to do.”
“Thanks, Henry. We’ll drop by later.”
“Yes, you do that.” He hung up, and I looked at Kate. I was smiling; she wasn’t.
“You sneaky son of a…. I hope to hell we find it. If we don’t, we’ll have one, no two irate judges to deal with. I’ll go write up the warrant. You coming with me or what?”
“What do you think?”
I was already getting up from my desk.
Chapter 30