Sons of Fortune

“Objection, your honor,” said Fletcher, rising from his place, “it is up to the jury to decide who murdered Mr. Elliot, not the chief of police. We don’t live in a police state yet.”

“Sustained,” said the judge.

“Well, all I can say,” said the chief, “is that until all this happened, I would have voted for him.” Laughter broke out in the court.

“And after I’ve finished with the chief,” whispered Fletcher, “he sure won’t be voting for me.”

“Then you must have had some doubt in your mind that such an upstanding citizen was capable of murder?”

“Not at all, Mr. Ebden,” said the chief. “Murderers aren’t run-of-the-mill criminals.”

“Would you care to explain what you mean by that, Chief?”

“Sure will,” said Culver. “The average murder is a

domestic affair, usually within the family, and is often carried out by someone who not only has never committed a crime before, but probably never will again. Once they’re in custody, they are often easier to handle than a petty burglar.”

“Do you feel Mr. Cartwright falls into this category?”

“Objection,” said Fletcher from a seated position, “how can the chief possibly know the answer to that question?”

“Because I’ve been dealing with murderers for the past thirty-six years,” Don Culver responded.

“Strike that from the record,” said the judge. “Experience is all very well, but the jury must in the end deal only with the facts in this particular case.”

“Then let’s move on to a question that does deal with fact in this particular case,” said the state’s attorney. “How did you become involved in this case, Chief Culver?”

“I took a call at my home from Mrs. Elliot in the early hours of February twelfth.

“She called you at home? Is she a personal acquaintance?”

“No, but all candidates for public office are able to get in touch with me directly. They are often the subject of threats, real or imagined, and it was no secret that Mr. Elliot had received several death threats since he’d declared he would run for governor.”

“When Mrs. Elliot called you, did you record her exact words?”

“You bet I did,” said the chief. “She sounded hysterical, and was shouting. I remember I had to hold the phone away from my ear, in fact she woke my wife.” A little laughter broke out in the court for a second time, and Culver waited until it had died down before he added, “I wrote down her exact words on a pad I keep next to the phone.” He opened a notebook.

Fletcher was on his feet. “Is this admissible?” he asked.

“It was on the agreed list of prosecution documents, your honor,” Ebden intervened, “as I feel sure Mr. Davenport is aware. He’s had weeks to consider its relevance, not to mention importance.”

The judge nodded to the chief. “Carry on,” he said as Fletcher resumed his seat.

“‘My husband has been shot in his study, please come as quickly as possible,’” said the chief, reading from his notebook.

“What did you say?”

“I told her not to touch anything, and I’d be with her just as soon as I could get there.”

“What time was that?”

“Two twenty-six,” the chief replied after rechecking his notebook.

“And when did you arrive at the Elliots’ home?”

“Not until three nineteen. First I had to call the station and tell them to send the most senior detective available to the Elliots’ residence. I then got dressed, so that when I eventually made it, I found two of my officers had already arrived—but then they didn’t have to get dressed.” Once again laughter broke out around the courtroom.

“Please describe to the jury exactly what you saw when you first arrived.”