Sons of Fortune

“But he was still alive when I left him,” repeated Fletcher. “Hardly the words of a man who is trying to hide the fact that he had been there at all. He doesn’t get undressed, he doesn’t go to bed, and he openly admits he was at Elliot’s house earlier that evening.” The chief remained silent. “When he accompanied you to the police station, did you take his fingerprints?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did you carry out any other tests?” asked Fletcher.

“What did you have in mind?” asked the chief.

“Don’t play games with me,” said Fletcher, his voice revealing a slig

ht edge. “Did you carry out any other tests?”

“Yes,” said the chief. “We checked under his fingernails to see if there was any sign that he had fired a gun.”

“And was there any indication that Mr. Cartwright had fired a gun?” asked Fletcher, returning to his more conciliatory tone.

The chief hesitated. “We could find no powder residue on his hands or under his fingernails.”

“There was no powder residue on his hands or under his fingernails,” said Fletcher, facing the jury.

“Yes, but he’d had a couple of hours to wash his hands and scrub his nails.”

“He certainly did, Chief, and he also had a couple of hours to get undressed, go to bed, turn off all the lights in the house, and come up with a far more convincing line than, ‘but he was still alive when I left him.’” Fletcher’s eyes never left the jury. Once again, the chief remained silent.

“My final question, Mr. Culver, is something that’s been nagging at me ever since I took on this case, especially when I think about your thirty-six years of experience, fourteen of them as chief of police.” He turned back to face Culver. “Did it ever cross your mind that someone else might have committed this crime?”

“There was no sign of anyone else having entered the house other than Mr. Cartwright.”

“But there was already someone else in the house.”

“And there was absolutely no evidence of any kind to suggest that Mrs. Elliot could possibly have been involved.”

“No evidence of any kind?” repeated Fletcher. “I do hope, Chief, that you will find time in your busy schedule to drop in and hear my cross-examination of Mrs. Elliot, when the jury will be able to decide if there was absolutely no evidence of any kind to show she might have been involved in this crime.” Uproar broke out in the courtroom as everyone began talking at once.

The state’s attorney leaped to his feet, “Objection, your honor,” he said sharply. “It’s not Mrs. Elliot who is on trial.” But he could not be heard above the noise of the judge banging his gavel as Fletcher walked slowly back to his place.

When the judge had managed to bring some semblance of order back to proceedings, all Fletcher said was, “No more questions, your honor.”

“Do you have any evidence?” Nat whispered as his counsel sat down.

“Not a lot,” admitted Fletcher, “but one thing I feel confident about is that if Mrs. Elliot did kill her husband, she won’t be getting a lot of sleep between now and when she enters that witness stand. And as for Ebden, he’ll be spending the next few days wondering what we’ve come up with that he doesn’t yet know about.” Fletcher smiled at the chief as he stepped down from the witness stand, but received a cold, blank stare in response.

The judge looked down from the bench at both attorneys. “I think that’s enough for today, gentlemen,” he said. “We will convene again at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, when Mr. Ebden may call his next witness.”

“All rise.”

47

When the judge made his entrance the following morning, only a change of tie gave any clue that he had ever left the building. Nat wondered how long it would be before the ties also began to make a second and even a third appearance.

“Good morning,” said Judge Kravats as he took his place on the bench and beamed down at the assembled throng as though he were a benevolent preacher about to address his congregation. “Mr. Ebden,” he said, “you may call your next witness.”

“Thank you, your honor. I call Detective Petrowski.”

Fletcher studied the senior detective carefully as he made his way to the witness stand. He raised his right hand and began to recite the oath. Petrowski could barely have passed the minimum height the force required of its recruits. His tight-fitting suit implied a wrestler’s build, rather than someone who was overweight. His jaw was square, his eyes narrow and his lips curled slightly down at the edges, leaving an impression that he didn’t smile that often. One of Fletcher’s researchers had found out that Petrowski was rumored to be the next chief when Don Culver retired. He had a reputation for sticking by the book, but hating paperwork, much preferring to be visiting the scene of the crime than sitting behind a desk back at headquarters.

“Good morning, Captain,” said the state’s attorney once the witness had sat down. Petrowski nodded, but still didn’t smile. “For the record, would you please state your name and rank.”

“Frank Petrowski, chief of detectives, City of Hartford Police Department.”