Sons of Fortune

“And how long have you been a detective?”

“Fourteen years.”

“And when were you appointed chief of detectives?”

“Three years ago.”

“Having established your record, let us move on to the night of the murder. The police log shows that you were the first officer on the scene of the crime.”

“Yes, I was,” said Petrowski, “I was the senior officer on duty that night, having taken over from the chief at eight o’clock.”

“And where were you at two thirty that morning when the chief called in?”

“I was in a patrol car, on the way to investigate a break-in at a warehouse on Marsham Street, when the desk sergeant phoned to say the chief wanted me to go immediately to the home of Ralph Elliot in West Hartford, and investigate a possible homicide. As I was only minutes away, I took on the assignment and detailed another patrol car to cover Marsham Street.”

“And you drove straight to the Elliots’ home?”

“Yes, but on the way I radioed in to headquarters to let them know that I would be needing the assistance of forensics and the best photographer they could get out of bed at that time in the morning.”

“And what did you find when you arrived at the Elliots’ house?”

“I was surprised to discover that the front door was open and Mrs. Elliot was crouched on the floor in the hallway. She told me that she had found her husband’s body in the study, and pointed to the other end of the corridor. She added that the chief had told her not to touch anything, which was why the front door had been left open. I went straight to the study, and once I had confirmed that Mr. Elliot was dead, I returned to the hallway and took a statement from his wife, copies of which are in the court’s possession.”

“What did you do next?”

“In her statement, Mrs. Elliot said that she had been asleep when she heard two shots coming from downstairs, so I and three other officers returned to the study to search for the bullets.”

“And did you find them?”

“Yes. The first was easy to locate because after it had passed through Mr. Elliot’s heart it ended up embedded in the wooden panel behind his desk. The second took a little longer to find, but we eventually spotted it lodged in the ceiling above Mr. Elliot’s bureau.”

“Could these two bullets have been fired by the same person?”

“It’s possible,” said Petrowski, “if the murderer had wanted to leave the impression of a struggle, or the victim had turned the gun on himself.”

“Is that common in a homicide case?”

“It’s not unknown for a criminal to try and leave conflicting evidence.”

“But can you prove that both bullets came from the same gun?”

“That was confirmed by ballistics the following day.”

“And were any fingerprints found on the firearm?”

“Yes,” said Petrowski, “a palm mark on the handle of the gun, plus an index finger on the trigger.”

“And were you later able to match up these samples?”

“Yes,” he paused. “They both matched Mr. Cartwright’s prints.”

A babble of chatter erupted from the public benches behind Fletcher. He tried not to blink as he observed the jury’s reaction to this piece of information. A moment later he scribbled a note on his yellow pad. The judge banged his gavel several times as he called for order, before Ebden was able to resume.

“From the entry of the bullet into the body, and the burn marks on the chest, were you able to ascertain what distance the murderer was from his victim?”

“Yes,” said Petrowski. “Forensics estimated that the assailant must have been standing four to five feet in front of his victim, and from the angle which the bullet entered the body, they were able to show that both men were standing at the time.”

“Objection, your honor,” said Fletcher, rising from his place. “We have yet to prove that it was a man who fired either shot.”