Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (26 page)

“Sharon didn’t know whether they found fingerprints on the weapon. Maybe they
did
.”

“That’d be my bet,” said Harry.

Based upon his history as a betting man, I didn’t take his faith as encouraging, but I withheld my editorial comment. Of far greater concern was whose fingerprint might have been found on the rifle, if any. If Myriam’s print was there, it didn’t bode well for her. But maybe the print, if there was one, belonged to someone else who could be identified.

Like someone who’d been fleeced by Josh Wolcott.

Harry dropped me home and said he was going to drive back to Gorbyville to ask around about Robert Caldwell, see whether he fished in the same waters where the weapon had been found, maybe even find a local citizen who possibly heard Caldwell make some revelatory comments about his brother-in-law’s murder. It was a long shot, of course, and I declined the invitation to accompany him. But I was pleased that McGraw, as cynical and nonconforming as he is, wanted to forge ahead on my behalf to discover the truth, no pay involved. I was glad to have him on my side.

I tried to use what was left of the day editing chapters from my latest book, but waiting for my cell phone to ring distracted me. It was like having set an alarm for early in the morning and staying awake all night waiting for it to go off. The call from the clerk at the court came at four that afternoon. The trial would resume the following morning at nine, and all witnesses were expected to be there—and on time.

McGraw called me at eight that evening to report that he’d found someone in Gorbyville, a fisherman, who said that Robert Caldwell often fished in the same water in which the weapon had been found. “The guy told me he wished he’d found the rifle because he would have demanded a reward,” Harry told me, laughing. “Nice old guy. He says Caldwell is a lousy fisherman, stands where the fish are.” Another laugh. “He talked funny like all you people do up here in Maine.”

The next morning, word had gotten around that a rifle had been found that might be the murder weapon. Evelyn’s front-page story the previous day, and a follow-up story in that morning’s edition, ensured that the courtroom would be packed. A line had formed outside by the time Edwina and I arrived.

We avoided the press and were escorted into the courtroom by a sheriff’s deputy, who directed us to seats reserved for witnesses and others with an official reason for being there. I took note that Myriam’s brother, Robert, was not with the family that morning. Mrs. Caldwell sat staunchly between Mark and Ruth Wolcott behind the defense table, where Cy and Sharon Bacon waited for the trial to resume. Richard Mauser was ushered in just before the bailiff called, “All rise!” Judge Mackin entered the room, took his chair behind the bench, and invited us to take our seats. As I waited for Myriam to be brought in, I wondered what had transpired between the attorneys and the judge yesterday. So much of what happens at a trial takes place backstage; decisions made in the judge’s chambers can, and often do, have a dramatic impact on the outcome.

Myriam made her appearance at a few minutes past nine. She looked less composed and put together than when I’d last seen her in court. She glanced around nervously, smiled at her children and mother, caught my eye, and held the gaze until returning her attention to O’Connor and Sharon.

The judge apologized for abruptly canceling yesterday’s session, saying that an urgent matter had been brought before him that had to be resolved. He asked Ms. Cirilli whether she was ready to proceed.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Fine. Call your first witness.”

“The People call Dr. Melvin Weeks of the Maine Central Forensics Laboratory.”

O’Connor got to his feet. “Your Honor,” he said, “I renew my objection of yesterday, and I’ve prepared a written objection for the record.”

“Objection noted,” Mackin said. “Call your witness, Ms. Cirilli.”

Dr. Weeks was a kindly, soft-spoken older man who detailed his background, his experience, his professional affiliations, and the peer-reviewed articles that he’d written. When he and the prosecutor had gone through that pro forma exercise, the DA asked whether Dr. Weeks had examined the weapon found near Gorbyville, Maine.

“Yes, ma’am. I was called in to the lab at night for that purpose.”

Ms. Cirilli asked a court officer to hand the weapon to the witness.

“Is this the weapon you examined?” she asked.

“Yes, it is.”

“What tests did you perform?”

“Ballistics, as well as tests looking for trace evidence that might indicate who had handled it.”

“You mean fingerprints?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The weapon you examined had been submerged in water for a period of time,” Ms. Cirilli pointed out. “Does this affect whether prints can be found on a weapon?”

“To some extent,” he replied. “It depends upon the material being tested. A wood stock, for example, might retain a fingerprint even after being submerged. The same holds true of metal surfaces that had been oiled.”

“And during your examination did you detect any fingerprints?”

“Yes, I did. There were fragments of various prints on the weapon, but only one that was readable.”

The tension in the room was palpable, and people leaned forward in their chairs.

“Would you please tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury about that fingerprint?”

“Of course. It was unusual because of its size.”

“Size?”

“Yes. It was relatively small. It’s my professional opinion that it was left by someone of less than average size.”

“A child?”

“Not necessarily a child, Ms. Cirilli. But as I said, someone with a small hand.”

“And did the print match one of the defendant’s fingerprints?”

“It did not.”

All eyes focused on the defendant’s table as O’Connor asked permission to approach the bench. Judge Mackin approved, and O’Connor and Cirilli walked up, along with the court stenographer, who would record what was discussed.

Edwina whispered to me, “I don’t understand. Why would the DA introduce evidence that might get Myriam off the hook?”

“From what I know about Ms. Cirilli, she’s a dedicated officer of the court, more interested in getting to the truth than adding another conviction to her belt the way too many prosecutors do,” I said. “What I
don’t
understand is why Cy objected to having the weapon introduced. If Myriam’s prints aren’t on the gun, it could help exonerate her.”

“Do you think it could be a child’s fingerprint?” Edwina mused in a hushed tone.

The bench conference ended and Ms. Cirilli asked a few more questions of Dr. Weeks before ending her direct examination.

To everyone’s surprise, O’Connor said that he didn’t have any questions for the witness, and Dr. Weeks was excused.

Ms. Cirilli also called to the stand someone from the forensics unit who’d examined Myriam Wolcott’s computer files. He confirmed that she had written in one of her postings that she’d wanted to kill her husband. O’Connor was effective in his cross-examination, pointing out that the particular computer posting had not been read in its entirety: “My client added after saying that she
sometimes
wanted to kill him, ‘No, don’t mean that,’ and further said that it’s not right to hate anyone.” The expression on the faces of some of the jurors said that he’d scored a point with them, especially after he’d gotten the witness to admit that people often say that they want to kill but don’t mean it.

It was one thirty when, after presenting a few more witnesses for the prosecution, Ms. Cirilli announced, “The People rest, Your Honor.”

“All right,” said the judge. “I suggest that we all do the same. Have some lunch and we’ll resume at two thirty.”

After the lunch break, Cy O’Connor began his case by calling Edwina to the stand. I’d noticed sitting next to her how nervous she was, and I’d gripped her hand as her name was called.

“Your Honor,” the prosecutor said, “I remind the court that the second witness to be called, Jessica Fletcher, is not to be present during Ms. Wilkerson’s testimony.”

I immediately got up and followed a court officer to the hallway, where I sat on a bench just outside the double doors and awaited my turn. I’d brought a book with me and started reading it. I wasn’t ten minutes into it when what sounded like a chorus of anguished voices erupted from behind the doors. Within seconds the doors flew open and two officers raced past me, numerous exclamations of “What’s happened?” trailing behind them. I got up and looked into the courtroom. People now stood. A cluster of them surrounded an area of the courtroom on the opposite side from where Edwina and I had sat. She stood in the witness box, and the judge stood, too. “Please, everyone stand back,” he said over the din of other voices, pounding his gavel to gain attention. I turned at the sound of footsteps on the marble floor. Two white-coated EMTs carrying a small gurney ran by me and into the courtroom.

I slipped through the doors to see what had occurred. Edwina had stepped down from the witness stand. She was crying. I asked her what had happened.

“Look,” she said, pointing to where the EMTs were attending to someone on the floor. They shifted position, allowing me to see their patient. It was Richard Mauser.

“I was testifying, answering a question, and he let out a moan, then a louder one, stood up, and then came crashing down over the people sitting in front of him. He must have had a heart attack.”

Everyone moved back to allow the EMTs to wheel Mauser from the courtroom to a waiting ambulance.

Judge Mackin pounded his gavel to quiet the crowd. “In light of this unfortunate incident, I suggest we take a short recess to allow everyone time to calm down and refocus on the proceedings at hand,” he said. “Court will resume in sixty minutes. Bailiff, please remove the defendant from the court. I’ll be in my chambers.”

When the trial resumed an hour later, those in attendance were still shaken by what had occurred, but the commotion in the courtroom had shifted from a loud roar to a conversational buzz, and, following the strike of the judge’s gavel, to a mere rustle of movement.

I waited outside again until Edwina completed her testimony, and then took the stand.

After establishing that I’d been at the women’s shelter’s office the night Myriam Wolcott arrived, O’Connor led me through a series of questions regarding her demeanor and physical condition that night.

“She’d obviously been struck by someone,” I said, “and she told Ms. Wilkerson and me that her husband had hit her.”

“Did she indicate whether her husband had hit her on other occasions?”

“Yes.”

“The prosecution has made a point that the defendant was free to leave the house, seek shelter, get a divorce. Had you and Ms. Wilkerson offered such advice to Mrs. Wolcott?”

I paused as I tried to recollect what we’d said to Myriam that night. “No,” I answered, “I don’t recall saying that to her. Ms. Wilkerson did suggest that she stay the night at the shelter, but . . .”

“Objection,” Ms. Cirilli said. “It’s hearsay. Please direct the witness to testify only to what
she
said.”

“Objection sustained,” Mackin said.

I had wanted to explain that Edwina had encouraged Myriam not to return home that night and that Edwina had later informed me that it was typical of battered women to minimize their abuser’s behavior. But O’Connor moved on to other questions, which I answered to the best of my ability.

After I was excused, I left the courtroom and went into the hallway, where Edwina sat on a bench. She looked terribly distraught, and I joined her, putting my arm around her. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“I feel terrible,” she said, shaking her head.

“Testifying can be very stressful,” I said, “but it’s over now.”

“No. That went fine. I mean I feel terrible about the horrible thoughts I’ve had about Dick Mauser. I hated him—I wanted him to suffer, to hurt bad, to . . .”

“Your thoughts had nothing to do what what’s happened to him,” I said. “You and he had a conflict of opinion, and it’s only natural to think bad things about someone who’s been such a foe, and a nasty one at that.”

“Yes, but I wanted to kill him. And now I hope he doesn’t die.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

E
dwina had already left for home when Harry McGraw bustled down the hall in my direction.

“Hi,” I said. “I was wondering whether you’d show up.”

“Wasn’t sure I’d get here myself, Jessica. I just came from Gorbyville. I stayed overnight. Creepy little motel with a lumpy bed. I kept thinking of
Psycho
.”

“You stayed there? Why?”

“Well, I got friendly with a local gal who works at a local bar and grill, a grungy place with a sticky bar top and dusty animal heads on the wall. Anyway, I stopped in for something to eat after I found the fisherman who knew Caldwell, and this lady and I hit it off.”

Spare me the details,
I thought.

“So I’m eating my hamburger—can you believe they had moose burger on the menu?—and getting philosophical with my new friend when guess who walks in.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“The young Mrs. Caldwell. Stephanie Caldwell.”

“Did she recognize you?” I asked.

“She looked at me strange-like, as though she recognized my face but couldn’t place it. So I go over to her at the bar where she’s sipping some drink mixed with Coke and remind her.”

“I don’t imagine that she was pleased to see you again,” I said.

“She was actually pretty friendly. Catch this, Jessica. She ends up telling me that she and her loser hubby are calling it quits.”

“I can’t say that I’m surprised,” I said. “What else did she tell you?”

“I’m glad you’re sitting down,” he said. “Mrs. Stephanie Caldwell has herself another drink, which results in a loose tongue. Never seen it to fail. Forget truth serum like they use in espionage movies. Rum and Coke’ll do it every time. Anyway, she starts talking about the night her brother-in-law was killed and how they raced to the Wolcott house. I didn’t press because I sensed that she wanted to get something off her chest, so I said the right things, like it must’ve been real upsetting to see Wolcott lying in a pool of blood, things like that. So what does she say then?”