No Defense (30 page)

“Weren’t there five shell casings in the
evidence bag Mr. Dorr gave you?” Chip asked.

“Yes,” Bartozzi said.

“You’ve told us that you believe that two of
those five came from the Winchester?”

“That’s correct.”

“What, if anything, were you able to
determine about the other three?”

“Only that they were not fired from the
Winchester Model 21 Custom shotgun.”

“What kind of gun did the other three
casings come from?”

“A shotgun. I don’t know what kind.”

“Isn’t it possible to perform tests on
shotgun shells to identify the manufacturer and the type of weapon
that ejected them?”

“Yes.”

“As a firearms identification expert, don’t
you regularly determine from shell casings alone the type of weapon
that ejected them?”

“Yes.”

“And why do you do that?”

“Because if we don’t have the gun suspected
of being involved in a crime--which is often the case-if we just
have the shell casing, then we need to find out what kind of gun it
came from.”

“Those tests are essential tools of
law-enforcement investigation, right?”

“Yes.”

“Without them you would be greatly hindered
m your work?”

“Definitely.”

“In this case were any tests performed on
the other three casings, any tests whatsoever from which you would
be able to reach any conclusions as to the gauge of the gun
involved, the manufacturer of the gun, or any other identifying
characteristic?” Chip asked.

“No.”

“Why not, Mr. Bartozzi?”

“My assignment was to see if any of the
shell casings, the wadding, or the shot came from the Winchester.
After I’d made those matches, I had to work on some other more
pressing cases. Then when I went back to the three casings you’ve
asked about, I was told not to do the tests, just to pack it all up
and send everything to storage, that the case had been closed.”

“So you never found out anything about three
of the five casings, except that they didn’t come from the
Winchester?”

“That’s right.”

“Couldn’t the wadding, which you did test,
have been shot from almost any twelve-gauge shotgun?”

“That’s right.”

“And the shot could have been shot out of
any shotgun that holds number-one shot?”

“True.”

“Now then, Mr. Bartozzi, it’s possible those
three shell casings you didn’t bother to test also came from a
twelve-gauge shotgun, isn’t it?”

“Sure.”

“In fact, you don’t know-do you?-whether the
wadding and the shot you tested came from the same shotgun as those
unidentified shells?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Couldn’t the wadding, the shot, and the
unidentified shell casings all have come from the same gun, a
shotgun other than the Winchester?” Chip asked.

“Yes.”

“You have not testified, have you, that the
Winchester Model 21 Custom was used to kill Jimmy Turnbow and Leon
Johnson?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You couldn’t testify to that, could
you?”

“No, I couldn’t. I testified that it could
have been the murder weapon.”

“
Could have been
? Isn’t that the same
as
maybe
or
perhaps
? In fact, isn’t it just as likely
that some other twelve-gauge gun-the same gun that ejected those
three unidentified cartridges, the wadding, and the shot-was the
murder weapon?”

“That’s really impossible to answer. I
wasn’t there.”

“Of course you weren’t. That’s all I have,
Your Honor.”

Chip sat down and wrapped a rubber band
around his pile of pencils. He turned toward me and smiled
slightly.

CHAPTER
TWENTY

T
he first witness
called by Junior on the second day of the trial was Sheriff Bevins
Carter. Bev was in his forties but looked younger. He was slightly
pudgy, with skin as smooth and clear as a child’s. Most of the time
he looked slightly bemused. He took his time walking down the aisle
toward the witness stand, physically demonstrating his reluctance
to testify against Daddy. Even I understood, though, that he had to
do it.

“Were you on duty the night of August 27,
1963?” Junior asked Bev following the name, address, and occupation
questions.

“Yes,” Bev said.

“Do you recall the events of that
evening?”

“It was a right busy night. We had a brawl
at that bar used to be over where Clyde’s Bar is now. About ten men
were throwing each other around the parking lot, and one of them
had a knife. I was there awhile, and after that I was at the scene
of the murders of Jimmy Turnbow and Leon Johnson.”

“Was anyone from the sheriff’s office with
you at the bar brawl?”

“Two other deputies, Joey Lardner and Doyle
Foley.”

“Was the defendant, then-sheriff Hagerdorn,
at the bar brawl?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I couldn’t reach him on the radio. I
tried.”

“About what time were you at the bar?”

“Eight or eight-thirty, for an hour or
so.”

“When you left there, where did you go?”

“Out Old Highway 49 to where the boys’ car
had crashed into a tree.”

“Why did you go there?”

“The dispatcher radioed me.”

“Did you see the defendant while you were
there, Sheriff Carter?” Junior asked.

“Yes,” Bev answered. “Mayor Hagerdorn
arrived shortly after I did.”

“What, if anything, did he say?”

“After he looked around, he told me to
search for any evidence I could find, shells and the like, and he
went to call the coroner to come take a look. He also told me to
call an ambulance for the bodies. He was very disturbed.”

“Did you ever meet Agent George Dorr of the
FBI?” Junior asked.

“Yes.”

“When was that?”

“In August 1963. August 30.”

“Could you describe the occasion of your
meeting?”

“He came by the sheriff’s office two times
that day. He and another agent had come to town to investigate the
murders of Turnbow and Johnson. They came by the office to meet
with Newell-Mayor Hagerdorn. I was there. That was when we gave the
agents the shells, wadding, and shot we’d collected at the scene of
the murders. Later they came by when Mayor Hagerdorn wasn’t
there.”

“Can you describe what happened at the
second meeting?”

“The agents had a shotgun with them. They
asked if I’d ever seen it.”

“Had you?”

“Yes.”

“Please describe the gun.”

“It was a Winchester Model21 Custom
shotgun.”

“When had you seen it before that day?”

“Hundreds of times.”

“Whose gun was it?”

“Newell Hagerdorn’s.”

“Did you tell Agent Dorr that the gun
belonged to the defendant?”

“Yes.”

“No further questions,” Junior said. He
walked back to his chair and sat down.

“Mr. Tuckahoe, any cross?” Judge McNabb
asked.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Chip said, standing
up.

“Mr. Carter, when the agents brought the
Winchester to the sheriff’s office and asked you to identify it,
were you surprised to see it?”

“Yes and no,” Bev said.

“Please explain.”

“Two days before, Mayor Hagerdorn, then the
sheriff, had told me the gun was missing. We looked in the
sheriff’s car and all over the office for the shotgun but couldn’t
find it. He was pretty upset that it was missing. It was one of his
favorite guns. I was surprised the FBI had it, and I didn’t
understand why they wouldn’t give it to me. I still don’t
understand all this, why he was indicted, how anyone could think he
murdered those boys.”

“Back on August 30, 1963, did you tell your
boss, thensheriff Hagerdorn, that the FBI had his gun?”

“Soon as the agents left I radioed him and
told him what had happened.”

“What, if anything, did he say?” Chip
asked.

“He said, ‘Goddamnit! What is going on
here?’ I asked him, ‘What do you mean?’ but he didn’t say.”

“You testified on direct that he was very
disturbed when he got to the scene of the Turnbow-Johnson murders,”
Chip said. “Is that correct?”

“Yes, he was,” Bev said gravely.

“Can you explain that further?”

“As soon as he saw the boys’ bodies, he
threw up in the field next to us.” Bev grimaced. “He organized the
gathering of evidence and all, but he wasn’t himself He was pale
and shaking all over. I’d never seen him so upset, and I never have
since.”

“How long have you known Mayor
Hagerdorn?”

“All my life.”

“No further questions,” Chip said.

“I have a few follow-up questions,” Junior
said.

“Certainly,” Judge McNabb said.

Junior approached the witness stand. “You
indicated that the defendant told you he lost his Winchester
shotgun two days before the FBI agents brought it to your office
for you to identify. Is that correct?”

“Yes, it is.”

“What was the date on which the defendant
told you the gun was missing?” Junior asked.

“That would make it the twenty-eighth of
August, 1963.”

“And what was the date of the murders of
Jimmy Turnbow and Leon Johnson?”

“August 27, 1963.”

“No further questions,” Junior said.

Bev left the stand and stopped briefly at
the defense table, only to be sent on his way by Chip.

Tim Hogan, the FBI fingerprint expert, was on
and off the stand quickly. As in the case of the gun expert, Chip
stipulated as to his qualifications. With a few questions, Junior
established that at Agent Dorr’s request Tim Hogan had examined the
Winchester Model 21 Custom shotgun and found on it three sets of
fingerprints: my father’s, Dean Reese’s, and Agent Dorr’s.

Chip’s cross-examination was similarly
brief.

“From your study of the Winchester, can you
tell us when the fingerprints were made?” Chip asked.

“No.”

“You can’t tell us the date on which they
were made?”

“No “

“So you don’t know when Mayor Hagerdom
handled the gun, do you?”

“No.”

“And you don’t know under what circumstances
he handled it, do you?”

“No.”

“The last time he touched the gun could have
been months before the murders, isn’t that true?”

“Yes.”

“Would you be surprised to find a man’s
fingerprints on his own gun?”

“Of course not,” Hogan said.

“There’s nothing suspicious about that, is
there?”

“No.”

“No further questions,” Chip said. “Your
Honor, I move to strike the testimony given by Mr. Hogan,” he said.
“It has been held to be reversible error to admit fingerprint
evidence where there is no proof as to when the defendant handled
the gun where the defendant had legitimate access to the gun. I
have the cites here, if Your Honor would consider my motion.”

“I’m familiar with those cases, Mr.
Tuckahoe,” Judge McNabb said. “I am also aware of the line of cases
in the State that allow this evidence. You may argue the issue as a
question of fact at the appropriate time. Your motion is
denied.”

The last witness before the lunch break was
escorted into the courtroom by the bailiff Washington Jackson, who
appeared to be eighty or more, walked slowly, leaning on a wooden
cane for support. He was a small, stooped black man in a shiny
navy-blue suit a size too big for him. Completely bald, he carried
a hat in his hand. His eyes bugged out behind his glasses, and he
never seemed to blink.

“Where did you live in 1963?”Junior asked
Jackson after the preliminaries.

“Out on Old Highway 49,” Jackson
answered.

“What was the address?”

“Wasn’t one. I lived with my daughter and
her kids in a shack out at Buddy Sheppard’s farm.”

“Why did you live there?”

“It didn’t cost nothing if we helped with
the farming.”

“Were you employed in August 1963?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was your employment and where was
it?”

“The cemetery over to the edge of town. I
dug graves.”

“Do you recall whether you worked on August
27, 1963?”

“Yes, sir. I worked every day. If I didn’t
work, I didn’t get paid.”

“How did you usually get home from
work?”

“Walk or get a ride.”

“Did you walk home on August 27, 1963?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long did it take you to walk from the
cemetery to your home?”

“Two hours.”

“What time did you leave work?”

“Six; every day, six.”

“What, if anything, did you see on that
walk?”

“I was just ‘bout home when I heard sirens.
I turned around and looked. Way down the road I seen a sheriff’s
car with the lights going. It pulled up to another car, then there
was these shots, the other car hit a tree, and the sheriff’s car
pulled over. A man get out with a gun. He looked in the wrecked car
and then walked around it and shot at a man trying to run
away.”