Sons of Fortune (65 page)

The
chiefs
fingers twitched again while he considered the
question. “Two hours, two and a half at the most,” he eventually said.

“And
when you arrived at Mr. Cartwright’s house, how was he dressed?”

“I’ve
already told the court that-in exactly the same clothes as he was wearing on
television that night.”

“So
he didn’t open the door in his pajamas and dressing gown looking as if he had
just got out of bed?”

“No,
he didn’t,” said the chief, puzzled.

“Don’t
you think that a man who had just committed a murder might want to get
undressed and into bed at two o’clock in the morning, so that should the police
suddenly turn up on his doorstep, he could at least give an impression of
having been asleep?”

The
chief frowned. “He was comforting his wife.”

“I
see,” said Fletcher. “The murderer was comforting his wife, so let me ask you,
Chief, when you arrested Mr. Cartwright, did he make a statement?”

“No,”
the chief replied, “he said he wanted to speak to his lawyer first.”

“But
did he say anything at all that you might have recorded in your trusty
notebook?”

“Yes,”
said the chief, and flipped back some pages of the notebook before carefully
studying an entry. “Yes,” he repeated with a smile, “Cartwright said, “but he
was still alive when I left him.”“

“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 slight 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.” 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.”

“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.”
“Sustained.”

“And
when you had gathered all your evidence,” continued
Ebden
as if he had not been interrupted, “was it you who made the decision to arrest
Mr. Cartwright?”

“No,
by then the chief had turned up, and although it was my case, I asked if he
would also take a statement from Mrs. Elliot, to make sure her story hadn’t
changed in any way.”

“And
had it?”

“No,
on all the essential points, it remained consistent.”

Fletcher
underlined the word essential as both
Petrowski
and
the chief had used it.
Well rehearsed
or a
coincidence, he wondered.

“Was
that when you decided to arrest the accused?”

“Yes,
it was on my recommendation, but ultimately the
chiefs
decision.”

“Weren’t
you taking a tremendous risk, arresting a gubernatorial candidate during an
election
campaigin
?”

“Yes,
we were, and I discussed that problem with the chief. We often find to our cost
that the first twenty-four hours are the most important in any investigation,
and we had a body, two bullets and a witness to the crime. I considered it
would have been an abrogation of my duty not to make an arrest simply because
the assailant had powerful friends.”

“Objection,
your honor, that was prejudicial,” said Fletcher.

“Sustained,”
said the judge, “and strike it from the record.” He turned to
Petrowski
and added, “Please stick to facts, detective, I’m
not interested in your opinions.”

Petrowski
nodded.

Fletcher
turned to Nat. “That last statement sounded to me as if it had been written in
the DA’S office.” He paused, looked down at his yellow pad and commented that
“abrogation,” “essential points,” and “assailant” were delivered as if they had
been learned by heart. “
Petrowski
won’t have the
opportunity to deliver rehearsed answers when I cross-examine him.”