The Sporting House Killing G. Powell (best free novels .TXT) 📖

Harley’s eyes flitted from Papa to Mr. Sweet and back. “You’re right, Papa. I’d forgotten him. He must be the mystery witness. I thought he’d probably just testify about the scene of the murder, but Quinn did that.”

No good would come of this. Harley ran his hands through his hair as the others looked at him blankly.

“What could this man possibly have to say that would convince Captain Blair to make it the climax of his case?”

Chapter 32

The next morning Miss Peach found Mr. Calloway hunched over the defense table, his chin cradled in his hand, waiting for Blair’s final witness. He looked exhausted. Poor man, he must not have slept at all. He did that every trial, but somehow he was always able to reach down deep and find the strength. This day would be no different.

“We call Harrison Palmer,” Captain Blair announced.

Mr. Calloway and Harley exchanged looks.

She’d never heard of him. Mr. Calloway had asked Harley to interview all the witnesses, but Harley had never mentioned him. She flipped back to her notes of Blair’s opening statement: He’ll dispel any doubts and leave you with absolute certainty of the defendant’s guilt.

Detective Harrison Palmer of the Waco Police was as serious and self-confident on the stand as any young gentleman might be. Blair established that Palmer had been a Waco police officer for only one year after learning his trade over three years on the Philadelphia police force.

Miss Peach sniffed. He was hardly more experienced as a policeman than she was as a stenographer.

She flipped back to a clean page in her notepad.

Captain Blair stood at his table. “Were you asked to investigate a homicide involving a bawdy woman by the name of Georgia Virginia Gamble?”

“I was.”

“When was your first involvement?”

“The same day her body was discovered. I went later that morning, after I got to work.”

“What was your job at the scene of the murder?”

“To take statements from witnesses and collect the evidence. I interviewed the madam, Miss Jessie Rose, another whore by the name of Sadie Wiggins, and the madam’s protection man, name of Joe.”

“What did Miss Jessie Rose tell you?”

Mr. Calloway half rose. “Judge, that’s hearsay, and the jury’s already heard everything she had to say anyway.”

The judge nodded. “Got anything new, Captain?”

“Well, Your Honor,” Blair replied, “I’m just showing her story has been consistent all along.”

Mr. Calloway folded his arms. “If he’s gonna say she noted ‘a look of ineffable terror’ on Georgia’s face”—he glanced at the jury—“I stipulate she did, judge. I bet she’s used that line to everybody in the Reservation.”

Several jurors chuckled.

The judge shot Blair a sour look. “Captain, move along to something new.”

“I’m happy to, Judge. Detective Palmer, let’s talk about the gun.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Had it been disturbed before you got there?”

Mr. Calloway lifted a finger. “Objection. He could only speculate about what happened before he arrived.”

“Sustained.”

“All right,” Blair said with some exasperation. “Where did you find it when you arrived?”

“On the floor at the foot of the bed in Miss Georgia’s bedroom.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I examined it closely. Then I broke it open to see if it had been shot.”

“Had it?”

“Yes, sir. One round was discharged.”

“What did you notice about the barrel?”

“This firearm has two barrels, one over the other.” He used his two index fingers to demonstrate the stacked barrels. “The right side of the top barrel had blood on it.”

Blair took the derringer to the witness and showed it to him. “That it?”

“Yes.” Palmer pointed to a red stain.

Then Blair slowly strode along the jury rail, displaying the pistol to the jury as he went. At the north end of the jury box, he turned back to face the detective. “What did you notice about that bloody spot?”

“It contained the impression of a finger,” Palmer answered with a touch of drama.

Blair again walked the bloodstained pistol back along the jury rail. Each juror leaned close to examine the impression again.

“Detective Palmer,” Blair continued, “based on your experience, especially the experience you gained while on the police force of the city of Philadelphia, what is the significance of that bloody finger impression?”

The detective addressed the jury with a sanguine expression. “It enabled me to determine who held the gun.”

Mr. Calloway sprang out of his chair, almost knocking it over. “Whoa now, Your Honor, I’m gonna object to that. He can’t do that just by looking at a spot of dried blood.”

“On the contrary,” Blair replied, glaring at Mr. Calloway as if to challenge him, “that is exactly what he did. He’ll be happy to explain his scientific methods.”

“Scientific?” Mr. Calloway sneered.

Miss Peach’s pen ran dry, and she quickly switched to another. Neither Mr. Calloway nor Harley had ever mentioned anything about this so-called science.

“Let’s hear it,” the judge said.

“Detective Palmer, explain to the court and jury how a trained professional like you can examine the impression of a finger left in blood and identify whose finger it was.”

“Certainly.”

With the bearing of a college professor, Palmer lectured the jury in the science of finger mark analysis. He was quite arrogant, Miss Peach thought, and he spoke quickly. She wrote furiously to capture his exact words.

“Every human being carries, from his cradle to his grave, certain physical marks that don’t change character and by which he can always be identified without doubt,” Palmer said. “These marks are his signature, his physiological autograph. They can’t be counterfeited or disguised, and they don’t wear off. There are no duplicates of a man’s finger markings in all the swarming populations of the globe. This autograph consists of the marks on the hands and the feet. If you look at your fingers”—he held up his own—“you’ll see clearly defined patterns such as arches, circles, long curves, and whorls.”

Blair stood quietly, examining his own fingers as if to suggest that others do the same. Every curious person in the courtroom, including the judge and every juror, inspected his own hand, then his other, and then his neighbor’s.