The Sporting House Killing by G. Powell (free ebook reader for pc .TXT) 📗

the body, the blood, the bullet wound, and the cause of death. Miss Peach stifled a yawn. How could murder become so dry?

Mr. Calloway scooted his swivel chair away from the table, turned his back on the witness and the prosecutor, and propped his booted feet up on his leather satchel not three feet in front of her, facing the jury. He lit a cigar. A cloud of smoke wafted up until it was captured by the swirling currents of the nearest fan, which dispersed it. She knew exactly what he was thinking—Miss Georgia was dead, and no cross-examination, no matter how lively, might revive her.

“Describe for the jury the appearance of the entrance wound.”

“It was slightly irregular . . .”

Mr. Calloway dispatched a perfect smoke ring across the courtroom floor at the spittoon squatting in polished brass readiness just inside the bar. Despite the fan whopping continuously above, it maintained itself perfectly and landed upon the spittoon, as if that was where it properly resided when in court.

“. . . no wound on the posterior of the body . . .”

Captain Blair remained intent on the testimony. The judge’s eyes batted, then popped open again, then shut. Mr. Calloway hurled his rings with the precision of a cowhand lassoing a steer. Three more rings stacked perfectly onto the spittoon.

“. . . cause of death was by gunshot wound to the heart . . .”

From inside the front corner chair of the jury box, there came an explosion of throat-huffing. Miss Peach flinched as if the pigeon were threatening to land again. A wad of spent tobacco arced over the jury rail and landed squarely in the brass receptacle.

Ding!

Neither judge nor prosecutor nor any other court official altered the faithful execution of their duties. Spittoons resided at the end of every spectator bench, and spitting and dinging were normal courtroom sounds. Normal, but certainly not couth.

“. . . death was instantaneous . . .”

She glanced at the judge, still sleeping, and Captain Blair, still oblivious. But the gentlemen of the jury were more intent upon the spittoon than the witness. Might more marksmen be planning to join in a precision feat?

“. . . no pain . . .”

The next of Mr. Calloway’s rings took flight, the juror huffed in preparation, the ring floated, the brown stream arced. Bull’s-eye.

Ding!

Mr. Calloway winked, and the juror nodded.

“Pass the witness,” Blair concluded.

The sudden quiet awakened the judge. “Move along!”

Mr. Calloway whirled his chair around, rose, and extinguished his cigar in an ashtray.

“Dr. Black, that gunshot wound was”—Mr. Calloway stabbed the air with his forefinger—“right in the heart, true?”

“Yes.”

“Best place to shoot folks if you intend to kill ’em?”

“Probably, although the head would also do it.”

“When you examined the wound, you didn’t see any signs of powder burns, did you?”

“No.”

“Didn’t find any unburned gunpowder lodged in the wound itself?”

“No.”

“That tells you the shooter didn’t hold the gun up against the lady’s chest?” He touched his forefinger to his heart.

“Probably.”

“So Doc, if I’m hearing you right, this shooter hit her dead center in the heart without pressing the gun up against her?”

“Maybe, but that’s a little beyond my expertise.”

Mr. Calloway walked over to the court reporter’s desk near the witness stand. “Dr. Black, did Detective Palmer tell you the weapon they found was a derringer?”

“Yes.”

He wrinkled his face. “Ever shot a derringer?”

“No, sir.”

“Seen one?”

“Probably.”

“Well, let me show you the very one they found in Miss Georgia’s room.” He retrieved the pistol and handed it to the witness. “Take a gander at State’s Exhibit One. Look like a derringer to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What would you say, that barrel’s about what, three inches?” He indicated with his thumb and forefinger.

“Probably.”

“Not very long to burn up all the gunpowder in the cartridge?”

“That’s beyond my expertise.”

“Fair enough.” He took the pistol back and placed it on the desk. “Don’t know much about guns?”

“No, sir.”

“Fair enough,” he said with a warm smile. He went back to the bar rail. The jurors turned toward him, listening. He liked to cross-examine witnesses from there so that all eyes were on him rather than the witness. He hooked both thumbs in his vest pockets. “Let me ask you something you do know about.”

“Medicine, I hope.”

“Yes, sir. The human body. That’s your bailiwick, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“All right, then.” Mr. Calloway scratched his head. “You a drinking man, Doc?”

“No, sir.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

He nodded. “But when you studied medicine, didn’t you learn about what alcohol does to a person’s body?”

The doctor dipped his head in agreement and grinned at the jury. “Yes, sir. That’s why I don’t drink.”

Mr. Calloway smiled back. “Well, sir, you’re wiser than most folks—me included, I’m afraid.”

A few jurors chuckled.

“Let me ask you this, though. Doesn’t alcohol get in the way of a man’s vision?” He squinted. “Make it blurry?”

“It can.”

“Sometimes he just can’t see straight?” He squinted more.

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes he gets shaky or wobbly?” He wobbled.

“It can.”

“Hard to shoot straight if you can’t see straight and you’re shaky?” He squinted and wobbled.

“Unless you’re so close you can’t miss.”

“Ah!” Mr. Calloway transformed his right hand into a gun, thumb for a hammer and index finger for a barrel, and pointed it at his own heart. “Like with the muzzle of the gun pressed up against the body?”

“Yes.”

He dropped his finger gun and took a few steps along the jury rail. “But no powder burns on her body”—he glanced back to the witness—“right?”

“Right.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s all, judge.”

Blair rose again and took the derringer over to the witness. “Dr. Black, did you see the blood on the barrel of the derringer?”

“I didn’t really examine the gun. That’s your field, not mine.”

“If there was blood, you’d think the gun had to be close to the victim’s body, wouldn’t you?”

“Objection,” Mr. Calloway called. “Leading and speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“Pass the witness.”

“That’s all, judge,” Mr. Calloway said.

Mr. Calloway took his seat and winked at Harley, who nodded back.

Miss Peach wiped her pen. Just as he’d planned, Mr. Calloway had planted the idea that another man had been there that night. He’d even put a name to him: Bud Orman. With Dr. Black, he’d then cast doubt on Cicero’s ability to fire the fatal shot. Mr. Calloway seemed