Sons of Fortune Read online

  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.”

  47

  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 chief’s decision.”

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

  “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.