Blood on Lake Louisa

by Baynard H. Kendrick

  “How long did it take you to go from Orange Crest to Salmon’s place on Tiger Creek, Dr. Ryan?”

  I tried to get the time element straightened out in my mind. “I should judge about two hours and a half. I’m not sure.”

  “Do you know the distance you drove?”

  “Just over forty miles. But we had a long walk through the swamp as I explained. That must have taken an hour. Maybe more.”

  “As I understand it you drove the first twenty miles at high speed. Would forty minutes cover it?”

  “Easily, I should say. We were running around fifty-five miles per hour most of the time.”

  “I see. But the second twenty miles was through the woods on a bad road, and you stopped once. Could you have covered it in twice the time? Say an hour and twenty minutes?”

  “I don’t think it took quite that long. An hour would be closer to it.”

  “You have no clock on your car?”

  “No, your Honor. That is to say—I have one but it never runs.” A ripple of laughter ran through the court room. Atwater frowned.

  “You have made out a death certificate for the deceased, I believe. Will you tell the jury what, in your opinion, caused his demise.”

  “Without going into technical details he died from a knife wound in the heart.”

  The Justice took a folded paper from his desk and handed it to me. “This is a copy of the autopsy report of Dr. Stuart. Please tell the Jury if you agree with his findings.”

  I studied the report carefully, and found that my colleague had confirmed the cause of death given in my certificate. The autopsy showed an inflammation of the pleura, which accounted for the symptoms described to me by Cass Rhodes, but Dr. Stuart stated that the pleuritis was not severe enough to have caused death. The hunting knife had penetrated between the fifth and sixth ribs on the left side and pierced the right ventricle of the heart—a fatal wound. I handed the paper back to the magistrate.

  “Dr. Stuart’s findings substantially agree with my certificate.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Now will you please tell the Jury how long, in your opinion, the deceased had been dead when you found him.”

  “I don’t know.”

  There was a hum of incredulity from the spectators at my answer. Atwater stared at me with an expression bordering almost on dislike. He had evidently counted heavily on my testimony regarding the time of Salmon’s death.

  “But you stated, Dr. Ryan, that the body was warm when you found it.” There was protest in his voice. “Surely you can give the Jury a fairly accurate estimate as to how long the man had been dead. You can realize the importance of our determining approximately the time he was stabbed.”

  “I’m sorry to have to disappoint the Court, your Honor.” I was slightly ruffled at his tone. “I’m unfortunately not an expert in forensic medicine, and I doubt if even an expert medical examiner in a large city could answer your question. With your permission I’ll explain.” He nodded. “I stated that Salmon’s body was warm when I placed my hand on his forehead. That is true, but it certainly isn’t much aid in determining how long he had been dead. There are many factors to be taken into consideration in determining how quickly a body grows cold after death. The deceased was in a small hut in which a fire had been going for several days. He was covered over with blankets in bed. He had pleurisy, which is generally accompanied by a high fever. Under those conditions the body might have remained warm for several hours. There were no signs of rigor mortis. That fact would seem to indicate that Salmon had died within six hours, or less, of the time we arrived at the hut, although I have heard of exceptions. I can cite you cases where there has been no rigor mortis at all—generally in very emaciated people I’ll admit.”

  The Justice twisted the gavel aimlessly around in his fingers a few times before he spoke. “So you can’t place the time of death any more accurately than ‘within six hours or less’ of the time you arrived, Dr. Ryan?”

  “Not accurately enough to avoid the possibility of placing an innocent person under suspicion, your Honor. There is another element of probable doubt, too. Even if I placed the time of death at the exact minute it would not definitely prove that Salmon was stabbed at that moment. There have been cases where men with worse heart wounds than the one which killed Salmon have lived for hours—even days. I am sure Dr. Stuart will bear me out in this. Red Salmon might have been stabbed several hours before he died. The chances are against it, but it has happened.” Rather to my surprise, after a few more questions, I was excused without being asked anything about my experience in the Simmons house or my encounter of the night before. I learned later that Pete had requested the Justice to cooperate with the Sheriff’s office by keeping the matter quiet for the time being. Atwater had to pound loudly with his gavel to restore order when I left the witness stand.

  In the babble of voices I could hear the name of Cass Rhodes being repeated, and for the first time I saw the trend my testimony had taken. While there was no apparent motive, the possibility did exist that Cass could have killed his friend before he came in town to get Marvin and me. The thought did not surprise me—except, perhaps, at my own stupidity in not having considered it before—but I did not think that Cass was guilty. It is true, however, that Pete’s first reaction had been against Salmon’s friend when he found that the red-headed moonshiner was stabbed. For that matter, I did not think that Marvin was guilty, nor Forman Spence, both of whom had much better motives. Or did they have better motives? Suppose Cass Rhodes had shot Mitchell, and Salmon knew it. When I stated that Marvin, and Forman had better motives, was I not unconsciously stating that one of them had killed Mitchell? The truth was that I did not want to believe anybody was guilty. My mind was running around in the same old circle—blindly shifting the blame from one person to another.

  Yet, of one thing I was certain. I had practiced among the crackers, in Florida, for many years. I had been a friend to them in sickness and in health. I knew their characteristics like few other men in the State, and I was positive that if Cass had murdered his friend he would not have come into Orange Crest to bring me and Marvin Lee back to the scene of his crime.

  I say that I was positive. That Cass could convince six of my fellow townsmen that such was the case might be another matter, and a difficult one. The net had closed tightly about him. He was the only one known to have seen the moonshiner before the killing. His reputation was not of the best. The Jury was in no mood to bring in another verdict against an unknown, and Cass would not be unpopular as a victim. I could feel a definite antagonism against him among the spectators, unreasoning and unfair. I shuddered. Then Luke Pomeroy stood up and called his name.

  17

  The lanky woodsman softly repeated the oath and seated himself in the witness chair. He must have felt, as I did, that the court was latently hostile, but his deeply lined face remained grave and inscrutable. He wore corduroy trousers stuffed into the top of his high leather boots, and a thick blue shirt, open at the throat. His dark leather coat was obviously a concession to the dignity of the court, but it was somewhat offset by the chew of tobacco cleverly concealed in his left cheek. He answered Donald Atwater’s staccato questions calmly, and with slight hesitation. “How do you make a living, Cass?”

  “Trapping, mostly, Jedge.”

  “Was Salmon a trapper, too?”

  “Waal, some. He did a mite of farmin’, and raised a few hawgs. Now and again we made up a raft of logs. Sorter one thing an’ another—”

  “A little shine, now and again, eh?”

  Cass flushed under his tan. “Waal, hit wouldn’t do no good fur me to say no. But we hain’t done any stillin’ for quite a spell now.”

  “What do you mean by ‘quite a spell’?”

  “Hit’s goin’ on two years—”

  “That’s a lie, Cass, and you know it!” the Justice said sternly. “I’ve talked to three men who have bought shine from Red within the last month. We’re not arguing about moons
hining now. This is murder, and if you don’t talk straight to this Court, you’ll end up right in Raiford for perjury! Now, what’s the truth about Salmon’s moonshining operations?”

  The cracker adroitly shifted his quid of tobacco, and swallowed nervously. “Wall, Jedge, hit hain’t hardly natural fur a man to stick his own haid in a noose. Red laid off the shine fur most a year after Mistah Mitchell stumbled over his still in no’th hammock and had hit raided. Hit took nigh onto a year to get a new one together. I speck he war sellin’ some before Christmas a year ago. He didn’t make much. Said he warn’t goin’ to keep a lot around. Thar warn’t none in the cabin when he took sick.”

  “Do you know where his still is now?”

  “Nossuh, Jedge. I honestly don’t. He set hit up hisself, and run hit hisself. Hit’s somewhars no’th of the cabin on Tiger Creek, but I don’t know zactly whar.”

  “I’ll leave that to you, Mr. Sheriff,” Atwater glanced at Pete. “Now, Cass, I want to know exactly what you and Red Salmon did, and where you were, on the afternoon of February fifteenth. Do you remember?”

  Cass scratched his head thoughtfully. “Thar hain’t much to tell. We shot a few birds in the morning, and had them about noon. Red war goin’ somewhars, and left walkin’ about two o’clock. He didn’t take no gun with him, and I didn’t ask whar he was goin’. ‘Twarn’t none of my business. I figgered he might be goin’ to town, account of his not takin’ a gun. I covered my trap lines until about five, then went to a turkey stand I knew of in the swamp. No birds come in, and hit war nigh dark when I got back to the cabin.”

  “Was Salmon there then?”

  “Nossuh, Jedge. He came in about twenty minutes later. I had some rabbit I had het up, and I’d jest set down to eat. He had some with me, but didn’t say nothin’. While I war clarin’ away he started to oil and clean his shotgun and pistol. I says: ‘Huntin’s over today, Red.’ ‘So I seen, but ‘taint never over fur skunks! ‘ he says. ‘Dave Mitchell was shot this afternoon, Cass, and they hain’t goin’ to hang hit on me. I didn’t do hit, but I got a right smart idea who did.’ I didn’t ask him nothin’ more. He loaded his guns and put them beside his bunk when we turned in. That’s about all, Jedge, ‘ceptin’—”

  Atwater raised his hand, and Cass stopped. The Justice leafed through a typewritten statement which was on his desk. Then: “What you tell me now doesn’t seem to agree with what you told the Sheriff, and Dr. Ryan out at the shack. You stated to them that Red Salmon knew who killed Mr. Mitchell, that he saw it himself, and that the Sheriff’s office wouldn’t believe him if he told them. Isn’t that so?

  “Waal, hit’s not zactly right, Jedge.” It was plain that Cass resented being checked up so closely on his statements. “I told Mr. Crossley that Red neveh told me nothin’. He didn’t neither. I figgered out myself that he knew who done the shootin’. I found out next day that he hadn’t used his Ford. I had used hit last and hit had neveh been moved. That showed me he had neveh been to town. Now lessn he war in town, whar did he learn about the shootin’? Hit war nigh dark when the doctah found Mr. Mitchell, yet Red war back to the cabin about the same time—and he knowed that Mitchell war killed. Thar war only one thing to that. He must have seed hit hisself, or else he met someone who seed hit and told him, which, to my way of thinkin’ hain’t likely. I spoke to Red about hit, and he says that what I don’t know hain’t goin’ to hurt me none. He’d have talked plenty to the doctah and Mr. Lee—if he’d lived to do hit! “ It was a long speech for the woodsman. He paused and mopped his forehead with a large bandanna.

  “Why do you think he said the Sheriff’s office wouldn’t believe him if he told what he knew?”

  “He didn’t stand so high with them, Jedge. That’s hit.” The Justice reached in the drawer of the table at which he sat, and produced a watch which he handed to the witness. “Do you recognize that watch?”

  “Yessuh, Jedge. Hit’s the one Mr. Crossley found in the coffee can in the cabin. Hit belonged to Mr. Mitchell. Leastwise that’s what I war told.”

  Atwater addressed the Jury. “Gentlemen, are you familiar with the facts concerning this watch?” They nodded an affirmative. Forman Spence grimaced at me as the magistrate turned back to the witness.

  “Now think hard, Cass. When did you first see the watch you are holding?”

  “I neveh seed hit, Jedge, until the Sheriff took hit out of the coffee whar the skunk who killed Red put hit durin’ the afternoon.” There was a noisy shuffling of feet among the spectators. The J.P. squinted at Cass down the length of a yellow pencil.

  “Will you please be specific. How do you know it was placed in the coffee during the afternoon?”

  “Thisaway. Red war took sick last Friday, and by Sunday, the day he war killed, he war pretty bad. That watch warn’t in the cabin Saturday, fur I cleaned up the whole place that day, even changed the bunks about so as Red could rest easy. Hit warn’t in that coffee Sunday noon, fur I opened the can then and made coffee before I started in town. Now, Jedge, if Red had that watch from the day of the shootin’ he sure had hit well hid. Hit don’t stand to reason if he wanted to keep hit hid that he’d put hit in the surest place fur me to find hit—in a can which he knew for sartain I’d be openin’ soon as I got back. He warn’t no fool, Jedge, nossuh. Whoever put that watch in that coffee wanted hit to be found so you all would think Red had hit, or that I had hit. Neither of which hain’t true!”

  Marvin leaned over from in back of me and whispered in my ear: “Pete ought to add that cracker to his police force. He has more brains than all of us put together. It’s a shame your fellow townsmen will bring in a verdict against him.”

  Atwater was again studying the statement on his desk. I could not make out whether it was mine or the Sheriff’s. “What time Sunday did you leave the cabin for town?” he asked.

  “Hit war somewheres between two and three.”

  “Did you come directly in?”

  “Nossuh, Jedge. I visited some traps in the swamp. Then I stopped by the commissary at Malo to get some food. Hit war nigh onto five when I left the car. Moffatt will bear me out in that. He opened the store fur me so I could get my things. I stopped the Ford at Half Mile Creek and come into town when hit war dark.”

  “Do you realize, Cass, that you are not doing very much to clear yourself of suspicion in this affair? You have heard the testimony given by Dr. Ryan. According to him it would have been possible for you to have killed Salmon, or to have left him for dead, before you left the shack. You have absolutely no witnesses to prove where you were on the afternoon David Mitchell was killed. Don’t misunderstand—”

  “If the Court pleases,” boomed out beside me. Everyone turned to stare at Carl Sanderson, who had risen to his feet. Atwater recognized him with a nod. “I have a few questions in mind which may possibly clear things up a little. With the Court’s permission I would like to examine the witness. I would not presume to interrupt if I did not feel it would be helpful to bring out certain things at this point.”

  “The witness is yours, Mr. Sanderson. You understand, of course, that he is not bound to answer.”

  “Certainly, your Honor.” Sanderson adjusted his spectacles to their usual precarious angle and favored the woodsman with a friendly smile. Somebody coughed. “You stated, Cass, your reasons for assuming that Salmon saw the shooting of David Mitchell. At the same time you said he did not go in town. How could he have gotten to the scene of the crime without using his automobile?”

  “Walked. ‘Taint more than an hour and a half to two hours from the cabin to Lake Louisa—if you knows how to git thar.”

  “Then the murderer could have gotten to the cabin by way of Lake Louisa.”

  “He might have, but hit’s a sho nuff bad trip. Hit can’t be done in the dark, and thar hain’t many as kin do it in the daytime. Red war one of the few. But thar war a boat came to the camp like I told the Sheriff.”

  The State’s Attorney consulted a slip of paper in his hand. “When
Salmon returned to the shack on February fifteenth and started to oil his guns you remarked to him: ‘Hunting’s over today, Red.’ He replied: ‘So I seen, but ‘tain’t never over for skunks.’ Just what did he mean by: ‘so I seen’?”

  Cass replied without hesitation. “He read hit in the paper. He told me the next day the Game Commissioner said hit war goin’ to be hot fur anyone who hunted after the closin’ day.”

  Sanderson lowered his voice. “You stated Red wasn’t in town on the fifteenth. Where did he get a newspaper in the woods, Cass?”

  “Seems like I remember his sayin’ he saw hit in a paper he took out of some hunter’s car. I hain’t sartain—”

  “Well, I am,” Marvin Lee exclaimed. “I’ll bet that’s what happened to the Miami Floridian that disappeared from the front seat of my car while I was talking to David Mitchell.”

  A crazy feeling of exultation surged through me. Sanderson’s cleverness had brought to light something which seemed to fit in with the rest of the picture—if the handwriting on the paper I had found only turned out to be Salmon’s. The Justice rapped loudly to quiet the hubbub which had broken out at Marvin’s remark. The State’s Attorney was not through. He still had another surprise in store for his holiday audience. Even while Atwater was trying to restore order he lowered his head, like a bull about to charge, and bellowed at Cass Rhodes: “What kind of wood do you burn to heat your cabin?”

  “Lighter-knots, but—”

  “Pine knots, eh? Full of resin?” The astonished cracker nodded.

  Sanderson removed his spectacles and gazed benignly around the room. “Your Honor, and Gentlemen of the Jury. I am prosecutor for this District, but it is just as much a part of my duty to clear an innocent man as to convict a guilty one. We have heard some interesting things here this morning. We have learned pretty accurately that it takes about five hours to go from Salmon’s shack on Tiger Creek into Orange Crest and back. We have learned that Cass Rhodes, now on the stand, made that trip on the day his friend was murdered. We also know that he was seen at Malo on the way in, and that two people accompanied him on the return trip, and two more followed close on their heels. We have heard Dr. Ryan state that as soon as he entered the shack he recognized his patient by the firelight gleaming on his red hair. The Doctor also stated that the corpse was wrapped up in a blanket—had been stabbed through a blanket.”