by Steve Bouser
“Dr. Carpenter,” he began by asking, “what is your profession?”
“I am a professor of pathology at Wake Forest College,” he replied.
“How long have you held that position?”
“Nine years.”
“How many autopsies would you say you have performed?”
“About one thousand.”
“At the first hearing,” Broughton said, “you testified that your initial diagnosis of death was carbon monoxide poisoning. How did you reach that conclusion at such an early stage?”
“For one thing,” Carpenter replied, “the skin of a person poisoned by carbon monoxide has a characteristic cherry color.”
“Has your subsequent research confirmed that conclusion?”
“Yes. Our chemical analysis showed sufficient carbon monoxide poison to cause death.”
“Did you find anything else to which death could be attributed?”
“No.”
Having gotten that out of the way, Broughton pressed forward, asking Carpenter about the results of a study he had made of the effectiveness of the Davidson garage as a gas chamber. As it turned out, he and an assistant had carefully measured the interior of the building. Without consulting notes, the doctor said he had found it to be 36 feet wide; 19 feet, 10 inches deep; and 8 feet high—for a total volume of 5,700 cubic feet.
“In a building that big,” Broughton asked, “could one automobile generate enough carbon monoxide to cause death?”
“Yes,” Carpenter said. “There would be enough to make a person unconscious in from half to three-quarters of an hour. Another quarter-hour probably would cause death.”
Carpenter told of a field test he had performed with butler Birch’s assistance. They started the Packard’s engine, he said, and then closed all the doors and waited outside for forty-five minutes. Upon reentering, he said, they found fumes “very marked.” He ran a test and found enough carbon monoxide to kill a person.
Having established these facts, Broughton led Carpenter further into the area of conjecture, peppering him with a fast-paced series of hypotheticals aimed at undermining the possibility of either accident or suicide.
“Tell me,” he said. “If a person, awake and in good health, had tried to get out as the carbon monoxide began filling the garage, would it have been possible for her to do it?”
“Yes,” Carpenter said. “If she had to, she could have broken a window.”
“Could a person walking into the garage and standing by the steering wheel have fallen into that position—or even voluntarily assumed it—and have retained it as unconsciousness crept upon her?”
“No,” Carpenter said, explaining that a person rendered unconscious by monoxide would have a tendency to straighten out, whereas “Mrs. Davidson’s legs were bent, with her knees on the running board.”
“Would a person who was placed in the garage while unconscious from another cause have been subject to carbon monoxide?”
“Yes, provided respiration wasn’t cut off.”
“Could a person sitting at the wheel of the car have fallen into the position in which Mrs. Davidson was found?”
“In my opinion, no.”
“How long do you estimate Mrs. Davidson had been dead?”
“She could have been dead as much as two hours.”
In a final effort to bolster the murder option, Broughton then steered the discussion toward the multiple contusions and areas of discoloration that the cadaver of Elva Davidson had displayed.
“Did you examine the body for bruises?” he asked.
“I did,” Carpenter replied.
“What did you find?”
“On the outer surface of the middle section of the left arm, there was a slightly raised area with a pinpoint perforation in the middle that had the appearance, in my judgment, of having been caused by a pinch with a solid object.”
“What other such areas did you find?”
“Below the right hipbone, there was a blue area 5.5 by 2.2 centimeters [roughly one inch by two]. In front of that, there was a similar, but smaller, area. On other parts of the thigh there were six other such areas. There were three of similar appearance on the left thigh. There was a slight blueness on the lower part of the back and a scratch on the upper right thigh. On the front of the right leg there were three old injuries.”
“Except for the old injuries, how old do you say the bruises were?”
“They were incurred within forty-eight hours of death.”
“Do you think the impact of a tennis ball on Saturday—four days before her death—could have caused any of those bruises?”
“I do not believe so.”
“If Mrs. Davidson had voluntarily knelt on the running board and remained so until death, was there anything which could have caused those bruises?”
“Not in my opinion.”
“Was there a bruise on the head?”
“No.”
“Did you find a silver plate in the head?”
“No.”
“Was there any mark on the head or face?”
“No.”
“If she had fallen into the position described, would it not have produced some mark?”
“In my opinion it would have. But I found none.”
“Could the bruises you did find have resulted from the application of force?”
“Yes. They could have resulted from a firm grasp, or from blows stricken by a human hand.”
A human hand. Broughton started to ask another question but chose to sit down instead, leaving those words hanging in the air. After all, did anyone in the room doubt whose hand they were talking about?
When his turn came, J.M. Boyette, the county prosecutor turned Davidson advocate, returned to that intriguing “pinpoint perforation” in the middle of the bruise on Elva’s left arm. Knowing what some jurors might be wondering, and seeking to get the subject out in the open and deal with it, he asked a startling question.
“Dr. Carpenter,” he said, “could the bruise on Mrs. Davidson’s left arm have been inflicted with a hypodermic needle?”
“Yes,” Carpenter replied in what was described as a clipped, firm tone. The crowd leaned forward, hushed.
“Couldn’t it have been made by a hypodermic injection at the hospital,” Boyette asked, “when they were attempting to revive Mrs. Davidson?”
He didn’t get the answer he was hoping for.
“I understand that a needle puncture was made in her chest to inject adrenalin,” the doctor said, “but none was made in the arm.”
“Couldn’t the puncture have been made after death?”
“Absolutely not.”
Sorry he had brought the subject up, Boyette grasped at one more straw. Noting that Elva had a Great Dane and another dog, he asked if the puncture on her arm could have been caused by a dog bite. One can almost hear Carpenter snorting as he said it could not.
By late morning, the jurors, who had been led to believe that things would wrap up at midday, were growing restive. But time had to be allotted for the other “side”—what had come to be thought of in this non-trial as the defense.
Boyette first called Minnie Vail, a round-faced woman with sleepy-looking, Betty Boop eyes.
“You knew Mrs. Davidson very well, did you not?” he asked.
“Yes,” Mrs. Vail replied. “I met her a year ago.”
“Where?”
“Here. In Pinehurst.”
“Tell us about her disposition,” he said. Then he added, as if this witness needed any coaching: “Was she temperamental?”
“Yes. She was very temperamental. She was moody and depressed for no reason I could see.”
“Can you tell us about that in more detail?”
“Well, last fall, when she was visiting me, I saw two of her moods in one day. The first time was at the luncheon table with Mrs. Richard Tufts and me—and again that afternoon.”
“What happened then? In the afternoon?”
�
��She had a visitor. He was reading a newspaper, and suddenly she arose and ran out of the house and got in her car and drove away. She came back twenty minutes later.”
“What did you think was wrong with her?”
“I thought she got into that mood because no one was paying specific attention to her at that time.”
“Was she a woman who craved and demanded special attention?” Boyette asked.
“Yes,” Minnie replied. “And she was moody when she didn’t get it.”
“Did you hear her say no one loved her?”
“Many times.”
“Did she have a silver plate in her head?”
“She told me she did. She said she had a head injury and might crack or die at any time.”
“She might ‘crack or die’?” Boyette asked. “What do you think she meant by that?”
“She meant that sometimes she wasn’t herself, I suppose.”
After Minnie had stepped down, Boyette’s next witness was Helen (Allie) Tufts, the good-looking, dark-haired horsewoman who was married to Richard, grandson of Pinehurst founder James Walker Tufts, and the man who would take over the running of Pinehurst a few years later.
“How would you describe Elva Davidson?” Boyette asked.
“I would say she was always up and down,” Allie replied.
Boyette waited for her to elaborate, but she showed no inclination to do so.
“Up and down?”
“Yes. Awfully happy one minute, and the next all the way down. For no reason at all.”
“What was Mr. Davidson’s demeanor toward his wife?”
“Very courteous, very polite, very attentive when I saw them together.”
It went on in that vein until J.M. Broughton could stand no more. When the time came to cross-examine this sweet-talking witness, he was instantly in her face concerning something he had gotten wind of, something that was news to most of the others in the crowded room.
“You’ve been at the Davidson home since Mrs. Davidson’s death, and while this inquest has been going on, haven’t you?” he demanded. “For a cocktail party.”
His accusatory tone took Allie aback.
“Not what I’d call a cocktail party,” she said, maintaining an outward calm and trying not to sound defensive.
“Then what would you call it?”
“Highballs were served. That’s all. It is a universal custom in Pinehurst houses.”
“It is?” Broughton sputtered. “Drinking highballs while an investigation is being carried on? Of a death in the family?”
“Yes,” she said, meeting his stare. “I’ve known doctors to prescribe them.”
Nothing more of this startling exchange remains on the record. If Broughton pursued that tantalizing line of questioning further, it wasn’t reported. Again, this was not a trial, so nobody could request or declare a mistrial. But if ever a situation cried out for a mis-inquest, surely this was it.
Here Solicitor Pruette was, taking pains to keep witnesses separate so they couldn’t compare notes and get their stories straight. Yet the defendant, if you can call him that, was throwing a cocktail party, to which he invited some key testifiers? If Allie Tufts was there, wouldn’t the Vails have attended as well—and the Campaignes, who were staying in the Davidson home?
There was little opportunity for spectators to wonder how much rehearsing and choreographing that little group of close friends had done over their drinks. Because no sooner had Allie Tufts stepped down than it was time for the grand finale: a return appearance by Herbert Vail. It would, in Ed Folliard’s words, “electrify the courtroom.”
The lawyers for the “defense” made a point of recalling Vail to the rocking chair at the tail end of the inquest’s final morning. They made sure that his astonishing story would be the last words ringing in the ears of the six jurors—and in those of “the very cream of the exclusive social set which winters here, who were crowded into the Community House,” as Folliard wrote.
It was a story that Vail said took place when Brad and Elva had the Vails over for dinner on the night of February 6, a month after the Davidsons’ wedding and three weeks before Elva’s death. He would have some tall explaining to do as to why he had neglected to tell the story publicly before. But for now, attorney Boyette was content to lead him gently through it.
“What was the evening like?” he asked.
“Mrs. Davidson was charming and gracious when we came in,” Vail said. “Everything was all right until our dinner had been practically served. Then she became depressed and moody and abruptly left the table.”
“And what did you do then?”
“My wife followed, and they went into the living room. Brad Davidson and I remained at the dining room table and had our coffee. When we joined them, Mrs. Davidson appeared to have become herself again after a talk with Mrs. Vail.”
“And then?”
“When we reached the living room, my wife went out into the hall and played several numbers on the piano. The rest of us drifted out and joined her, and presently she suggested that Mrs. Davidson play for us. She consented to do so and sat down at the piano.”
“Did she play?”
“She tried, but something seemed wrong. She couldn’t seem to finish anything that she started to play. She seemed to grow discouraged with her fingers, or whatever it was, and immediately she was back in the mood that was so unpleasant for her—and for us, too.”
“Was she crying?”
“Yes, she was. She left and returned to the living room again.”
“Did anyone go with her?”
“I did. I felt that someone needed to comfort her. My wife and Mr. Davidson stayed by the piano, but I followed Mrs. Davidson and sat down beside her. She continued to cry and seemed very despondent.”
“Did she say why?”
“I don’t recall her exact words as to why she was so discouraged and upset. But I do remember what she said next, because it shocked me so.”
“What did she say?”
Vail took a deep breath.
“She said, ‘I think the best solution would be for me to go out into the garage and turn on the motor.’”
There were audible gasps. Broughton threw down his pencil and looked as if he would have leapt up to object if there had been a judge to object to. The room erupted in such a hubbub that Boyette had to wait for things to quiet down before he could proceed.
“Would you repeat that, Mr. Vail?” he finally asked. “She said—”
“She said, ‘I think the best solution would be for me to go out into the garage and turn on the motor.’”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes. That was what she said, in her exact words.”
“And did you confide this scene with anyone?”
“Just Mrs. Vail. But it made such an impression on me that when I heard about Elva’s death, I immediately told her, ‘I knew she was going to do that!’”
“Would you say she was in the same mood that night that you observed her at Montesanti’s Spaghetti Camp on the morning of her death?” Boyette asked.
“Practically,” Vail replied.
“Do you think she was mentally unbalanced between the night of the dinner party and the time of her death?”
Vail, who had sounded tentative in his answers up to then, now spoke with greater firmness, as if glad to have something off his chest.
“I think she’s been mentally unbalanced ever since I’ve known her,” he said.
The reporters scribbled madly in their notebooks.
When it was time for his cross-examination, Broughton had only a few questions. But he made no effort to disguise his hostility toward this surprise witness, the timing of whose testimony was so questionable.
“Mr. Vail,” he said, “I believe you have expressed the opinion previously that Mrs. Davidson’s death was an accident. Is that not so?”
“It is,” Vail answered in a low voice.
“This is quite a story you�
��ve told us here this morning. But you have concealed it in your previous talks with us, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
Broughton moved in closer.
“And you are testifying to it now, and making these intimations of suicide, only because the evidence here shows that her death could not possibly have been accidental, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yes.”
Knowing how that must sound, the suddenly weary Vail felt compelled to add an explanation. “An accident would have been the easiest way,” he said.
Boyette, Davidson’s lawyer, stood and sought to nudge Vail a little further along that road with one more of his gentle questions.
“Mr. Vail,” he said, “I believe it was your intention previously to keep Mrs. Davidson’s death from being designated as a suicide because of concern for her husband and things of that kind?”
“Yes,” Vail replied. Then he added in an anguished voice: “There was no reason I didn’t tell this before except that I hoped it would be found to be an accident. I hoped all along that it would be decided that way instead of—the other.”
Of course, there were two “others,” but Boyette decided to leave it at that. Vail left the rocking chair, averting his eyes from the audience, and the testimony was suddenly over.
Vail’s abject confession of perjury, and his attempts to justify it as an effort to spare his friend further pain, aroused a degree of sympathy among some spectators. But others had to wonder: if he was lying before, how do we know he isn’t lying now?
Pruette had given the jury five possible verdicts, ranging from “accident” to “suicide” to “death caused by carbon monoxide poisoning under circumstances not known to the jury,” on through “murder by persons unknown” and up to “murder by a specific person.”
The members of the jury, all male and all white, were L.M. Tate (foreman), Ernest Hunt, Melvin McCaskill, Patrick Garrity, Robert Shaw Jr. and Russell Sullivan. Between the secret, abortive first inquest and the open, exhaustive second one, they had dutifully sat through five days of complicated testimony. But once they retired at 2:45 p.m., Pruette hardly had time to enjoy a cigarette before they bounced back at 3:00 with a verdict.
