Fire Blight

by Nat Williams

  Hilliard walked from behind the prosecution table and faced the jury for dramatic effect.

  “That should be enough,” he said. “But there is more. The defendant himself will tell you in his own voice that he was present at the murder scene. The evidence will show that the defendant – and the defendant alone – committed this crime.”

  Hilliard continued presenting his case in the hushed courtroom, going through the evidence piece by piece. He detailed the FBI investigation into the Medicaid fraud scheme. The prosecution had won a bruising battle to allow the evidence and line of questioning, over the passionate objections of Lipscomb and Rudnick.

  He walked back to the table and sat down.

  “Mr. Lipscomb, do you have an opening statement?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  Lips stood up and smoothed his blue suit jacket, slowly approaching the jury box. He held no notes. He liked to talk with his hands and paper always got in the way.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, as the judge has said, you have an awesome responsibility. You will decide the fate of David Purcell, a lifelong resident of this community, a respected businessman, a loving husband and a cherished son-in-law.”

  He pointed to Purcell, dressed in a navy Calvin Klein suit with a chartreuse tie.

  “As he sits there, the defendant is innocent. As innocent as the judge. As innocent as you. As innocent as everyone else sitting in this room. That’s not just my opinion. That’s what the Constitution says. The state of Illinois says that he is innocent. Only you can declare his guilt. And that means you must be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that he is a cold-blooded assassin who somehow decided to shoot his wife’s parents, whom he loved. And the state’s case is loaded with doubt.”

  Lips scanned the jurors, taking mental notes on how they were responding, as he did during the prosecution’s opening statement. He wasn’t getting any signals, but the trial was just beginning. He had a knack for picking up on “gives” like a poker player might. He focused on subtle facial expressions, finger tapping, body shifting, eyebrow positioning.

  He took the jurors through the evidence to be presented, methodically poking holes in every piece.

  “The state has not produced the gun used to kill the Van Okins. Ladies and gentlemen, how can there be a murder without a murder weapon? Not only is the state lacking a weapon, it cannot even say with certainty what type of weapon was used.

  “The state will not produce a single witness who saw my client kill his in-laws or could even place him inside the house on the day of the murders or the day before. The state claims there is motive, but David Purcell had no reason to kill Dr. and Mrs. Van Okin. He loved them.

  “During the course of this trial you may hear things about the defendant that are not flattering. You may hear things about some of the witnesses – and even the victims - that are not flattering. But you are not here to pass judgment on character traits and picadilloes. You are here to decide whether a man is guilty of murder or not guilty of murder. I’m convinced that if you keep an open mind, listen carefully to all evidence presented by both sides and follow the instructions provided to you by the judge, you will find that the defendant, David Purcell, is an innocent man.

  “Therefore, I’m convinced that you will do your duty, which is to find that the facts of this case do not warrant a guilty verdict. They do not prove beyond a reasonable doubt – even close to a reasonable doubt - that this man is a murderer.”

  CHAPTER 67

  “The state may call its first witness,” Peregrino

  said.

  Hilliard looked up from the folders laid out on the table.

  “Your honor, the state of Illinois calls Morella Watson.”

  Morella made the long, lonely walk to the witness stand and took the oath. It’s always the toughest for the first witness. No point of reference. No watching what others do when they sit down in that chair.

  “Please state your full name, place of residence and profession,” Hilliard said.

  Morella smoothed out the wrinkles in her olive pleated skirt.

  “Morella Iva Watson. I live in Cherokee Camp and work part time as a nurse with Hearts and Hands.”

  “And what type of business is Hearts and Hands?”

  “We provide health care and other services to homebound clients.”

  “Was Norma Van Okin one of your clients?”

  “She was.”

  “Please tell us a little about the Van Okins. How long had you known them?”

  “I knew Dr. Van Okin from my time as a nurse. I worked at Edwards Hospital for several years. He had privileges there and we were in contact from time to time. But I didn’t know him well.”

  “And what about Mrs. Van Okin?”

  “I met her once or twice at social functions. They were active in the community and often helped out in fund-raising activities. Later, when she became my client at H&H, I got to know her much better.”

  “How would you describe Mrs. Van Okin’s medical condition?”

  “She was struggling with dementia.”

  Hilliard took a couple of steps to nowhere in particular. Just for dramatic effect.

  “Like Alzheimer’s or something?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you describe to the jury what happened the morning of August the third?”

  Morella braced herself.

  “It wasn’t my day to work but I wanted to check in on her on my way to visit my sister, near St. Louis. I thought Dr. Van Okin may be at the office. He usually goes in on Saturday mornings and does some paperwork. I arrived at about 7:30 a.m. and started to knock at the door but noticed it was open a little bit. I pushed it open a little more, then stuck my head in and asked if anyone was there.”

  “And there was no response?”

  “No.”

  “What was your expectation?”

  “I thought maybe Dr. Van Okin had not closed the door all the way and Mrs. Van Okin was asleep or something. I really didn’t know what to think.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I pushed the door open and took a few steps. I looked to my right, and …”

  Morella was visibly upset.

  “I’m sorry,” Hilliard said. “Do you need a moment?”

  “No, I’m OK. I saw two people in the living room. There was blood everywhere. I screamed.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I dropped the sack I was holding. I had brought a few things from the convenience store. Then I ran back out to my car and called 911.”

  “Did you touch anything? Move anything?”

  “No, I just ran out to my car. I called 911, then remained in my car.”

  “And why did you remain in the car?”

  “I don’t know. I was, like, frozen. I was scared, but I couldn’t make myself start the car up and drive away.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Watson. That will be all.”

  Hilliard turned to Lipscomb.

  “Your witness.”

  Lipscomb rose and walked gently toward Morella Watson.

  “I can’t imagine witnessing something that horrible. But you are a nurse. Along with teachers, I believe nurses are very special. Thank you for your service.”

  Hilliard’s hand began to rise. He considered objecting to what he correctly believed was an attempt by Lipscomb to set up his witness with flattery before tripping her up. He thought better of it and pulled his hand down. The trial was just getting started, and he realized Lipscomb was a worthy opponent.

  “You’ve treated patients with traumatic injuries before, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t see if there was anything you could do? You didn’t check for vitals?”

  “No. I was scared. I didn’t know if someone was still there. Plus, I could tell they were dead.”

  Lips had made his point. He didn’t press. No need to beat up the empathetic do-gooder who discovered the grisly scene. His style
was to start easy and gradually become more aggressive.

  “No more questions, your honor.”

  Wendell Brown was Hilliard’s next witness. He was introduced and sworn in.

  “Mr. Brown, would you please state for the court your position, credentials and experience?”

  “I am a crime scene investigator with the Forensic Sciences Command of the Illinois State Police.”

  “I suppose that requires some sort of college degree, right?”

  “Yes. I am a graduate of Lewis University in Romeoville, Illinois, with a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice. I have thirteen years’ experience in the field.”

  “Thank you. Have you investigated any murder cases other than this one?”

  “Yes, I have gathered and analyzed evidence in one hundred-thirty-five murder cases.”

  “Please describe your connection to the Van Okin murders.”

  “I was called by the Gilbert County Sheriff’s Office to assist in the investigation into the deaths of Dr. Elmer Van Okin and his wife, Norma Van Okin.”

  Hilliard stood.

  “And what did you do when you arrived at the crime scene?”

  “I led a team that collected and documented forensic evidence including fingerprints and ballistics.”

  Hilliard let the comment sink in a moment.

  “What were your first impressions of the crime scene?”

  “To the right, after entering the home from the front door, was the living room. There were two bodies. A man was lying face-down on the floor in front of a recliner. To his left, a woman was on a couch, slumped to her left side.”

  “Did you have an idea of what happened?”

  “Yes. It was apparent that the deaths were the result of trauma. Both victims had been shot multiple times. There was a lot of blood on the scene.”

  “What evidence did you find at the scene?”

  “We collected five 7.65 millimeter shell casings.”

  “Overkill?”

  “Objection!” Lips said.

  “Overruled,” Peregrino said.

  “I would say so,” Brown continued.

  “I assume your team also collected other types of evidence, correct?”

  “Yes, we took photographs of the crime scene. We dusted for fingerprints and collected blood and tissue samples for DNA testing. We checked for other evidence, including footprints both inside and outside the house.”

  “What methods were used to establish the distance of the shooter from the victims and the path of the projectiles?”

  “Several investigative techniques are involved,” Brown said. “They include photographs taken at the crime scene of the bodies and surroundings, the location of shells discharged from the firearm, and the paths of entry and exit wounds. Upon determining the trajectory of the bullets it became evident that all shots originated from the victims’ right sides.”

  “Did the investigation continue after the bodies were removed from the crime scene?”

  “Yes. During autopsies of shooting victims the forensic pathologist commonly uses other methods of determining bullet trajectory. In this case, rods were placed in entry wounds to indicate the paths taken.”

  “Would you say your team did a thorough job?”

  “I would.”

  “Thank you. Nothing further.”

  Lips stood at the table and faced Wendell Brown.

  “Did you or members of your team perform other tests regarding blood and tissue other than collecting samples for DNA testing?”

  “We did. We measured and documented blood-spatter patterns and stippling.”

  “In case members of the jury are not familiar with stippling, could you describe that term?”

  “Yes. Stippling refers to gunshot residue and its proximity to the entry wound.”

  “And what did your investigation discover?”

  “Stippling was evident on Dr. Van Okin.”

  “Does that mean the shots were at close range?”

  “At least one was.”

  “Did you bag the hands of the victims? To determine whether either had fired a shot?”

  “No,” Brown said.

  “Isn’t that a common investigative technique?”

  “Not necessarily. It depends on the situation. No firearm was discovered at the scene.”

  “Could you describe the search for a murder weapon? And was a weapon found at the scene?”

  “There was a thorough search of the home and grounds,” Brown said. “Our investigators did find two shotguns in a closet, a 12-gauge automatic and a pump.”

  “Neither of which had been fired recently?”

  “Correct.”

  “That’s all I have,” Lips said, sitting down.

  CHAPTER 68

  Winthrop Romines certainly drew attention when he took his place on the stand. He was dressed in a light pink button-down shirt, moss-green khakis held up by striped suspenders and wingtip shoes. He wore a purple bowtie.

  “Mr. Romines, what is your profession?” Vernon Hilliard said.

  Win adjusted his cufflinks.

  “I teach physical science at Cherokee Camp High School.”

  “And how long have you taught there?”

  “I’ve been there a little over twenty-two years.”

  “That’s a long time. You must be a pretty good teacher.”

  “I like to think so. I love what I do.”

  “You have an avocation, don’t you? Something outside the classroom? Something in the realm of physical science?”

  “Yes. I’m an amateur meteorologist.”

  “Someone who studies weather.”

  “Right. I’ve been fascinated with weather since I was little. The first time I heard thunder I asked my parents what made that sound. They were always very supportive and did everything they could to stoke my curiosity about science. My dad, who was very encouraging, sent me to the bookcase to pick Volume M of Encyclopedia Britannica. I know, most young people today don’t have any idea what an encyclopedia is, but before the internet came along …”

  “Yes,” Hilliard said. “So you developed an interest in weather at a young age, and pursued that interest.”

  “Absolutely. I was hooked. Later in life I continued studying meteorology. I would read everything I could get my hands on. It’s a fascinating subject. You have different types of weather, patterns, climate trends. There is also the history. The chief meteorologist for the Allies had one of the most important jobs prior to the Normandy invasion in World War II.”

  “Fascinating. Thank you,” Hilliard butted in.

  This was no time to put the jury asleep. Then again, maybe it was.

  “You have weather stations scattered around the region, right?”

  “Yes. I have twelve weather stations in Gilbert, James, Hawthorne and Vine counties. They measure temperature, precipitation, humidity, barometric pressure. I’m fortunate to have a network of volunteers.”

  “What is the closest station to you?”

  “At my home. Just north of Cherokee Camp. About two miles.”

  “Your house is pretty close to the Van Okin residence, right?”

  “Yes, about a half mile.”

  “And did you measure rainfall the evening of August the second through the morning of August the third?”

  “Yes. Like many days in late summer in southern Illinois, we had a pattern of scattered, isolated thunderstorms.”

  “And what did your instruments read during that time period, in terms of precipitation?”

  “An isolated thunderstorm came through at just a little after midnight and dumped about a quarter-inch of rain in the area.”

  “Does that area include the Van Okin residence?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Is it possible that such a rainfall event could soften a grassy area enough to produce a fresh tire track that otherwise would not be visible?”

  “Yes. I’ve seen it many times. We get a brief downpour and a grassy area bec
omes soft for a short period. When the sun rises the ground dries out and hardens. But the tracks are visible for a while longer.”

  “Thank you,” Hilliard said.

  Judge Peregrino gestured toward Lips.

  “Care to cross, Mr. Lipscomb?”

  “Yes, your honor,” Lips said as he stood up and faced the witness.

  “Mr. Romines, do you have a degree in meteorology?”

  “No, like I said, it’s a hobby. But I have …”

  Lips cut him off.

  “Do you belong to an online group of fellow amateur meteorologists like yourself?”

  “Well, I have been in contact with several groups of like-minded …”

  “What is the name of the Facebook group you’re involved with? You know, the amateur meteorology group? You do know the name of the group, right?”

  Romines hesitated.

  “Yes. I believe I’m aware of the group you’re referring to.”

  “Not just aware, but you’re an administrator, right? At least, according to the timeline.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what is the name of that group?”

  Romines turned a muted shade of pink.

  “Nerds of the Weather Talk Together.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lipscomb said. “I couldn’t hear you. What did you say the name of the group is?”

  “Nerds of the Weather Talk Together.”

  “Thank you. No more questions.”

  A couple of low-volume chuckles echoed off the walls of the courtroom. Peregrino produced the stink eye.

  Hilliard sighed. Oh well, Romines’ testimony wasn’t all that crucial anyway. And he had an ace up his sleeve - the recording of Obie and Purcell at the bar. Still, he needed to salvage something from this witness.

  “I’d like to redirect,” he said to Peregrino.

  “Proceed.”

  “Mr. Romines, please describe the equipment setup at your residence.”

  “I have a Davis Model 6163 weather station. It measures temperature and humidity, rainfall, wind speed, wind direction, wind chill factor and barometric pressure. Its anemometer is capable of recording wind speed at up to 170 miles per hour.