Devil in the Dock (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery)

by Michael Monhollon

  Judge Cooley looked at the clock again. He sighed. “Very well.” The bailiff slipped through the side door to get Melissa. I went to the rail. Paul and Brooke and Mike were seated together on the first row of seats, and for once our suite mate, Rodney Burns, was sitting with them. I leaned over the rail to talk to Rodney. He wasn’t my closest friend of the bunch, but he was a private detective.

  “How long would it take you to get copies of Bill Hill’s medical records?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know. Who’s his doctor?”

  “No idea. Wait.” I turned to check the folders on the table, then, not seeing what I wanted, dug another one out of my briefcase. I flipped through photographs until I came to the ones I had taken of Hill’s medicine cabinet. I handed one of them to Rodney. “Here’s a close-up of his prescription bottles. Does that say Dr. Gore?”

  “It looks like it.” He sounded uncertain.

  “What a name for a doctor,” I said. “Actually, here.” I dug out a subpoena issued in blank and scribbled the name “Dr. Gore,” a time, and “medical records of William Hill” in the appropriate blanks. “We can’t force him to leave his practice on such short notice, but bring him back with you if you can. I’d like him to testify.”

  “Testify to what?”

  “I’m still working on it. Oh, and one more thing. I need the doorknob off Shorter’s back door.”

  “I’m supposed to have all this by when?”

  “Two o’clock would be good.” The bailiff was back. I gave Melissa a smile and a nod as he led her to the front of the courtroom to be sworn.

  “Do you at least have a key to Shorter’s house?” Rodney asked.

  “Oh yeah. Give me a minute.” I got it from my purse.

  “How do I secure the house after I’ve removed the doorknob?” Rodney asked.

  I looked at him in exasperation.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, raising a hand. “I’ll work it out.”

  “Thank you.”

  Paul said, “Did you know Rodney was going to be here? What would you have done if he hadn’t been?”

  I turned my smile on him.

  “Oh. Right,” he said.

  Melissa stepped up into the witness box, and I went to the lectern.

  “Hi, Melissa.”

  She regarded me with wide, anxious eyes.

  “We need to start off with your full name for the record.”

  “Melissa Rae Stimmler.” Her voice was so low that the judge leaned forward to hear her.

  “Where do you live in relation to the decedent, Bill Hill? Say it as loudly as you can. There are a lot of people who need to hear you.”

  “Next door.” Her voice was still too soft, but she cleared her throat and tried again. “Right next door to him.”

  “You live on the corner. He lived next to you?”

  She nodded. “That’s right. We’ve lived right next to each other since, I don’t know, maybe fifteen years?” She looked up at the judge and gave him a smile that seemed apologetic.

  “Did you see him very often?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes he came over for tea, not too often. He had trouble walking.”

  “Did you visit him?”

  “It’s been a few years. Our dogs used to play together in his backyard.”

  I sensed a stirring in the jury box. We already knew what had happened to Bill’s dog. “How about more recently?” I asked.

  “More recently, I’d see him when he sat out in his backyard. I’d tap on my kitchen window and wave. That wasn’t too often.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “The day . . . the day they say he died.”

  “The day someone killed him.”

  She nodded solemnly. “The day someone killed him.”

  “When was this? What time of day?”

  “The sun had just gone down. He had a lawn chair on his patio, an old aluminum one with yellow straps that had turned brown at the ends. He was sitting there when I saw him, not doing much of anything, just sitting and thinking, it looked like. I tapped on the window, like always, and he looked up at me. I waved, and he . . . I just remembered. He kissed the ends of his fingers and held them out to me. That’s strange, isn’t it? It was like he was saying good-bye.”

  “Had he never done that before?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “How do you fix this date in your mind, the date this happened?”

  “It was Friday. Two days later he was found dead.”

  “Did you see Bob Shorter that day, as well?”

  Her gaze drifted to Shorter where he sat at the defense table, and she jerked it away. “Yes. I saw him. He was going by the house on one of his walks.”

  “So he was on the street that runs in front of your house?”

  “Yes, mine and Bill’s. He turns the corner and goes by my house, then Bill’s, and he continues on down the street.”

  “And that Friday, his walk was along that same route.”

  She nodded.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “When was this exactly?”

  “Right before I went into the kitchen and saw Bill.”

  “So it was dusk, just getting dark?”

  “Yes. Six o’clock or so.”

  “Bob Shorter didn’t turn toward Bill’s house, just continued down the street as usual?”

  “No. I don’t think he even glanced at it, just walked along swinging his stick.”

  If Larkin’s testimony about seeing a bloodied Shorter leaving Bill Hill’s house at four o’clock still had any lingering credibility, her testimony should put an end to it, I thought. To drive home the point, I said, “We’ve heard some testimony that a couple of hours earlier Bob Shorter came out of Bill’s house with blood on him. Did you see Bob Shorter coming out of Bill Hill’s house earlier that day?”

  “No, I didn’t. I haven’t seen Mr. Shorter at Bill’s house in years.”

  “And you didn’t see any blood on him that evening when you saw him?”

  “No. Of course, it was getting dark.”

  Fair enough. “Did Bill Hill have blood on him that you saw?”

  “No, but like I said, it was getting dark.”

  “But he didn’t seem injured to you.”

  “Objection,” Maxwell said. “Leading.”

  “Did he seem injured or in pain?” I asked, rephrasing the question.

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “Thank you, Melissa. That’s all I have.”

  Judge Cooley, his eyes on the clock, picked up his gavel and said, “It’s right at the noon hour.”

  “It’ll be just a few questions on cross-examination, Your Honor,” Maxwell said, standing.

  The judge rolled his eyes toward him. “Very well.”

  Maxwell went to the lectern. “You live next door to Bill Hill, is that right?” Although they weren’t permitted on direct examination, on cross, leading questions were the standard.

  “That’s right.” Her voice had gone soft again, as if she were retreating back into herself.

  “I assume the police came by to ask you about what you saw or didn’t see that day?”

  “They came by.”

  “You didn’t tell them about seeing Bill Hill in his backyard, did you?”

  “I don’t think I did.” Her voice was even softer.

  “In fact, you specifically told them you didn’t see Bill Hill that day, didn’t you?”

  For a moment I thought she wouldn’t be able to answer. Then she cleared her throat and said, in a louder voice, “No, they didn’t ask me.” She glanced at the judge with an anxious expression. “The police seemed mostly interested in whether I’d seen anyone going into or out of Bill’s house that day, whether I’d heard anything.”

  “Did you make it clear to those police officers that you’d seen Bill Hill on the actual day of the murder?”

  She shook her head.

  “The truth is, you weren’t sure
what day it was you’d seen him—isn’t that right?”

  “I knew when it was.” She was looking down into her lap now.

  “But you didn’t make that clear to the officers,” Maxwell said.

  This had gone on long enough. I stood. “Objection, Your Honor. The question has been asked and answered.”

  Judge Cooley peered over his glasses at Maxwell. “Is that the only question you have for this witness, Mr. Maxworth?”

  Maxwell looked as frustrated as I’d ever seen him. “Just a few more, Your Honor.”

  “Let’s get on with them then.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” He took a breath. “How did Ms. Starling, Mr. Shorter’s attorney, find out about this sighting of yours?”

  “She asked me,” Melissa said.

  “And you told her.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t tell the police officers when they asked you?”

  “Asked and answered,” I objected.

  “Sustained.”

  “How long did you speak to the police officers?” Maxwell asked the witness.

  “I don’t know. They might have been at the door ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “You didn’t let them in.”

  She shook her head. “No, they didn’t insist on it.”

  “But you let Ms. Starling in.”

  Melissa’s upper lip and her eyebrows rose in an expression of wonder. “Ms. Starling can be pretty persuasive,” she said.

  I didn’t know whether Maxwell was succeeding in his efforts to cast doubt on Melissa’s testimony or whether he was just making my investigative work look more thorough than that of the police. It did seem to me that Hernandez and Jordan had missed something here. They’d settled on their theory of the case too quickly.

  “Did Bill Hill spend many evenings in his backyard staring at your window?” Maxwell asked.

  “He wasn’t staring at my window. I had to tap on it to get his attention.”

  “What was he looking at?”

  “I think he was looking at Mr. Shorter’s house. You can see it from there, just past the end of the alley that runs behind the houses. We just have chain-link fences, Bill and I. No privacy fences or anything like that to block the view.”

  “Did he often sit and look at Mr. Shorter’s house?”

  She nodded. “Yes. All the time.”

  Maxwell looked at the clock. “I have no further questions.”

  The judge had already picked up his gavel.

  “No questions on redirect,” I said as the gavel fell.

  “Court is adjourned until two o’clock.”

  The four of us—Mike, Brooke, Paul, and me—had lunch near the hospital. While we waited for our food, I texted Rodney, How’s it going?

  The response took ten minutes and, when it came, was uninformative: It’s going.

  I started to text back to ask if he could possibly be more specific, but I let it go. Rodney was a good man, and he’d do what he could. Our waitress was handing out drinks. Brooke and I had water; Paul and Mike each had a beer. As I sipped my water, I said to Paul, “Beer with waffles? Really?”

  “Chicken waffles. It’s Friday, and anyway, I’m taking a day’s vacation.”

  “And beer and pizza is a classic,” Mike said, taking a sip from his mug.

  I looked at Brooke, and she shrugged. She was sharing Mike’s pizza, but, at least for herself, obviously considered water an adequate beverage to go with it.

  “Gonna wait until you’re married to put him on beer rations?” I asked her.

  “Now that’s not helpful,” Mike said.

  “I’m not his mother,” Brooke said.

  “That’s my girl.” He tapped her water glass with his mug, then leaned toward her to kiss her cheek.

  “Public displays of affection?” I said.

  “Boy, you’re critical today,” Mike said. “Why are you trying to stir up trouble?”

  Paul sipped his beer and wisely stayed out of it.

  “Sorry,” I said to Mike. “I’m feeling pressure.”

  “It sounds like you’ve got a plan. What is it?”

  “To flounder around in all directions in hopes of catching hold of something that floats.”

  Paul said, “That sounds like you’re drowning.”

  Brooke said, “It doesn’t sound encouraging—that’s for sure.”

  “Relax, it’s her modus operandi,” Mike said, but I couldn’t tell if he intended the remark as encouraging or critical.

  “Well thank you all for the vote of confidence.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Mike said. “You’re the best on your feet of any lawyer I’ve ever seen. You do tend to work without a net, though.”

  “You’re mixing your metaphors,” I said. “Am I a boxer or an acrobat?”

  “Both. I mixed my metaphors deliberately.” He sipped his beer and looked smug.

  When our food had come and we’d ingested a good bit of it, Brooke said, “Why do you want Shorter’s doorknob? And Bill Hill’s medical records? I don’t see the connection.”

  “I should think it’s obvious,” I said. “You tell me.”

  They all looked at me, and I smiled. “Just kidding. I don’t know that there is a connection.”

  “So what are you thinking?” Mike asked.

  “At this point, I’d rather not say. I’m just pulling on every thread I can think of.”

  Mike and Brooke and Paul chewed thoughtfully.

  “Threads you’re going to use to weave a rug?” Paul asked.

  Mike said, “You’re pulling threads to unravel something?”

  So the metaphor of pulling threads wasn’t particularly enlightening. I turned to Brooke. “I’m planning to call you as my next witness. You up for it?”

  She stopped chewing, then swallowed. “No. What for?”

  “Nothing serious. I want to introduce the photographs you took at Bill Hill’s house.”

  “I don’t want to testify.”

  “I know.”

  She took a breath. “I’ll do it,” she said. “If you need me.”

  “Thank you. With that settled, I can relax and finish my fish tacos.” I took a bite.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Brooke said to Mike, pushing the dish with the last piece of their pizza toward him.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to spoil your appetite.”

  “So is she on your witness list?” Mike asked, picking up his fourth piece of pizza. “Or is that going to be a problem?”

  “She’s on my witness list.”

  “You didn’t tell me I was on your witness list,” Brooke said.

  “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “You’ve got an idea,” Paul said.

  “Oh, I’m full of them,” I said. “Or maybe just full of it. We’ll see.”

  “Ms. Starving,” the judge said, “call your next witness.” I didn’t know how many possible mispronunciations of my name there were, but surely by now Judge Cooley had worked through just about all of them.

  “Starling,” I said.

  “Yes, of course. Starling.”

  I looked back over the gallery, but Rodney Burns still had not returned.

  “Call Brooke Marshall,” I said.

  She stood and pushed through the bar, looking as cool as lemonade. When she’d been sworn and taken her seat, though, she looked at me reproachfully.

  “Could you tell us your name, please?” I asked.

  She told us.

  “Your occupation?”

  When we had the preliminaries out of the way, I distributed copies of photographs I had brought with me to the lectern. I showed Brooke one of them. “Could you tell us what this photograph is?”

  “It’s a photograph of the inside of Bill Hill’s medicine cabinet.”

  “Who took it?”

  “You did.”

  “Does the photograph fairly and accurately represent the inside of the medicine cabinet as it existed on the afternoon o
f March 26, the day we walked through Mr. Hill’s house with two police officers?”

  “It does.” After a pause, she added, “None of us took anything out of the medicine cabinet or added anything to it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It wasn’t, but thank you. That’s very helpful.” After the photograph had been marked for identification, I presented her with another one. “Can you tell us what this photograph is?”

  “A close-up of Mr. Hill’s prescription medications in that same medicine cabinet.”

  That photograph too fairly and accurately represented what we had seen on March 26. I got her to authenticate one more photograph, then moved to admit them into evidence.

  Maxwell objected. “I don’t see the relevance, Your Honor.”

  “Ms. Staving?” Okay, the judge had found one more.

  “I’ll connect it up, Your Honor.”

  “Then I’ll wait to rule on your motion until you do.”

  “No further questions,” I said.

  Maxwell stood. Brooke’s testimony was so limited in scope that there wasn’t much he could do with it on cross-examination. “No questions, Your Honor.”

  As I got back to the defense table, Rodney Burns and another man came through the door, Rodney with a box under his arm. I met his gaze and gave him a nod. He jerked his head at the bald, red-faced man who had come in with him, and I smiled.

  I turned back to the judge. “Call Dr. Richard Gore.”

  Unlike Melissa Stimmler, Brooke Marshall, and Rodney Burns, all of whom I had listed in an abundance of caution, Dr. Gore was not on my witness list. Maxwell objected, and we had a bench conference.

  “I didn’t expect to call Dr. Gore until he walked into the courtroom just now,” I said. “At best, I was hoping to introduce some of his records. Bill Hill was his patient.”

  “Your Honor, not only is this an unfair surprise to the prosecution, but I fail to see any relevance of this witness to the question of whether or not the defendant killed Bill Hill.”

  “As I promised, I’m trying to connect up those photographs that were just marked for identification. I would have had Dr. Gore on the witness list, but it was only today that I realized how important his testimony was going to be to the defendant’s case.”

  “Important in what way?” Judge Cooley asked me.