The next morning Miss Peach found Mr. Calloway hunched over the defense table, his chin cradled in his hand, waiting for Blair’s final witness. He looked exhausted. Poor man, he must not have slept at all. He did that every trial, but somehow he was always able to reach down deep and find the strength. This day would be no different.
“We call Harrison Palmer,” Captain Blair announced.
Mr. Calloway and Harley exchanged looks.
She’d never heard of him. Mr. Calloway had asked Harley to interview all the witnesses, but Harley had never mentioned him. She flipped back to her notes of Blair’s opening statement: He’ll dispel any doubts and leave you with absolute certainty of the defendant’s guilt.
Detective Harrison Palmer of the Waco Police was as serious and self-confident on the stand as any young gentleman might be. Blair established that Palmer had been a Waco police officer for only one year after learning his trade over three years on the Philadelphia police force.
Miss Peach sniffed. He was hardly more experienced as a policeman than she was as a stenographer.
She flipped back to a clean page in her notepad.
Captain Blair stood at his table. “Were you asked to investigate a homicide involving a bawdy woman by the name of Georgia Virginia Gamble?”
“I was.”
“When was your first involvement?”
“The same day her body was discovered. I went later that morning, after I got to work.”
“What was your job at the scene of the murder?”
“To take statements from witnesses and collect the evidence. I interviewed the madam, Miss Jessie Rose, another whore by the name of Sadie Wiggins, and the madam’s protection man, name of Joe.”
“What did Miss Jessie Rose tell you?”
Mr. Calloway half rose. “Judge, that’s hearsay, and the jury’s already heard everything she had to say anyway.”
The judge nodded. “Got anything new, Captain?”
“Well, Your Honor,” Blair replied, “I’m just showing her story has been consistent all along.”
Mr. Calloway folded his arms. “If he’s gonna say she noted ‘a look of ineffable terror’ on Georgia’s face”—he glanced at the jury—“I stipulate she did, judge. I bet she’s used that line to everybody in the Reservation.”
Several jurors chuckled.
The judge shot Blair a sour look. “Captain, move along to something new.”
“I’m happy to, Judge. Detective Palmer, let’s talk about the gun.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Had it been disturbed before you got there?”
Mr. Calloway lifted a finger. “Objection. He could only speculate about what happened before he arrived.”
“Sustained.”
“All right,” Blair said with some exasperation. “Where did you find it when you arrived?”
“On the floor at the foot of the bed in Miss Georgia’s bedroom.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I examined it closely. Then I broke it open to see if it had been shot.”
“Had it?”
“Yes, sir. One round was discharged.”
“What did you notice about the barrel?”
“This firearm has two barrels, one over the other.” He used his two index fingers to demonstrate the stacked barrels. “The right side of the top barrel had blood on it.”
Blair took the derringer to the witness and showed it to him. “That it?”
“Yes.” Palmer pointed to a red stain.
Then Blair slowly strode along the jury rail, displaying the pistol to the jury as he went. At the north end of the jury box, he turned back to face the detective. “What did you notice about that bloody spot?”
“It contained the impression of a finger,” Palmer answered with a touch of drama.
Blair again walked the bloodstained pistol back along the jury rail. Each juror leaned close to examine the impression again.
“Detective Palmer,” Blair continued, “based on your experience, especially the experience you gained while on the police force of the city of Philadelphia, what is the significance of that bloody finger impression?”
The detective addressed the jury with a sanguine expression. “It enabled me to determine who held the gun.”
Mr. Calloway sprang out of his chair, almost knocking it over. “Whoa now, Your Honor, I’m gonna object to that. He can’t do that just by looking at a spot of dried blood.”
“On the contrary,” Blair replied, glaring at Mr. Calloway as if to challenge him, “that is exactly what he did. He’ll be happy to explain his scientific methods.”
“Scientific?” Mr. Calloway sneered.
Miss Peach’s pen ran dry, and she quickly switched to another. Neither Mr. Calloway nor Harley had ever mentioned anything about this so-called science.
“Let’s hear it,” the judge said.
“Detective Palmer, explain to the court and jury how a trained professional like you can examine the impression of a finger left in blood and identify whose finger it was.”
“Certainly.”
With the bearing of a college professor, Palmer lectured the jury in the science of finger mark analysis. He was quite arrogant, Miss Peach thought, and he spoke quickly. She wrote furiously to capture his exact words.
“Every human being carries, from his cradle to his grave, certain physical marks that don’t change character and by which he can always be identified without doubt,” Palmer said. “These marks are his signature, his physiological autograph. They can’t be counterfeited or disguised, and they don’t wear off. There are no duplicates of a man’s finger markings in all the swarming populations of the globe. This autograph consists of the marks on the hands and the feet. If you look at your fingers”—he held up his own—“you’ll see clearly defined patterns such as arches, circles, long curves, and whorls.”
Blair stood quietly, examining his own fingers as if to suggest that others do the same. Every curious person in the courtroom, including the judge and every juror, inspected his own hand, then his other, and then his neighbor’s. Comparisons followed. Expressions of whispered wonder passed among them.
Miss Peach sketched her own whorls and arches on her notepad.
“Let’s have order,” the judge finally called.
Blair cleared his throat. “Detective, how did you employ this science to identify the murderer?”
“First, I made a careful drawing of the bloody print on a piece of cardboard. Then, using a pantograph”—he pulled the metal instrument from his pocket and expanded it—“I enlarged it ten times, so it would be more visible to the naked eye.”
“What did you do then?”
“I got a drinking glass and filled it with water. Then I went to the jail and paid a call on the defendant.”
“What did you do?”
“I said, ‘Here, young man, I’ve brought you some water,’ and then I handed it to him.”
“Did he take it?”
“Yes.”
“With which hand?”
Palmer held up his own. “His right.”
“Which side of the gun was the bloody finger mark on?”
“The right.”
“What did you do then?”
“I waited until he finished drinking, and then I took the glass back, careful to hold it by the bottom. I took it to my office whereupon I examined it under a magnifying glass.”
“Were there finger markings on the glass?”
“There were.”
“How many?”
“Several. Enough to make my comparison.”
“What did you do then?”
“I took another piece of cardboard and carefully drew the markings as I examined them under the magnifying glass. Then just as I had done with the drawing of the bloody finger mark, I enlarged them ten times using a pantograph. Finally, I laid the drawing of the bloody impression side by side with each of the six impressions from the drinking glass.”
Mr.
Calloway began to rise.
“Detective Palmer,” Captain Blair continued, “tell the jury the result of your scientific investigation.”
Mr. Calloway’s hand flew up in a stopping motion. “Objection! This is hocus-pocus, not science. I’ve been practicing law for almost thirty years, and I’ve never seen any court allow finger smudge evidence like this nonsense. It’s not evidence at all. He might as well just pull a rabbit out of a hat and call it science.”
He wiggled both sets of fingers in front of him as if he were performing a magic trick.
Blair looked cool as a cucumber. “I have law, Your Honor.”
“Let’s have it,” the judge said.
Captain Blair took a law book to the bench and pointed to the relevant text.
Miss Peach exercised her cramping wrist. Finger marks. How interesting. Was this methodology a product of the progress of human knowledge, or was it no better than superstition?
While the judge read the case, Mr. Calloway spoke sarcastically. “I’ve never seen any case that permits a palm reader to testify, Judge. This is claptrap.”
“Well, Detective Palmer is a man of science,” countered Blair, his voice cracking, “and maybe you haven’t opened a law book in a while, Catfish.”
Mr. Calloway bowed up. “If our law books permit trial by soothsayer, then I haven’t missed a thing.”
“He can mock science if he wants—”
“Hang on, gentlemen,” the judge said, sliding the book across the bench to Mr. Calloway. “Have you read Clark against State of Texas?”
Mr. Calloway quickly scanned the case, flipped to the next page, and shook his head. “This is a case about footprints in the dirt that matched a defendant’s boot.” He slammed the book shut and gave it to Blair. “Doesn’t have anything to do with whorls and ridges on fingers.”
Blair’s back was to her but his arms waved with animation. “That opinion, and those cited in it, permitted comparisons of footprints, and fingerprints shouldn’t be any different. Except a finger leaves better prints because it’s got patterns on it, while a boot sole doesn’t.”
The judge was already nodding. “All right. I’ve never heard of such, but I can’t see why a footprint would be admissible yet a fingerprint wouldn’t. I’ll allow it.”
Mr. Calloway turned but shot a glare at the judge. “Note our exception.”
“You have your exception, counselor. Now sit down, and let’s get on with it.”
“And a running objection?” Mr. Calloway added.
“That too,” the judge said, scowling.
Blair resumed. “Detective Palmer, let me repeat my question to you. What was the result of your scientific investigation?”
Palmer fussed with his four-in-hand knotted tie so that it was perfectly aligned with the stripes in his silk vest. He lifted his chin toward the jury. “On the barrel of that gun stands the assassin’s natal autograph, written in the blood of the helpless whore. There is only one man in the whole earth whose hand can duplicate that crimson sign: the defendant, Cicero Sweet.”
Cicero shook his head furiously.
Mr. Calloway sat stoically with his chin resting on steepled hands, lost in thought. He had to do something quickly, though. Blair was finished, and the judge and the jury were watching him expectantly. Detective Palmer had an infuriatingly smug expression.
Finally, Mr. Calloway rose. “Your Honor, this is the first we’ve heard of this finger smudge business. I request a recess.”
“Very well, court will be in recess for fifteen minutes.”
“Maybe until this afternoon, Judge?”
“No, sir. I’ll give you an hour. Gentlemen of the jury, be back in the deliberation room in one hour sharp.”
As soon as the judge and jury exited the courtroom, Mr. Calloway took off like a shot.
“Where are you going?” Harley shouted after him.
“To get something from the Growlery. Be back.”
“Can I help?” Harley asked, but he was already out the door.
Miss Peach gathered her things, perplexed. Mr. Calloway’s library was crammed with reading material. He was a voracious reader, even more so since Mrs. Calloway died, according to Harley. He had hundreds of books and stacks of magazines going back years. He read every issue of Harper’s, Munsey’s, and The Century cover to cover. He even subscribed to the British periodical The Strand. She’d enjoyed their discussions about that British detective Sherlock Holmes.
What could he possibly need from the Growlery?
She and Harley went next door to the Blackwell Hotel, where Harley brooded over a cup of coffee. Forty-five minutes later, they found Mr. Calloway already back in court at the counsel table, hunkered over some magazines.
“What are you reading?” Harley asked.
“Just fiddling.” That meant don’t bother me now.
A stack of magazines stood beside him: The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine, five issues in addition to the one he was frantically reading. She pressed her lips together. A literary magazine?
Henry Sweet came over, but Mr. Calloway waved him off. Harley glanced at Miss Peach. She shrugged back. Harley took his seat and waited.
Something was brewing.
Chapter 33
Papa stood, arms crossed, at the defense table. “Detective Palmer, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Not at all.”
“That’s great. I just found your testimony fascinating.” He nodded his head as if he was puzzled with something. “Maybe you can help me on some things I’m curious about.”
“I’ll try to help you understand.”
Harley glanced at Papa, then back at the witness. There was arrogance in the policeman’s voice. He was going to teach Papa a thing or two. Harley had no idea what Papa was going to do, but he was certain that Papa was the master, not the pupil. He eased back to watch.
Papa gave the officer an uncertain expression. “Do you think the blood on that derringer came from Miss Georgia?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So when she got shot, blood sprayed out and some of it landed on the gun?”
“I presume so.”
“And then the killer touched the barrel?”
“Yes.”
“So it had to be the killer who touched it?”
“Yes.”
“Couldn’t be the mark of somebody else like Miss Jessie or Miss Sadie or Big Joe, or even you or Sergeant Quinn?”
“No, it matched the defendant.”
“I see. Well, I’ll come back to that matching business shortly.” He paced back to the bar rail. “You do know Miss Jessie Rose, Miss Sadie Wiggins, and a man named Big Joe were also there at the sporting house at the time of the shooting, right?”
“That’s my understanding.”
He wrinkled his nose. “You didn’t compare finger smudge marks from any of them?”
“No, nor of President Cleveland.” The jury rewarded him with a chuckle, as did Papa. “The bloody print matched the defendant. There was no need to compare others.”
“I’ll come back to that. For now, though, that pistol somehow made its way from the sporting house to the courthouse and was brought to both the county courtroom for the inquest and the district courtroom for this trial. So other folks touched it somewhere along the line, right?”
“True. But your client matches the prints.”
Palmer was putting everything on the match. Was Papa baiting him?
He grinned at the officer. “Yes, sir. I promise you I’ll get to your science in a minute. But for now, somebody other than the shooter touched the gun?”
“True.”
“All right. And I expect your science can’t tell you when the person who laid that print actually touched it?”
“It had to have been before the blood dried.”
“Sure, but you don’t know at what point in time before it dried?”
“Not with certainty.”
“What you do know for ce
rtain is that this impression was made after she got shot?”
“True.”
“It’s not proof this person who made the print was holding the gun at the time of the shooting, is it?”
“It proves your client touched it.”
Papa scratched his head and swung his back to the jury. He winked at Harley and slowly turned toward Palmer. “Well, sir, you keep bringing me back to it, so I expect we better talk about this science of yours. Is it called finger smudge science?”
“Physiological autograph evidence.”
“Physiological . . . autograph . . . evidence,” he repeated. “Sounds awful smart. One thing I was wondering when I heard you talk about this—did you go to some school to learn about it?”
“Not specifically, no.”
“So there’s not a”—he gazed up at the whirling ceiling fan as if to find the words—“department of physiological autography at some college back east somewhere?”
“Not that I know of.”
Papa nodded and ambled toward the jury, stopping right in front of them. “Not some laboratory where they do experiments to see how many times a smudge print comparison gets it wrong or gets it right?”
“Not to my knowledge. This field of scientific understanding is relatively new.”
“New science, huh?” He cocked his head to one side as if it might look different viewed from another angle. “Well, where is it exactly you picked up this new finger smudge science?”
“I first learned of the use of physiological autograph evidence as a tool of criminal investigation when I was in the police department in Philadelphia.”
“Oh, you did, eh?” Papa eyed the witness in amazement. “So back east, they did comparisons in court as you’ve done here today?”
“Not that I recall.”
He gave Palmer a look of disappointment. “Philadelphia detectives didn’t testify to juries about it?”
“I don’t believe anyone has thought to do that yet.”
Papa’s eyes widened. “Oh, so you’re the first one smart enough to figure it out?”
“I’m sure it’s been done elsewhere, probably by Scotland Yard.”
“Maybe that detective Sherlock Holmes? He’s done it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you heard of anybody anywhere in Texas doing what you’ve done here?”
The Sporting House Killing: A Gilded Age Legal Thriller Page 21
