The Sporting House Killing by G. Powell (best non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

anything else which might give a clue as to the cause of the defendant being unconscious?”

“Yes. There were empty beer bottles on the floor of the room.”

“How many?”

“We collected six.”

“Did you at some point arrest Mr. Sweet?”

“I did. We got him awake enough to move, and then I took him into custody.”

“Did you also take the derringer into your possession?”

“No, sir. Detective Palmer arrived pretty soon, and he took charge of the investigation. I think he took the pistol and other evidence.”

“Pass the witness.” Captain Blair nodded in satisfaction and took his seat.

Catfish stood at his table. He glanced at Henry and his wife in the front row of the gallery, placed a hand on Cicero’s shoulder, and smiled at the witness. “How do, Sergeant. You mind if I question you from my feet rather than my back?”

“Sure,” Quinn replied, smiling back.

“I’m not as young as the captain and might have trouble getting back up,” he said, grinning.

The jurors smiled too—Blair wasn’t that much younger.

Catfish looked over at Blair. “You didn’t get any blood on your papers there on that bed, did you?”

A juror laughed. Blair ignored the question.

Catfish turned to the witness for the first time. “I’d like to start with some things I wager you and I can agree on. It’s important, isn’t it, the killer of this young woman be brought to justice?”

“Yes, sir,” Quinn said.

“Do you think, though, it’s important to bring the right man to justice?”

“Of course.”

“Can we agree that convicting the wrong man would be a terrible injustice?”

“Certainly.”

“And letting a killer go free because an innocent man is convicted instead would endanger”—he extended his hands toward both spectators and jurors—“innocent folks?”

“It would.”

Catfish glanced up at the judge, who was fanning himself with a cardboard folder. “Do you think Judge Goodrich might tell the jury in his charge that if they have any reasonable doubts about who did it, then they must acquit Mr. Sweet?”

“I’ve heard that before, but I don’t know about this case.”

“Well, sir, getting the right man into the courtroom is the job of your police department, true?”

“True.”

“Would you agree also that doing a thorough investigation is the best way to do that job?”

“Yes.”

“Leave no stone unturned?”

“We try not to let one lie.”

He could build a wall with the stones they ignored.

“Very well, let’s visit about those stones,” he said with an easy smile.

He came around behind the prosecution table and stopped between it and the jury. “I noticed on direct examination you didn’t mention something.”

Quinn looked uncertain. “What are you referring to?”

“Sergeant Quinn, did you take the time to examine Mr. Sweet while he was lying on the floor?”

“I did. As I said, he was naked.”

Catfish tilted his head upward toward the ceiling. “You said he was face up?”

“Yes.”

“So you saw the large knot on his forehead above his left eye?” He turned to the jury and pointed to his own forehead.

“I don’t recall seeing that.”

“Are you denying he had a knot on his head?”

“No, I just didn’t notice it if he did.”

“I see. If he had a knot on his head, that might indicate somebody hit him?”

“Maybe. Or that he hit his head on the bedstead when he fell over drunk.”

“Fair enough.” Catfish nodded. “But you didn’t ask the madam or any of the others what they knew about that knot?”

“No.”

“Like whether he had a knot on his head before he went upstairs?”

“No.”

“That stone never got flipped over to see what was under it?”

Catfish swiveled to face the jury and lifted both hands, palms up: Who hit him, fellas?

“I don’t even know there was a knot, Mr. Calloway.”

“Fair enough. We’ll be proving that later. But you did at least look at Mr. Sweet while he was still lying on the floor?”

“I did.”

“Didn’t have any blood on him, did he?”

“I don’t remember any.”

Catfish extended his right hand and flipped it over and back, examining both sides. “None on his right hand?”

“I don’t think so.”

He left his hand in front of his face. “Well, Sergeant, after you saw the blood on the right side of the derringer, didn’t you naturally think to look at Mr. Sweet’s right hand?” He gazed at the jurors until they were all watching him, and then he wiggled his fingers. “Particularly his fingers?”

“I suppose.”

“Well, sir”—he extended his right forefinger—“if he had a bloody trigger finger, that’d be a mighty big stone to kick over, wouldn’t it?”

“Probably.”

“Either way, whether you checked or you didn’t, you’re not here to swear he had blood on his fingers?”

“He could have wiped it off. There was blood on the bedclothes.”

Catfish scratched his head thoughtfully. “Here’s another thing I was wondering about. Did you learn about a buggy, a red Stanhope gig, parked on the street across from the sporting house at the time of the killing?”

“No, sir.”

“Didn’t find out about that?”

“No.”

“Mighty big stone.”

Catfish shrugged at the jury: Whose buggy?

“Objection to the sidebar comment,” Blair shouted.

“Move along, Catfish,” the judge said, fanning himself faster.

“Yes, sir.” He nodded to the judge before his gaze went back to Quinn. “Did you talk to any other customers of Miss Jessie’s from that night?”

“No.”

“Or anyone who was at any of the places next door?”

“No.”

“Or at the Red Front Saloon?”

“No, sir.”

“Or any hack drivers?”

“No, sir.”

Catfish waited before asking the next question. Nothing like silence to get a jury’s attention. Then he’d lob the killer’s name like a firecracker right into the middle of the jury box and watch the shock on their faces.

“Sergeant, you mentioned Orman’s Alley a minute ago.” Catfish eyed the jury. “You know Bud Orman, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Catfish spoke with all the incredulity he could muster. “But you didn’t think to question him?”

“No.”

None of the jurors reacted at all to Orman’s name. Not even Wade Morrison. Didn’t they remember he was a murderer? He glanced at Harley, who didn’t meet his eyes. Or wouldn’t.

Catfish cocked his head toward Quinn. “Didn’t even turn over that stone?”

“It wasn’t necessary.”

Still no reaction from the jury.

Catfish took his seat. Well, no worries. They’d understand. Just needed time. “Pass the