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

“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 certain 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?”

“Not testifying in court, but it’s well-known science around the world. There was a scholarly article published in Nature magazine in 1880 about studies done by Dr. Henry Faulds, a Scottish physician, while he was in Japan. I believe he even worked with Charles Darwin on it. Other scholars have taken up the study in the last seven or eight years, particularly in Britain. Scotland Yard, as I said, has great interest in it. The technique is used by prisons and police departments in this country for identification purposes of many kinds. The army uses it to identify recruits.”

“Nature magazine, eh? So you based your work on this scholarly magazine article?”

“In part.”

“Got a copy of it I can look at?”

“No.”

“You read it?”

“I’ve never actually seen a copy of that article, no. I’ve just heard about it.”

“Did you check with the library here in town?”

“No, sir.”

“Well,” Papa said, thoughtfully, “I suppose you can’t be expected to read an article you don’t have, can you?”

“Certainly not.”

“Read any other articles about finger smudge science?”

“No.”

“Not a one?”

The detective had the sense to look uncomfortable by this point. “No.”

“Well, I’ll circle back to that in a