Destiny of Eagles (18 page)

“Mr. Roosevelt, you may call your first witness,” Judge Heckemeyer said when court resumed.

“Defense calls Sheriff Walter Merrill of Belfield,” Roosevelt said.

“I object, Your Honor,” Woodward said. “What possible connection does the sheriff of Belfield have to this case?”

“Your Honor, it goes to motive,” Roosevelt answered. “Sheriff Merrill can dispute prosecution's claim that this whole incident was the result of an innocent mistake.”

“Objection overruled. The witness may testify.”

Sheriff Merrill was sworn; then he took the witness chair.

“Sheriff, did you know Creed Howard?”

“I didn't know him personally, but I knew who he was,” Sheriff Merrill replied.

“How so?”

“A few weeks ago we hung Thad Howard. Creed Howard was Thad Howard's brother.”

“And you know this because?”

“Because Creed and Bob Howard come to visit their brother, Thad, a few times before he was hung.”

“Who is Bob Howard?”

“Better ask, who was Bob Howard,” Sheriff Merrill replied. “He was Creed Howard's brother.”

“Did he ever go by another name?”

“Yes. He sometimes went by the name of Bob Rafferty on account of he had a different mother from Thad and Creed. But he was a Howard too.”

“Do you know what happened to Bob Howard?”

“Yes. He was killed a few weeks ago.”

“Who killed him?”

“Falcon MacCallister.”

The courtroom buzzed, and for a moment Anna wondered if perhaps Roosevelt wasn't making a mistake by calling that to everyone's attention.

“Was Falcon MacCallister responsible in any way for Thad Howard's death?”

“Yes, sir, you might say that in a way, he was,” Sheriff Merrill replied. “You see, it was him what brung Thad Howard in.”

“So, on the night Creed Howard went into Mr. MacCallister's room, both of his brothers were already dead, and Creed Howard blamed their deaths on Falcon MacCallister?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Calls for speculation. The witness would have to be a mind reader to answer that question.”

“Sustained.”

“Let me reword that,” Roosevelt said. “Do you know who killed the man identified as Bob Rafferty, but whom we now know was Bob Howard?”

“The coroner's report says that he was killed by Falcon MacCallister,” Sheriff Merrill answered.

“And though the hangman was ultimately responsible for the execution of Thad Howard, who brought him to justice?”

“Falcon MacCallister.”

“All right, I'm not going to ask you who you think Creed Howard believed was responsible for the deaths of his two brothers. But I am going to ask you—”

“Objection, Your Honor, we've already been through this. The question calls for speculation,” Woodward protested.

“Your Honor, I'm asking the sheriff who he believes is responsible. It is a question he can answer because it goes to his own thought process.”

Heckemeyer paused for a moment, considering both remarks, then he responded.

“Objection overruled. You may question the sheriff about his personal belief, but you cannot ask him to speculate on whether or not Creed Howard blamed MacCallister.”

“Very well, Your Honor,” Roosevelt replied. Then, to the witness, he said, “Sheriff, do you believe that Falcon MacCallister was responsible for the death of the two Howard brothers?”

“He was responsible for all three of them,” Sheriff Merrill blurted out, and the gallery laughed.

“Thank you, no further questions.”

Roosevelt's next witnesses were experts on Falcon's accuracy with a firearm. There were three witnesses, all of whom had participated in shooting matches with Falcon. All were expert marksmen, but all conceded that Falcon was better than they were, better, in fact, than anyone they had ever seen use a gun.

“Tell me this,” Roosevelt asked the first witness. “In a twelve-by-twelve-foot hotel room, is it likely that Mr. MacCallister could discharge his weapon four times in the direction of a man, and yet manage only one hit?”

“Objection, Your Honor, calls for speculation,” Woodward said.

“Your Honor, this witness and the succeeding witnesses are all experts in the field of marksmanship. Indeed, when I began reading their qualifications, prosecution stipulated to same. As expert witnesses, they are entitled to speculate. That's what expert witnesses do.”

“Objection overruled,” Heckemeyer said. “Witness may answer the question.”

“It is not likely that in a room of the size you describe, Falcon MacCallister could fire four shots at a man and miss three times. In fact, it is not likely that he would miss one time.”

“Let us say that Mr. MacCallister and Creed Howard were both in a twelve-by-twelve room,” Roosevelt said. “Let us say, also, that there are two pistols in the room, both of which are .44-caliber pistols. An examination of the cylinder in the pistol belonging to Falcon MacCallister shows only one empty cartridge. An examination of Mr. Howard's pistol shows three empty cartridges. There are two bullet holes in the mattress. Who do you think is responsible for the bullet holes in the mattress?”

“Objection, speculation beyond the scope of this witness's expertise,” Woodward called.

“Hell, Counselor, you don't have to be an expert to figure that out,” the witness replied. “Any six-year-old with half a brain could answer that question.”

The gallery erupted into loud laughter, and Judge Heckemeyer had to bang his gavel to restore order.

“Any more outbreaks like that and I will clear this court,” Heckemeyer said sternly when he had finally restored order. Then he glared at the witness. “The witness is ordered to speak only when responding to a direct question. Another spontaneous response such as you just gave will result in a citing for contempt of court. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” the witness replied contritely. “It won't happen again.”

“It had better not. Now, as regard to the objection, the objection is overruled. You may answer the question.”

“Your Honor, after all this, I've forgotten the question,” the witness said.

The gallery laughed, but it was a carefully controlled laugh.

“You may ask the question again,” Heckemeyer said to Roosevelt.

Roosevelt chuckled. “I'm sorry, Your Honor, I've forgotten the question as well.”

Again the gallery laughed, somewhat louder this time, though they did manage to keep it under control.

“Clerk will read the question,” Heckemeyer said.

A thin, middle-aged man, with a prominent Adam's apple and thick glasses read from his notes.

“Thank you,” Roosevelt said to the clerk. Then to his witness: “You may answer the question.”

“I would say that Creed Howard was responsible for the bullet holes in the mattress.”

“Thank you,” Roosevelt said. “No further questions.”

Woodward walked over from the prosecutor's table, then took off his glasses and polished them for a moment while he formed his question.

“You have testified that Falcon MacCallister is an excellent shot,” he began.

“Best I ever seen,” the witness replied.

“As an expert witness, would you say that some men can shoot very well at a still target, and yet those same men, as good as they might be, would have a more difficult time shooting at a man?”

“Oh, yes, sir. It happens all the time,” the witness replied.

“So, such a man might hit a target four times out of four, but in a life-and-death situation, firing against an armed adversary, his accuracy might be impaired.”

“His accuracy might be what?”

“He is less likely to hit an armed man four times out of four than he would be to hit a stationary target.”

The witness nodded. “Yes, sir, that's true.”

“Thank you, no further questions.”

“But if you're a-thinkin' that MacCallister missed three shots out of four, you're dead wrong. He ain't—”

“Thank you,” Woodward said again, more sharply this time. “I have no further questions.”

The witness, mindful of Judge Heckemeyer's admonition to say nothing except in response to a direct question, stopped in mid-sentence.

The succeeding witnesses substantiated the testimony of the first, insisting that Falcon would not shoot four times but manage only one hit.

“Your Honor, defense recalls Mr. Elton Bowman,” Roosevelt said.

Elton Bowman had been one of the guests in the hotel who had come to the room in response to hearing the shots.

“Mr. Roosevelt, from all I've heard about you, you're a good man. But I'm a-tellin' you right now, I ain't a'goin' to change my testimony none,” Bowman insisted when he took his chair. “I seen what I seen, and that's it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bowman,” Roosevelt said. “In fact, I don't want you to change your testimony. But I'm less interested in what you saw than I am in what you heard.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The gunshots. I want you to tell the court about the gunshots you heard.”

“I heard four of 'em.”

Roosevelt returned to the table and picked up a piece of paper.

“Yes,” he said. “I wrote down your testimony. And, of course, so did the court clerk. But I want to read this back to you, and I would like for you to verify if it is correct.”

“All right,” Bowman agreed.

“I am particularly interested in the rhythm of the gunshots,” Roosevelt said.

“The what?”

“The rhythm.”

Bowman shook his head. “I don't know what you mean by that.”

“By rhythm, I mean the pattern of the shooting, the way the sound happened. You said you heard the gunshots like this, I believe. ‘Bang, bang, bang,' a short pause, then ‘bang.' Is that correct?”

“Bang, bang, bang . . . bang. Yes, sir, that's exactly the way I heard it.”

“Thank you. No further questions.”

Two other witnesses testified that the sound pattern was exactly as Bowman had said. Bang, bang, bang . . . bang. Only Fillmore, the hotel clerk, stuck to his original story that it was bang, bang . . . bang, bang.

“Very well, Mr. Fillmore, I know that these things can be confusing,” Roosevelt said. “So, let's get on to something else, shall we?”

“All right.”

“How did Creed Howard get into Falcon MacCallister's room?”

“He used the key.”

“Does the key to room twenty-three also fit room twenty-five?”

“No, of course not,” Fillmore answered. “If that was the case, there wouldn't be no need to lock the doors.”

“So somehow . . . perhaps by mistake, Creed Howard had the key to MacCallister's room. Is that your understanding?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, there was a key found in the door, was there not?”

“Yes.”

“How do you suppose that key got there?”

“I don't know, unless Mr. MacCallister left it in the door when he first arrived. That happens from time to time.”

“When a guest signs in, how many keys do you give him?”

“Why, I give him one key, of course.”

“Do you have more than one key to a room?”

“Yes.”

“If you give one key to the guest, what happens to the second key?”

“There are a bunch of hooks just behind the desk. Each hook has a number that corresponds to the room number, and the extra key is hangin' on them hooks.”

Roosevelt returned to the defense table and picked up a sheet of paper. “This is the inventory of things that Falcon MacCallister had on his person when he was arrested.” Roosevelt mumbled through a few items, then he read, “One room key, fitting the lock of the door to room two-five.”

“Yes, the one in the door. He must've left it there,” Fillmore said.

Roosevelt shook his head. “No, Mr. Fillmore. This inventory covers only those things that MacCallister had on his person. It was not until the next day that Sheriff Dennis returned the key to you. The key in the door was a second key, was it not?”

“It . . . yes . . . I suppose it was,” Fillmore said.

“So much for the keys. Let's move on to something else. All the witnesses testified that the lamps in the hall were dark. Why didn't you light the lanterns that night?”

“What are you talking about? I did light them!” Fillmore declared resolutely. “I light them every night. Why, that's just as regular as windin' the clock.”

“I can understand one lantern burning out. But all of them? Is that very likely?”

“Well, no, it isn't,” Fillmore admitted. “But I did light them,” he insisted.

“Oh, I believe you, Mr. Fillmore.”

“I should hope that you believe me.”

“So, if you lit them, what happened? Why were they all out?”

“I . . . I don't know.”