“Doubles up as mace.” She poured liberally. “You notice I’m wearing a cross.” She pointed to her necklace. “Jurors three, nine and ten, they’re active churchgoers.” She had done the consulting herself, sat through two days of torturous selection, struck a couple that’d likely volunteer to execute the man themselves, moved for liberals only to see Deschamps repay the courtesy.
“That gun.” She sighed. “The bullet. Like it wasn’t bad enough.”
Walk took a steadying breath. “I have faith in you.”
“You’re just trying to get in my pants.”
Walk noticed she seemed anxious the next morning. They stood when Rhodes came in, took his seat on the grand chair, between the flags.
Vincent sat up front in a cheap suit that Walk had picked out, no tie, he flat refused.
Martha called her own doctor first, Mr. Cohen. She’d helped his daughter out of a bind once, another sorry story of a deadbeat asshole with quick fists, but Cohen was grateful enough to repay his little girl’s savior.
They went through photos of Star Radley’s injuries, both noted the severity. And then, the photographs of Vincent King’s hands. Slight swelling on the right, but likely old, and likely from an altercation Vincent had gotten into a few days prior.
On the cross Deschamps got Cohen to admit he could not say for sure when the swelling occurred, and that a man of Vincent’s size could inflict injury just as easily with an open hand.
Martha moved on to the issue of gunshot residue, brought in her expert, a forensic scientist hired on Walk’s dime, his dwindling savings amassed from a staid life. She was young but confident, held the room as she spoke. She ran them through the science, elemental composition, the chain reaction, the plume expelled during gunshot. No residue was found on Vincent King.
Martha looked on during the cross, watched her expert admit the residue could have been washed off, the faucet was running after all, sweated off, not been there in the first place if Vincent King had left the room right after firing.
Walk took to the stand once again. This time he smiled, admitted he was Vincent’s childhood friend but that was a long time ago. He was actually the one who turned him in all those years back. His duty was to uphold the law, and he wouldn’t let anything get in the way of that.
And then Martha stepped to the front, took a breath and fired her own kill shot.
The butcher.
Milton.
Deschamps narrowed her eyes and straightened up a little.
Martha had Walk detail Milton’s early life, how his father was a butcher in the shop he went on to run. Walk said he was an outcast, the kind of kid that others crossed the street to get away from. Deschamps objected, cited hearsay, but the point was made.
That outcast had turned into a troubled adult. He was lonely, to the point where he often got talking to vacationers and asked them to go hunting with him. Yes, Milton liked to hunt. She detailed the weapons registered to him, the list was long and Walk watched the jurors exchanging glances.
“Would you say you were close to Milton?” Martha stood by the jury box as she spoke.
“I liked him. I felt bad for the guy, he always seemed a little desperate, but I just figured he was shy. He didn’t have friends, no one he could call on.”
“So he called on you?”
“Sometimes. We went hunting together, just the once, I like the eating but not the killing.”
A couple of laughs.
“So he was proficient with these weapons.”
“More than that. I saw him bring down a mule deer from a thousand yards. The man could shoot.” Walk aimed his answer at juror one, who hunted the Mendocino, just like Milton used to.
Martha moved it on, establishing that Milton lived across from Star, how he used to lend her his truck and take out her trash.
“I thought it was decent of him,” Walk said. “She had someone looking out for her.”
“Someone other than you?”
“Yeah.”
Walk met her eye then. She was doing well. He was proud of her.
Martha called their attention to exhibit C.
“Can you tell me what these are, Chief Walker?”
Walk ran them through it, what he’d found in Milton’s bedroom. Some of the jurors shook their heads at them, photos of Star in various states of undress.
“And how many of these were there?”
Walk blew out his cheeks. “A lot. Hundreds. They were catalogued by date, going back far.”
“An obsession.”
Deschamps looked like she wanted to object but held tight.
“It looks that way,” Walk agreed.
“Now you said Milton had a telescope.”
“He said he liked to watch the stars.” Walk said it even and waited for the jurors to catch it.
“But it wasn’t trained on the sky?”
Deschamps stood, said nothing and sat again.
“So what did it aim at?”
“Star Radley’s bedroom.”
“And the cataloguing, how recent did it go?”
“Up to the night Star was murdered.”
“And the photos from that night?”
“Missing. They haven’t been found yet.”
Martha eyed the jurors. “And what did Milton say when you asked him about it?”
“I didn’t get the chance. We pulled his body out of the water last month.”
Gasps then, loud enough for Rhodes to quiet them.
“He drowned,” Walk said. “No sign of foul play.”
“Suicide.” Martha let the word hang there as Deschamps got to her feet and screamed her objection. Martha withdrew it, but not before it had registered with everyone in that courtroom.
Deschamps tried hard at redirect, color in her cheeks as she got Walk to admit they hadn’t found Milton’s prints at the Radley house. He could’ve worn gloves. Walk didn’t need to say it. The guy was a butcher, he wore gloves. There was no stretch required.
The mood was better in the bar that night. Walk ordered them burgers and they ate in contented silence. Martha looked tired, the pressure so great. They talked a little about Vincent, and how he hadn’t reacted to Milton, just sat there like always, eyes down, ignoring the stares.
“It was a good day.”
Martha chewed the straw in
