It was investigative work Papa’d sent him on this time. At Miss Jessie’s bawdy house, no one answered the door, so he decided to check the sheriff’s office for reports of Cicero. Then he ran into Papa, who said there was an inquest into a killing. He didn’t know who’d been killed yet, but he was worried it might be Cicero.
A deputy said the inquest was in the first-floor courtroom of the McLennan County Court, so they headed there together.
Justice of the Peace Gallagher was questioning a witness from the bench when they entered.
He paused the interrogation. “Catfish, you and Harley know anything about this killing?”
“No, Judge, just here to watch,” Papa answered.
“All right, have a seat.”
They took the right front bench in the spectator gallery. The woman in the witness chair was handsome though not quite pretty, probably in her late twenties. She was neatly dressed in a waist jacket and high-necked blouse with a large black bow. Her black hair lay curled and pinned beneath a straw boater. A slight accent gave her a certain elegance. The court reporter busily took down her testimony.
Judge Gallagher, who also served as the acting coroner for McLennan County, had empaneled a coroner’s jury of six men. He usually gathered them from the town square in such situations; in murder cases, he wanted his inquest jury to see the body and couldn’t wait for the sheriff to issue summonses. They listened from the jury box. The bailiff and several police officers, keystone hats in hand, also listened. Police Sergeant Quinn stood, arms crossed, in front of the judge’s bench next to a cot with a body laid out, covered head to foot with a blanket.
“Sorry for the interruption, Miss Rose,” Judge Gallagher said. “After you heard that gunshot, what did you do?”
“I got my pistol and waited at the bottom of the stairs.”
“Was anyone else with you?”
“Yes, my assistant, Big Joe, and one of my other boarders, Miss Sadie.”
Maybe her accent was French or Cajun.
The judge took notes. “How many whores you got?”
“I had five boarders until this happened.”
Papa leaned over to Harley. “Must be Miss Jessie.”
“Where were the others?” the judge asked.
“Elsewhere.”
The jurors appeared intent on the witness. The scratching of the court reporter’s pen on his pad and the humming of ceiling fans were the only noises in the room. Occasionally, on the street outside the open windows, a horse neighed or a trolley car clattered past.
“What’d you do?”
“We went upstairs to her room. We listened outside the door but didn’t hear anything.”
She seemed quite at ease in front of a judge and jury. Most witnesses directed their answers to the one questioning them, as in a conversation. Miss Jessie seemed to understand her testimony was as much for the jury as the judge. It probably wasn’t her first time in a courtroom.
“I knocked and called out her name,” she said, “but there was no answer.”
“What’d you do then?”
“We went inside.”
“What’d you find?”
“Miss Georgia was lying across the bed with blood all over her and the sheets.”
“What did she look like?”
“Her eyes were wide open.” She turned from the judge to the jury. “She had a look of ineffable terror on her face.”
Papa made a barely audible grumbling sound. Harley had studied his father many times and thought he knew all his courtroom habits and practices, but grumbling was something new. He probably felt frustrated that he couldn’t cross-examine this witness, like a horse he couldn’t ride, or a gun he couldn’t shoot, or a whiskey he couldn’t sip. Papa had made his reputation cross-examining prosecution witnesses. Careful observation of the witness was the key; he picked up every nuance, every subtle facial expression. Then, in his boyishly charming way, he would steal the stage from the witness. Harley had practiced the art of observation himself, but stage-stealing was another matter.
Harley settled back in his chair.
Judge Gallagher paused to finish writing something. “Step down, Miss Rose, and go over there to that cot. I’ll ask the officer to pull the blanket back just a bit for you.”
The jurors all sat upright and craned their necks to see. Quinn pulled the blanket back just enough to reveal the face to the witness while blocking the view from the gallery. Papa leaned to see around him, but Harley couldn’t see a thing.
Miss Jessie looked at the face and began to sniffle. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Do you know that woman?” the judge asked.
“Yes, Judge, that’s Miss Georgia.”
“Miss Georgia who?”
“Georgia Virginia Gamble.”
The judge wrote something, then looked up. “How old was she?”
“I don’t know, perhaps nineteen.”
“Was she a whore in your bawdy house?”
“Yes, she was one of my boarders.”
“All right, ma’am, take your seat again, please.”
She returned to her chair, still sniffling softly.
“Did you—”
A train whistle shrieked a loud blast, and the rumbling of the train made it impossible to hear what the judge was saying. The building vibrated slightly. The Cotton Belt switch track ran just a block away.
“Sorry for the interruption,” the judge called over the noise. After the train had passed, he continued. “Did you see any weapons in the room?”
“Yes. On the floor at the foot of the bed, there was a derringer.”
“The bailiff will show you a pistol, ma’am.”
The deputy sheriff picked up a small pistol from the court reporter’s desk, held it by the tip of the handle, and showed it to her. The jurors watched intently.
“Is that it?” the judge asked.
“Yes, sir. That’s the one I saw.”
“Does it appear to you to be a Remington Model Ninety-Five derringer?”
She shrugged. “I suppose.”
“How about that dried blood on the barrel?” The judge peered at her over his spectacles. “You know how it
