“No idea at all,” the detective said.
“That’s odd,” Lily said, “because I do have an idea. It was signed out by an officer named Sheila Burton. Are you acquainted with her, by any chance?”
“Sure. She used to work for the department.”
“Yes, she did. And now she’s moved to Idaho, I believe. Do you know under what circumstances she left the Port Hancock Police Department?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you know why she would have had reason to sign Jason Lightfoot’s clothing out?”
“She might have thought she was helping the case in some way,” Hitchens offered. “I don’t know.”
“Are you sure about that, Detective? Because I can have Sheila Burton come here to testify. And I think you know what she’ll say -- that you and she were having an affair at the time, and that she signed the clothing out at your request.”
“Objection!” John Henry declared. “Assumes testimony not in evidence.”
“Rephrase, Miss Burns,” Grace Pelletier said.
“Yes, I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Lily responded before turning back to Hitchens. “Hypothetically, Detective, if I were to call Sheila Burton to the witness stand, and put her under oath, would she testify that she had signed the defendant’s clothing out at your request?”
“She may say that,” Hitchens said smoothly. “But I don’t recall making any such request.”
“That’s certainly possible,” Lily conceded. “She could have been acting on her own. But there’s something about this case that doesn’t sit right with me, so let me ask for your opinion. Let’s say -- just hypothetically, you understand -- that on the night of the murder, Jason Lightfoot comes out of the bar drunk, as we already know he was, and stumbles into his box, as we already know was his habit. And, just for the sake of argument, let’s say that Dale Scott meets his killer in the alley and they get into a fight. Perhaps the killer has no choice but to pull the trigger, and after he does so, he realizes that Jason may have witnessed his crime. So he follows Jason into his box, intending to dispose of this witness, only to realize that Jason is passed out, and likely has no idea what just happened. So instead of killing him, he hits on a better idea. He wraps Jason’s hands around the murder weapon and fires it into the bed, assuring that there’ll be gunshot residue all over Jason’s hands and clothing. The police then investigate, find the gunshot residue -- but not the second bullet, and just like that, they have themselves a killer. Would you say that’s a reasonable alternative?”
“Maybe, if I was writing fiction,” Hitchens said.
“Oh, you don’t think much of my theory?” Lily inquired.
“No, not so much.”
“All right, let me ask you something else then. The night after the murder, after all the evidence had been gathered at the crime scene, and the yellow tape had come down -- actually, it was pretty late that night, past midnight, I’m told, didn’t you come back to the alley, looking for Jason Lightfoot’s box?”
The detective’s mouth was suddenly very dry. “So what if I did?” he said.
“So, I’m just curious -- why?”
“I wanted to make sure everything relevant had been collected.”
“Even though, as Officer Dawson has testified, you told him he could ignore the box?”
“Well, that’s why I went back -- I had second thoughts.”
“I see.”
“I didn’t think there’d be anything there, but I wanted to look around, just to make sure.”
“Are you sure you didn’t know exactly what you were looking for, Detective Hitchens?” Lily inquired. “And weren’t you beside yourself when you found the box was gone?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about a bullet, Detective. A second bullet that was fired into Jason Lightfoot’s bed that night. That’s what you were looking for, wasn’t it?”
“Of course not,” he declared. “I had no idea a second bullet had been fired. Besides, there’s no way to prove it was fired that night.”
“Or to prove it wasn’t,” Lily reminded him.
“We made a good arrest,” Hitchens declared, although there was no question pending. “I had a good faith belief that the Indian had killed my partner. And apparently, so did the two officers who brought him in. Now you can twist it anyway you like, but the facts are the facts.”
“Did you like your late partner, Detective?” Lily asked abruptly.
“I liked him okay, sure.”
“Didn’t you find his increasing violence to be of concern?”
“He had a temper. I wouldn’t necessarily call him violent.”
“You wouldn’t?” Lily crossed to the defense table and picked up a file. When she returned to the witness box, she casually positioned the file on the edge of the witness box, so that he could clearly see the label. It read: Margaret Dean. “Are you sure about that, Detective?”
Hitchens’ face went ashen. He stared at the label for a moment, and then looked up at Lily. “I suppose some might have considered him volatile,” he said reluctantly. “As I said, he had a temper. I suppose he might have gone over the edge once or twice.”
“He put his wife in the hospital eight times in three years, and you think he might have gone over the edge once or twice?”
“Objection!” John Henry exclaimed. “Counsel is stating facts not in evidence.”
“My apologies for getting ahead of myself, Your Honor,” Lily said, handing Margaret Dean’s file to the court clerk. “Defense 31.”
The clerk took the file and passed it up to the judge. Grace Pelletier glanced through it, doing everything she could to prevent the shock from showing on her face. Finally, she closed the file, nodded, and directed that it be placed into evidence and then returned it to Lily who promptly handed it over to the prosecutor.
“Proceed,” the judge said.
“I repeat, Detective, would you not call someone who put his wife in the hospital eight times in three years violent?”
“What went on between him and his wife was between him and his wife,”
