The Otterholt House Massacre

© 2009 by Walter D. Reimer

(The Stagg Family courtesy of Eric Costello. Thanks!)

Chapter 7

        Paulie stepped out of the courtroom to find Chief Stagg, dressed in his gray State Police uniform, standing out in the corridor.  The whitetail buck looked ill-at-ease as he caught sight of the red deer, and Paulie recalled that the Chief didn’t like wearing his uniform.  “Chief?”
        “Hello, Lieutenant,” Stagg said.  “They have recessed for lunch, I take it?”
        “Yes, Sir.  What are you – “
        “Doing here?  Ah, I was subpoenaed as a witness in Mayor Stevenson’s suit.  So far, things are going well.”
        “Perhaps I should have worn my uniform,” he muttered.  “I’m not looking forward to giving testimony this afternoon.”
        “You’ll do well,” Stagg reassured him.
        “I hope so, Sir.  It would have helped if he had confessed.”
        “True.  We will simply have to hope that our evidence sways the jury.”
        “Yes, Sir.  I’m going to get some lunch.  Care to join me?”
        “Impossible,” said a booming voice behind them.  “Chief Stagg will accompany ME to lunch, or I shall be gravely insulted!”  The two bucks turned to see a raffish bulldog, dressed impeccably and sporting a waxed mustache and an eyepatch over his right eye.  “Of course, I shall be even more insulted if my friend of yore should have forgotten me.”
        Stagg gave a wry smile.  "As if anyone could forget you, Whitney."  The two shook paws and Stagg said to Paulie, "May I introduce Captain Whitney St. James, late of London.  What are you doing here?"
        Whitney paused to sniff at the poppy in his lapel.  "I resigned my commission, dear boy.  That frightful ass Baldwin will be the ruination of us all, if we're not careful."   
        “Which brings me to my original question, old friend – ?”
        "Why, covering the trial, of course."  Whitney flourished a small press card.  "I have the honor of being a Special Correspondent.  Which, of course," he said in aside to Paulie, “means that I am abusing expense accounts in the name of journalism."
        “You’re still doing stories for The Spectator?” Stagg asked.  “I think they would have finally figured out what you were doing.”
        St. James laughed.  “They knew back in ’15, Franklin.  But since I’m a better writer than any of the young nincompoops they have on staff, they have no choice but to retain me.  Besides, when the news of this case reached Blighty, I had to go.  A compelling case, with just a hint of dark and salacious undertones,” he added with a wink.
        “Same old Whitney.  May I present one of my lieutenants, Paul Pentaleoni.”
        “Charmed, sir!  Charmed,” the bulldog said, vigorously shaking paws with the red deer.  “You’ve acquitted yourself quite admirably on the stand against the defending counsel.  Tell me, is he always that abrasive?”
        “You haven’t seen anything yet,” Paulie assured him.
        Stagg agreed.  “Mr. Galbraith’s one of those furs who feel that the New Haven government’s level of competence and integrity leave much to be desired.”  St. James chuckled as the whitetail buck added, “I believe he and the attorney for Mayor Stevenson are working together.”
        “Ah!  Determined to expose the venality and corruption at the heart of the Republic, eh?”  The bulldog snorted.  “Seen it all before, old chap, seen it all before.  Even played a part in doing it, too – and thereby hangs a tale!”  He favored Paulie with a wink before laughing loudly.
        “But come,” he said to Stagg, “let us go to lunch.  I have a table reserved at Justin’s.  Order what you will, old friend, and leave everything to me – or, rather, to the good offices of the accountants back home.”  He and Stagg walked off.
        Paulie shrugged and headed off to Shipman’s.  He could get a quick meal there to settle his stomachs before taking the stand again after lunch.

1300:

        “The Defense wishes to recall Lt. Pentaleoni to the stand.”
        The red deer took his seat in the witness box as Galbraith thought for a moment, a forefinger touched to his lips.  “Lieutenant, I will remind you that you are still under oath.”
        “Yes, Sir.”
        “Good.  You have been with the State Police for twenty years?”
        “Yes, Sir.”
        “In all that time, Lieutenant,” and the bulldog smiled, “have you ever known a suspect to not confess?”
        “Yes, Sir, I have.”
        “Really.  I should think that, with the reputation of the State Police, more furs would have confessed than not.  Have you ever threatened a witness?”
        Paulie hesitated. 
        “I remind you once you’re under oath.”
        “Years ago, yes.”
        “How many years ago?”
        “Seven years ago.”
        “Tell us the details, please.”
        Paulie took a breath, but stopped as King rose.  “Objection.  Counsel is straying from the point of this case.”
        Galbraith took up the thrown gauntlet with relish.  “Your Honor, the absence of any confession begs the question that, given the past history of the State Police in threatening witnesses and forcing confessions, why didn’t the good Lieutenant beat a confession from my client?”
        The hawk shot back, “The burden of proof of physical coercion is upon the Defense, Your Honor.  No such evidence, testamentary or physical, has been proferred."  He glared at Galbraith.  "Furthermore, it is hardly unusual that there is an absence of a confession.  That is why many defendants plead not guilty."
        Judge Kilbride frowned.  “Objection is sustained.  Counsel for Defense is admonished to stick to the point.”
        “Very well, Your Honor,” Galbraith grumbled.  “Lieutenant, why did you make no effort to get my client to confess to these crimes?”
        “We gave him the opportunity, but in the end it was the evidence,” Paulie said, feeling somewhat rattled.  “It pointed to him, and to no one else.”
        “I see.  And no one else fit the evidence?”
        “No.”
        “Walter Huxley . . . it says here,” the bulldog said as he read from a file, “sniffs ether for diversion.  Perhaps he had the chloral hydrate?”
        “Half of the label was found in Stevenson’s dorm room, and the bottle aboard the Blue Line trolley.”
        King stood again.  "Does my learned friend wish to abandon his career as advocate, for that of a detective?"  The gallery chuckled. 
        Galbraith riposted, "Surely, such theories are improper during the Republic's case, and should be left to the Defense's case."
        "And, perhaps, for other learned members of the Bar who are experts in criminal libel."
        "Your Honor, the Defense is entitled to raise reasonable misgivings as to the identification of the murderer or murderers." Galbraith raised a finger. 
        "On its own case, Your Honor,” King said.  “And the term is ‘reasonable doubt.’"
        "I am well aware of the term my learned friend is using.  I was using the term when he was a chick and far less eloquent."  The bulldog beetled at the hawk.  "And learned counsel's point regarding criminal libel is well taken."
        “That’s as may be,” Kilbride rumbled, “but if you have another suspect who fits the evidence presented, produce him, Counsellor.  There’s no need to go through a catalogue.”
        “Very well, Your Honor.  Lieutenant, you may step down, subject to recall.”
        “One moment!” King said, rising.  “Lieutenant, just one quick point, if I may - To your knowledge, have any convictions been thrown out by the High Court because of coercion since the War?"
        “To my knowledge, no.”
        “Thank you.  You may now step down.”
        As the red deer left the witness box, Judge Kilbride jotted a note and glanced at Galbraith.  “Any further witnesses, Mr. Galbraith?”
        “I have one or two, Your Honor, but I wish to recess until tomorrow before having them on the stand.”
        “I see.  Very well.  Court stands in recess until tomorrow morning at eight A.M.”  He brought the gavel down.

Tuesday August 1
0810:

        “Is the Counsel for the Defense ready?” the judge asked after gaveling the court to order the next day.
        “I am, Your Honor.  The Defense calls Professor Charles Braganza.”
        The goat, already having been sworn in as part of the Republic’s case, sat down in the witness box and Galbraith said, “Tell me, Professor, was your analysis of the blood found on the mirror comprehensive?”
        “As comprehensive as we could get.  There was a lot of it, and it was a mixture – “
        “Thank you.  And according to your testimony a small amount of my client’s blood was found amidst all the others?”
        “Yes.”
        “How is that possible?”
        “I beg your pardon?”
        The bulldog spread his paws.  “Well, there was so much blood.  How were you able to find my client’s blood amid so much?”
        “We determined it through blood typing.”
        “Ah, blood typing.  Can you explain that to the jury?”
        The goat nodded and said, “Blood typing is a fairly new science.  It started being used during the Great War as a means of making sure that the right species got the right blood when being given a transfusion.”
        “I see.  And all five of the victims were represented?”
        “Yes.  Avian, canine and lutrine.”
        “And one rabbit.”
        “Yes.”
        “A very small amount of blood.”
        “Yes.”
        “Could it have been put there after the fact?”
        “I beg your pardon?”
        “Could it have been planted?”
        King ruffled his feathers.  “Objection.”
        “I’ll rephrase the question,” Galbraith said smoothly.  “Professor, is it within the bounds of possibility that the rabbit blood at the crime scene could have been placed there after the murders?”
        The goat considered the question as the rabbits in the gallery (and the two on the jury) looked at each other uneasily.  Finally Braganza replied, “It is possible.”
        “Do you know, offpaw, how many rabbits currently live in the Republic of New Haven?”
        “No.”
        “I have here the latest report of the New Haven Bureau of Vital Statistics,” and Galbraith lifted a piece of paper, “stating that as of 1920 there were 18,764 rabbits living in the Republic.”
        “Well, I am told they breed readily, sir.” 
        This was greeted with some laughter from the gallery, and Judge Kilbride gaveled for order.
        “Indeed.  But can you scientifically state that the rabbit blood on the knife is that of the defendant?”
        “It is of the same blood type, sir.”
        “Yesss . . . a type common to every rabbit in New Haven?”
        “Yes, sir.”
        “Can you scientifically state that the rabbit blood must have come from the murderer?”
        “None of the victims were lepine, sir.”
        “Could the blood have already been on the knife?” 
        “I could not say, sir.”
        “Was there a lot of rabbit blood?”
        “No, sir.  Only a small amount.” 
        “Would you be able to tell, sir, if this hypothetical rabbit cut himself badly or only nicked himself?” 
        “I could not say, sir.” 
        “So the rabbit could have gashed himself quite a bit?” 
        “It's possible.” 
        “Were there any serious gashes on the defendant when he was arrested?” 
        “According to the arrest report, no, sir.”
        “Were there any significant cuts?” 
        “There were some minor cuts, yes.  They were discovered after a minute examination of his paws following his arrest.”
        “You have handled such a knife many times in your career, Professor?” 
        “Certainly.” 
        “Have you ever cut yourself on one?” 
        “Oh, indeed.” 
        “Did you bleed a lot?” 
        “Well, I usually wore surgical gloves, of course; when you cut yourself like that, the rubber stops most of the blade.”
        “Was a pair of surgical gloves, in fact, found in my client's residence?” 
        “No, sir.” 
        “At the murder scene?” 
        “No, sir.”
        “My client is a medical student.  Would he have worn a pair of rubber gloves when performing a procedure in class?”
        “Yes, sir.”
        “No further questions for this witness.  The Defense calls Detective Michaels.”
        The terrier sat down as the goat returned to his seat.  “Tell me, Detective, about the chloral hydrate bottle - do you know exactly when that bottle was placed there?”
        “No, sir.”
        “Isn't it a fact, based on your testimony, that the cleaning of the Blue Line car was indifferent?  Could not that bottle have been there for some time?"  Galbraith squinted at the terrier.  "Did you plant the bottle there, Detective?" 
        "Objection, move to strike!" 
        "Sustained."
        Galbraith gave a smug look as the objection was sustained.  “Isn't it a fact, Detective, that the torn label from the chloral hydrate bottle could have attached itself to the defendant's shoe in the dirty trolley car, there to be carried home to the closet?"
        "Unless he's in the habit of walking on his paws, no."
        Several in the gallery tittered.
        Galbraith smiled as the courtroom quieted.  "Could not the fingerprints have been on the torn label from removing it from the shoe?"
        "Then how did the prints get on the bottle as well?"
        "Your Honor, I ask that the witness be admonished against asking questions."
        "The witness will answer questions, not ask them."
        "Sorry, Your Honor."
        "Detective, let me show you the bottle and the label in evidence.  How would you describe the condition of the bottle?" 
        "Dirty." 
        "And the torn label found in Mr. Stevenson’s closet?" 
        "Clean." 
        "Detective, isn't it possible that the defendant, having encountered a piece of trash equally as repulsive as a prophylactic, picked it up and tossed it under the bench?"
        "In theory." 
        "Oh, of course, in theory."
        Galbraith sat down and King stood up.  “Detective, just a few questions.  What else was found in the defendant’s dorm room that was out of the ordinary?”
        “A styptic pencil, sir.”
        “Describe to the jury what a styptic pencil does.”
        “Um.  Well, a styptic pencil is used to close up small cuts and nicks.”
        “Similar to a cut from a knife?”
        “Objection,” Galbraith drawled, “counsel is leading the witness.”
        “Sustained.”
        “I’ll rephrase my question.  Detective, what type of cuts are usually closed up by the use of a styptic pencil?”
        “Well, a small cut, sort of what you’d get if you were shaving with a sharp razor.”
        “I see.  And is shaving a common thing?”
        “No, sir,” and Michaels promptly blushed as a few in the gallery chuckled.  “There’re some in a wild crowd who shave, well, certain parts of their bodies.”
        “Let’s hold that thought, Detective.  Your Honor, I wish to recall Sergeant DiAngelo.”
        “On what grounds?” Galbraith asked.
        “To support Detective Michaels’ testimony.”
        Kilbride glanced at his notes and nodded.  “I will allow this.”
        The raccoon took the stand.  “Sergeant, according to the testimony that you’ve already given, at one point in his questioning you escorted Mr. Stevenson to the bathroom.  Is that correct?”
        “Yes.”
        “Did you observe the defendant as he answered nature’s call?”
        “Yes.”
        “And were his, ah, nether regions shaved?”
        “Not that I could see.  I didn’t look too long – I ain’t no pervert.”
        The laughter that greeted this was general and loud, with catcalls and derisive whistles that prompted Judge Kilbride to (as Whitney St. James would later write) ‘wield his gavel like Thor wielding Mjolnir’ and proclaim, “Order!  I will have order in this courtroom.  Another outburst and I shall order the gallery cleared.” 
        After things settled down King said, “So the defendant wasn’t shaved?”
        “No, sir.”
        “Tell me, were any cuts found on the defendant’s paws?”
        “Yes, sir.  A small cut was noted on a finger while he was being fingerprinted.”
        “Thank you, Sergeant.  No further questions.”
        “I have one for the good sergeant,” Galbraith said.  “Sergeant DiAngelo, Walter Huxley was dismissed as a suspect because he was supposedly unconscious at the time of the murders.”
        “That’s right.  We have statements from his buddies that he was high on ether.”
        “Wasn’t that a rather perfunctory acceptance of the alibi?”
        “Not in my judgment, no sir.”

1300:

        “The Defense calls Father James Keppler to the stand.”
        The priest walked stiffly, supporting himself with a cane, and after the mallard was sworn in Galbraith asked, “You are Father James Keppler.”
        “I am.”
        “And you were, until recently, the parish priest for the Parish of Saint Thomas in North Haven?”
        “Yes.  I retired in 1924.”
        “And do you know of the defendant, Wyatt Stevenson?”
        The avian smiled, squinting through thick-lensed glasses.  “Yes, I know Wyatt.  I presided at his baptism.  He was an altarkit of mine at Saint Thomas’.  It was with some regret that I never convinced him to go to seminary.”
        “I see.  And were you aware of any changes to his character after he began attending Collegiate?”
        “No.  I would have to defer to the chaplain there for that.”
        Galbraith frowned slightly.  “Thank you, Father.”
        “No questions for this witness,” King said.
        “The Defense calls Father Henry Smith to the stand,” and the fox was sworn in.  “Father, you are the chaplain of the Collegiate School?”
        “I am.”
        “For how long?”
        “Thirty-two years come next March.”
        “So you’re quite familiar with the students under your pastoral care?”
        “Yes.”
        “Tell us about Wyatt Stevenson, please.”
        The fox leaned forward slightly, clasping his paws together as he replied, “Wyatt came to me several times – outside the seal of the confessional – and I did speak with Father Keppler with the young man’s permission.  Wyatt had been an altarkit, and a very good child.  College life was proving to be a bit of a strain on him, so he had grown somewhat withdrawn and kept to himself a bit.”
        “Thank you, Father.  No further questions?”
        “I have only a few questions for you, Father Keppler,” King said.  “You did not see the defendant at any time on the night in question?" 
        “No.”
        "Is it a fact, Father, that your testimony goes solely to the defendant's character?"
        “Oh, that’s quite true, young man.”
        "Father, have you ever been surprised by the behavior of a parishioner?  Behavior of a kind you would not have expected?"
        "Objection!  Calls for opinion." 
        "Your Honor, the purpose of the testimony is well within the knowledge of the witness." 
        "Overruled.  The witness will answer." 
        "Well, yes.  There was that woman who stripped off all her clothes and danced on the main quadrangle during the winter solstice . . . but she claimed she had a reason."  The fox blinked as a prolonged chuckle erupted from several in the audience.
        "But you were nevertheless surprised by this throwback display of paganism, Father?"
        "Yes, sir.  I did ask her the reason for her behavior, but she refused to tell me."
        “Bearing that in mind, do you feel, Father, that you are able to accurately predict the behavior of all of your parishioners?"
        "I would think that is beyond my capabilities, sir, even with my experience."
        King opened his beak to say something further, but paused and turned to look up at the gallery.  Someone had rushed in and excited whispers and murmurs presaged a mass exodus from the chamber.
        Judge Kilbride frowned and asked, “What is this commotion?  Bailiff?”
        The chief bailiff stepped into the hallway behind the Bench and returned after a moment.  “There’s been a decision in the civil case next door, Your Honor.”
        “I see,” and the wolfhound raised one eyebrow.  “Mr. King, does the Republic have anything further?”
        “No further questions, Your Honor.”
        Kilbride nodded.  “Then the Court shall stand in recess until tomorrow morning, at which time closing arguments shall be heard.”
        As the gavel struck the Bench Paulie stepped out of the courtroom to find Chief Stagg, this time in his usual suit, standing in the hallway with a bemused expression on his face.  “What was the verdict, Chief?”
        “Hmm?  Oh, Paul.  Judge Masters ruled that Mayor Stevenson had no case, but ruled that Prescott Stagg and the Civic Union had to pay court costs for both sides,” and he smiled as a snorting, wild-eyed buck was led out of the adjacent courtroom and down the corridor.  The older brother (half-brother, if one listened to the rumors) seemed to have exhausted his store of invective but was clearly warming up for another round as his colleagues hustled him away.  “How is the case going in there?” Stagg asked.
        “Not too badly,” Paulie said.  “The closing statements are tomorrow.”
        “Good.  I think we’ve made our case, and the rest is in the jury’s paws – “  The whitetail buck abruptly stiffened as a slim, gray-furred paw came to rest on his shoulder.
        Paulie’s ears stood straight up as he heard Bernyce Pratt say, “Franklin!  How simply wonderful to see you again!”
        Stagg turned to face the raccooness, who was wearing a smartly-tailored suit and accompanied at a discreet distance by her wisent bouncer, Bobby.  “Bernyce,” he said, blushing red to the tips of his ears.  “It has been a very long time, yes.  Doctor Bartrop’s German class?”
        She smiled.  “Yes, it truly has been that long, dear Franklin.  You haven’t changed a bit, though – still handsome, and just as shy.”
        Paulie suppressed a chuckle at the sight of his usually self-possessed boss turning even redder.  He managed to control himself sufficiently to ask, “German class, Chief?”
        “Er, yes, Lieutenant.  I was a junior in Collegiate when Miss Wallingford – now Mrs. Pratt, my deepest condolences – was a senior.  And I want to thank you, Mrs. Pratt – your help was valuable.”
        The raccooness grinned, the cameo on her little finger gleaming as she smiled up at him.  “I’m so glad I could be of assistance,” she said.
        A bulldog came rushing up to Stagg from the courtroom.  “Dashed inconvenient of you New Havenites, to have two trials and thus divide my valuable time,” he huffed.  “I scarcely knew which one to watch, but rest assured my paper shall be billed for both.”  His expression changed the instant he saw Bernyce.  “Franklin, who is this charming young woman?”
        “Mrs. Bernyce Pratt, Captain Whitney St. James.”
        “Enchanted, Madame,” the bulldog said, gallantly taking her outstretched paw in his and bowing over it.  “I heard Franklin say ‘Mrs.’  It seems quite a shame that one man should have sole access to such beauty.”
        Bernyce smiled.  “I am a widow, Captain.  Do you still write for the Spectator?  I have always found your articles . . . inspiring.”
        “Inspiring!”  St. James laughed.  “I’ve heard them called many things, but hardly inspiring.  Madame, you do me far too much honor.”
        “You simply must come to my house for dinner tonight, Captain.”
        “Whitney, please.”
        “Bernyce, then.  Bobby, please take a note, dear – Whitney will be coming for dinner, say seven o’clock?” 
        The bulldog nodded, then squinted at the wisent.  “Bobby?  Robert . . . Robert Springs!  Good Lord, the furs one meets and in the unlikeliest places!”
        The wisent rolled his eyes and Stagg asked, “You know him?”
        “Know him!  My dear Franklin, this is Robert Springs, the All-Empire boxing champion for five straight years until 1919.  Although I think that your loss to that oryx was simply wretched – it was a flagrant blow below the belt and everyone with half an eye could see it.”
        “The referee didn’t see it that way,” Bobby rumbled.
        “Bosh,” St. James sneered.  “We shall discuss it further – after dinner.”  The trio moved off, leaving Paulie and his superior standing apart as the rest of the furs in the hallway left the courthouse.
        “Will you attend the closing statements, Chief?”
        “Hmm?  No, I can’t.  The Interior Minister has requested a meeting tomorrow morning with me and the Deputy Chief regarding the Squadron Scandal.  I expect it will be a relatively short meeting – the Interior Minister has little love for the State Police, still less for me.”