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  “I quickly looked through the rest of the apartment.”

  “Was there anybody else there?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Moran asked, “After your search of the apartment, what did you do next?”

  “I stepped forward, checked the man’s neck to see if there was a pulse.”

  “Was there a pulse?”

  “No,” he said. “The man was dead.”

  A couple of gasps from the gallery and Judge Crapser gently rapped her gavel. “Please, can we have silence, please? Silence.”

  Assistant Attorney General Moran flipped through a few sheets of paper, and I had the feeling she was biding her time to let that last statement sink into the jurors. When she looked up she said, “What happened then, Officer Bailey?”

  For the next several minutes, the young officer plainly and crisply explained how he went through the apartment once again quickly to see if anyone else—the gunman, another victim, somebody hiding in terror underneath the pull-out couch—was there, and he determined nobody else was present. He also noted how he contacted dispatch and requested an ambulance from the Porter Fire Department, the shift supervisor, and the on-duty detective.

  The shift sergeant and the EMTs from the fire department arrived almost at the same time, and, according to Bailey, he observed them also determining that the as-yet-unidentified man was deceased. The shift sergeant then ordered the EMTs and Officer Bailey out of the apartment, where, he said, he remained for the rest of his shift, having been ordered to keep track of everyone going in and out of the apartment.

  Moran thanked Officer Bailey for his testimony, and then went back to her table, with a quick, “Your witness, Counselor,” to Hollis Spinelli, and then he was up.

  But he wasn’t.

  He waited.

  He waited.

  Then he sighed and got up, and I saw Officer Bailey’s shoulders tense, like he was preparing himself for a battle, and then Hollis approached the small wooden podium.

  “Officer Bailey.”

  “Sir.”

  For the next several minutes Hollis went through Officer Bailey’s actions that evening, pressing him, poking him, needling him, sometimes cutting off his answers.

  “Officer Bailey, you said that after you called for EMTs, the shift supervisor, and the detective, you waited in the apartment, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You just stood still.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, sir, I—”

  “So instead of going outside, to search the grounds, you waited, isn’t that correct?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Is it possible that the person involved was hiding outside?”

  “I really can’t—”

  “Officer Bailey, yes or no, is it possible that the shooter was hiding outside and you might have missed him? Yes or no?”

  Bailey’s face reddened. “Yes.”

  “After entering the apartment and seeing what you saw, did you go to the other two apartments?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t.”

  “Even though there was evidence of a crime, you didn’t think it made sense to warn the other tenants in the building?”

  Bailey looked like he was struggling to reply. Hollis said, with a sneering tone, “I’m sorry, did you say something? Could you speak louder? Did you in fact warn the tenants in the other two apartments to stay indoors because you believed a crime had been committed upstairs?”

  “No, sir, I did not.”

  “I see,” Hollis said. He looked down at his papers. “You testified that upon arriving at the scene, you noted nobody in the area, just parked vehicles. True?”

  “That’s true, sir.”

  “Before you rushed into the apartment, did it ever occur to you to take a few moments to record the license plates of the vehicles in the neighborhood?”

  “No, sir, it did not.”

  “Is it possible that a criminal could have been hiding in the vehicle, and upon seeing you arrive in a Porter police cruiser, might have waited until seeing you enter the apartment building?”

  That was enough for Assistant Attorney General Moran, who stood up. “Objection, Your Honor. Calls for speculation.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said. “Rephrase your question, Counselor.”

  “Very well, Your Honor,” he said, slightly smirking, and I knew Hollis had succeeded in his original mission: sow doubt among the jurors as to the police response the night of the murder. A long shot, but all he would need would be that one proverbial juror who would refuse to convict, to get Felix freed.

  “Just once more, to be clear, you did not record the license plate numbers before entering the apartment building?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you didn’t contact the tenants of the two other apartments.”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you didn’t conduct a search of the grounds.”

  “No, sir.”

  Moran stepped up again. “Objection, Your Honor. Already asked and answered.”

  “Sustained. Mr. Spinelli, do move it along.”

  “Absolutely, Your Honor,” he said. Another glance to his sheaf of papers. “You testified that Mr. Moore was dead when you came upon him.”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Sir?”

  “Officer Bailey, are you a New Hampshire certified emergency medical technician?”

  “No, sir, I’m not.”

  “Are you a registered nurse?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A licensed doctor?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I see,” Hollis pressed on. “So despite the lack of any medical training at all, to your untrained eye, Mr. Moore was dead.”

  Bailey’s eyes tightened. “He was dead. I made sure.”

  “Really? Isn’t it possible that he was merely wounded? Did you attempt to render any relief, any first aid?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the gentleman was dead. Sir.”

  “But you didn’t know for sure, did you? It’s possible that he was wounded, and that he died only because you didn’t perform first aid? Or didn’t work more diligently to call for medical assistance?”

  The deputy attorney general was once more on her feet, but Bailey beat her to the punch. “I knew he was dead because of my Army service; that’s why, sir.”

  Hollis paused.

  Waited.

  He started gathering up his papers, and some tumbled to the floor. Behind me, someone snickered. He bent down to pick up his papers, and said, “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  Assistant Deputy Attorney General Moran wasted no time. She got up from her desk and strode forcefully to the near lectern. “Officer Bailey.”

  “Ma’am,” he replied.

  “Would you care to describe your service in the Army?”

  Hollis shot up. “Objection, Your Honor! Relevance?”

  Judge Crapser said, “Overruled, Mr. Spinelli. You opened the door. Proceed, Ms. Moran.”

  She went in for the kill. “Again, would you care to describe your service in the Army?”

  He cleared his throat. “Combat medic, ma’am.”

  “What was your training for that role, Officer Bailey?”

  “I attended a sixteen-week emergency medical technician course at Fort Sam Houston in Texas, ma’am.”

  “Did you serve overseas?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Two tours in Afghanistan.”

  “Please excuse me for asking this, but did you see many dead men in your service?”

  His jaw was set. “Too many, ma’am.”

  “And did you receive any recognition for your service overseas?”

  “I was awarded a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart, ma’am.”

  Moran walked away. “No more questions, Your Honor.”

  Hollis stood up. “No more questions as well, Your Honor.”

  Judge
Crapser smiled. “Officer Bailey, you’re excused.”

  He left the witness box and walked across the room. Now I knew why I thought I had met him before: the eyes of a veteran who had seen way too much in too little time were the clear giveaway.

  And another giveaway was also apparent: Assistant Attorney General Moran had just destroyed whatever advantage Felix’s lawyer may have obtained. The jury would no longer remember the details of Hollis’s attack upon Officer Bailey. They would only remember that he had served heroically in the Army and was first on the scene to Fletcher Moore’s murder.

  Lousy lawyering.

  But if Felix was disturbed, he didn’t look it. He just leaned back in his chair, smiled, and whispered something in Hollis’s ear. Hollis just sat there at his table, shoulders slumped.

  The judge glanced up at the large wall clock. It was almost noon. “We’re adjourning for lunch. Court will resume at two P.M.”

  A quick slap of the gavel, some standing up and sitting down among us court viewers, and the judge left, then the jury, and then Felix.

  Those of us in the audience started to file out, and I caught up with Paula Quinn from the Tyler Chronicle. “Buy you lunch?” I asked.

  “Always,” she said.

  “Have an idea where to go?”

  She smiled. “Best restaurant in the area, in my humble opinion. Follow me out of the parking lot, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “And try not to get lost.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  A pleased nod. “I know you will.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I figured out the reason behind Paula’s smile in about ten minutes, when we pulled into the parking lot of an Applebee’s restaurant, just north of the courthouse, and part of a sprawling complex that included a bank, some chain stores, a nearby Lowe’s, and another huge outpost of the Walmart world empire.

  The Applebee’s was like every other Applebee’s, and rather quickly we were seated and were soon dining on lunch, me with a cheeseburger and she with a Caesar salad with chicken strips. She looked good but also seemed tired, with fine lines around her eyes. Her prominent ears still stuck out through her shoulder-length blond hair, and she had on a colored checked blouse that brightened up the joint. The place was doing a good business and there were blown-up photos of typical New Hampshire activities posted on the wall, including one involving snowmobile racing in summer over a pond. Yes, summer. Not winter. Over a pond.

  “Hell of a job by your friend’s lawyer,” Paula said. “Did he forget the primary rule of lawyers everywhere?”

  “To get paid in advance, preferably in cash?”

  She smiled, sawed some in her salad. “No. Don’t ask a question unless you know the answer. If he had just shut up earlier in his cross, then Bailey the cop wouldn’t have brought up his Army service. Dumb.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Dumb. That’s a good word for this entire case.”

  “In what way?”

  “You know Felix.”

  She seemed to shudder. “I spent three or so of the longest days of my life with him last fall. So, yeah, I know Felix.”

  I said, “Then look at the facts, such as they are. Felix is arrested for the murder of Fletcher Moore. There’s a notation in Fletcher’s phone that he’s due to meet with an F. Tinios at an empty apartment owned by a real estate agency that once hired Felix for some security work. His fingerprints are all over the apartment and on the 9mm pistol left behind, said pistol also belonging to him. That’s some sloppy. Does that sound like Felix? Does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” she said. “But it sounds convincing.”

  “I know it does, but it still doesn’t seem right.”

  “And do you plan on doing something about it?”

  I finished off my cheeseburger. It was moist and pretty good. “I do.”

  “What? Do your usual poking around, asking questions?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You think you can do better than Hollis Spinelli?”

  “Based on his latest performance, what do you think?”

  She nodded and said, “Good luck with that, then.”

  The waitress dropped off the check and I picked it up, resulting in a raised eyebrow from Paula. “Has your insurance settlement check come in yet?”

  “No. Any day now, or so I’m promised.”

  “Okay. You got any income stream at all?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  She deftly picked the check from my hand. “Then this one is on me.”

  “I won’t argue,” I said. “Question?”

  She checked her watch. “Why not. We’ve got time.”

  “How’s Mark Spencer doing?” I asked. Mark was the lawyer for the town of Tyler and was also Paula’s fiancé. A couple of months ago, he and I had shared a trip up the coast of Maine, where he had a not-so-peaceful encounter with his long-estranged father and a motorcycle gang leader from Wisconsin who wanted the both of them dead.

  “He’s doing okay.”

  “Define okay.”

  “All right, he doesn’t have as many nightmares as before, where he woke up screaming. So that’s an improvement.”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “Does he tell you why he’s having nightmares?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  She gave me a three-second, penetrating look, and said, “I bet you know.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Lewis . . .”

  “It’s his story to tell, not mine.”

  The waitress came by, picked up the check and Paula’s MasterCard.

  Desperate to change the subject, I said, “One more question before we get back to court?”

  “Sure,” she said, but her voice was lacking any enthusiasm.

  “Fletcher Moore,” I said. “Businessman, chairman of the board of selectmen for Tyler—not your usual murder victim.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “Not sure,” she said, voice quiet. “I’m sure it will come out during the trial.”

  “Paula, c’mon,” I said. “You know the ins and outs of everything that goes on in Tyler. What do you think happened?”

  She was so quiet that I thought she hadn’t heard me, or didn’t want to hear me. Then she said, “You’re trying to get me to do an info dump on Fletcher.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry, not going to happen.”

  “What?”

  “No info dump; that’s what I said. Look, I’m sorry, Lewis, but I’m tired. Just tired. I’m doing what I have to do to help put out a paper every day, and I’ve done a number of stories about Fletcher, his grieving widow, and his shell-shocked daughters. About the impact of his death on the upcoming town meeting and the voting. All right? I did what I had to do, and the stories have run, and now they’re in the rearview mirror. I’m covering Felix’s trial. I’m done with Fletcher Moore, his background, his family.”

  “But what kind of guy was he? Why would anyone want to shoot him?”

  “A guy like any other guy who’s into politics and real estate in Tyler,” she said quietly. “Talks the good talk about protecting Tyler and its families and values. Sometimes he even does it in his job. And he’s always on the lookout to make a score, settle some deal, make some crazy development action come true, just like a couple of dozen other guys in Tyler.”

  “Not much of an answer.”

  “Sorry, that’s all you’re going to get. If you want any more, you’re on your own. You can talk to Fletcher’s widow, Kimberly. See what you can find out. If you have the heart for it.”

  Maybe I was tired too. “No, not right now.”

  She had a wan smile, like she had succeeded in making a point, which she had just done. “Not much fun anymore, is it?”

  “Never was much fun to begin with,” I said.

  The waitress came back, dropped off the credit card slips, which Paula quickly signed. “I need to get
back to the courthouse,” she said. “Think you can find your way back alone?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Good. See you in the benches.”

  She got up, grabbed her coat, and was out the door before I got myself squared away.

  And as promised, I got back to court alone.

  I took the same seat as before, settled in, and looked at the back of Paula’s head. Lunch had been off-putting, and I realized I had spent too much time talking about Fletcher Moore and my worries, and not asking much about hers. Like most newspapers, the Chronicle was struggling in this age of blogs, instant texts, and a generation that got most of its news from fake newscasts on cable television. Plus she was engaged to a lawyer who—to me, at least—had the personality and charm of a garden slug.

  Lots of things were going through that pretty head up a few rows, and I hadn’t bothered much to learn about them.

  Damn.

  Then the post-lunch routine began, with Felix being led in, followed by the jury, and then the judge. After some housekeeping chores, Judge Crapser said, “Ms. Moran, you may proceed.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” she said, going to the lectern. “The state calls Detective Steve Josephs.”

  He was sitting out of view from me, but seemed to be wearing pretty much the same outfit from yesterday, although the blue jeans had been replaced by dark khaki slacks. He went up to the witness box like he was going home to a familiar place, and spoke firmly as he was sworn in by the county clerk.

  It was like watching a ballroom dance with two talented and experienced partners. Assistant Attorney General Moran spent a fair number of minutes going through the detective’s background and experience with the Porter Police Department, his range of experience, the different schools and training sessions he had passed, including the FBI National Academy. That last one impressed me, for Diane Woods had once told me that only the very best get to go to the academy, and usually it’s two police officers per state.

  Nearly an hour passed while Moran went through his record, and I looked over at Hollis Spinelli a few times as the talking went on and on. I was surprised that he didn’t raise an objection or some sort of complaint about the lengthy discourse. By not saying anything—at least to me—it seemed like he was going to let Detective Josephs’s background and experience go unchallenged. That was one way of impressing the jury, but I wasn’t sure if it was the best thing for his client.