"And didn't you also tell the court that in your experience, criminals often try to leave conflicting evidence in order to fool the police?"

Petrowski nodded, but made no reply."Yes or no, Captain?"

"Yes," said Petrowski.

"Would you describe Mr. Cartwright as a fool?"

Petrowski hesitated while he tried to work out where Fletcher was attempting to lead him. "No, I would say he was a highly intelligent man."

"Would you describe leaving your fingerprints and a palm print on the murder weapon as the act of a highly intelligent man?" asked Fletcher.

"No, but then Mr. Cartwright is not a professional criminal, and doesn't think like one.

Amateurs often panic and that's when they make simple mistakes."

"Like dropping the gun on the floor, covered in his prints, and running out of the house leaving the front door wide open?"

"Yes, that doesn't surprise me, given the circumstances."

"You spent several hours questioning Mr. Cartwright, Captain; does he strike you as the type of man who panics and then runs away?"

"Objection, your honor," said Ebden, rising from his place, "how can Detective Petrowski be expected to answer that question?"

"Your honor, Detective Petrowski has been only too willing to give his opinion on the habits of amateur and professional criminals, so I can't see why he wouldn't feel comfortable answering my was question."

"Overruled, counselor. Move on."

Fletcher bowed to the judge, stood up, walked over to the witness stand and came to a halt in front of the detective. "Were there any other fingerprints on the gun?"

"Yes," said Petrowski, not appearing to be fazed by Fletcher's presence, "there were partials of Mr. Elliot's prints, but they have been accounted for, remembering that he took the gun from his desk to protect himself."

"But his prints were on the gun?"

"Yes."

"Did you check to see if there was any powder residue under his fingernails?""No," said Petrowski.

"And why not?" asked Fletcher.

"Because you'd need very long arms to shoot yourself from a distance of four feet." Laughter broke out in the court.

Fletcher waited for silence before he said, "But he could well have fired the first bullet that ended up in the ceiling."

"It could have been the second bullet," rebutted Petrowski.

Fletcher turned away from the witness box and walked over to the jury. "When you took the statement from Mrs. Elliot, what was she wearing?"

"A robe-as she explained, she had been asleep at the time when the first shot was fired."

"Ah yes, I remember," said Fletcher before he walked back to the table. He picked up a single sheet of paper and read from it. "It was when Mrs. Elliot heard the second shot that she came out of the bedroom and ran to the top of the stairs."

Petrowski nodded.

"Please answer the question, detective, yes or no?"

"I don't recall the question," said Petrowski, sounding flustered.

"It was when she heard the second shot that Mrs.

Elliot came out of the bedroom and ran to the top of the stairs."

"Yes, that's what she told us."

"And she stood there watching Mr. Cartwright as he ran out of the front door. Is that also correct?"

Fletcher asked, turning around to look directly at Petrowski.

"Yes it is," said Petrowski, trying to remain calm.

"Detective, you told the court that among the professionals you called in to assist you was a police photographer."

"Yes, that's standard practice in a case like this, and all the photographs taken that night have been submitted as evidence."

"Indeed they have," said Fletcher as he returnedto the table and emptied a large package of photographs onto his table. He selected one, and walked back to the witness stand. "Is this one of those photographs?" he asked.

Petrowski studied it carefully, and then looked at the stamp on the back. "Yes, it is."

"Would you describe it to the jury?"

"It's a picture of the Elliots' front door, taken from their driveway."

"Why was this particular photograph submitted as evidence?"

"Because it proved that the door had been left open when the murderer made good his escape. It also shows the long corridor leading through to Mr. Elliot's study."

"Yes, of course it does, I should have worked that out for myself," said Fletcher. He paused. "And the figure crouched in the corridor, is that Mrs.

Elliot?"

The detective took a second look, "Yes it is, she seemed calm at the time, so we decided not to disturb her."

"How considerate," said Fletcher. "So let me ask you finally, detective, you told the district attorney that you did not call for an ambulance until your investigation had been completed?"

"That is correct, paramedics sometimes turn up at the scene of a crime before the police have arrived, and they are notorious for disturbing evidence."

"Are they?" asked Fletcher. "But that didn't happen on this occasion, because you were the first person to arrive following Mrs. Elliot's call to the chief."

"Yes, I was."

"Most commendable," said Fletcher." "Do you have any idea how long it took you to reach Mrs.

Elliot's home in West Hartford?"

"Five, maybe six minutes."

"You must have had to break the speed limit to achieve that," said Fletcher, with a smile.

"I put my siren on, but as it was two in themorning, there was very little traffic."

"I'm grateful for that explanation," said Fletcher. "No more questions, your honor."

"What was all that about?" muttered Nat when Fletcher had returned to his place.

"Ah, I'm glad you didn't work it out," said Fletcher. "Now we must hope that the state's attorney hasn't either."

"I call Rebecca Elliot to the stand."

When Rebecca entered the courtroom, every head turned except Nat's. He remained staring resolutely ahead. She walked slowly down the center aisle, making the sort of entrance that an actress looks for in every script. The court had been packed from the moment the doors were opened at eight o'clock that morning. The front three rows of the public benches had been cordoned off, and only the presence of uniformed police officers kept them from being colonized.

Fletcher had looked around when Don Culver, the chief of police, and Detective Petrowski had taken their seats in the front row, directly behind the state's attorney's table. At one minute to ten, only thirteen seats remained unoccupied.

Nat glanced across at Fletcher, who had a little stack of yellow legal pads in front of him.

He could see that the top sheet was blank and prayed that the other three unopened pads had something written on them. A court officer stepped forward to show Mrs. Elliot into the well of the court and guide her to the witness stand. Nat looked up at Rebecca for the first time. She was wearing her widow's weeds-fashionable black tailored suit, buttoned to the neck, and a skirt that fell several inches below the knee. Her only jewelry other than her wedding and engagement ring was a simple string of pearls. Fletcher glanced at her left wrist and made the first note on his pad. As she took the stand, Rebecca turned to face the judge, and gave him a shy smile. He nodded courteously. She then haltingly took the oath.

She finally sat down and, turning I to face the jury, gave them the same shy smile. Fletcher noticed Ithat several of them returned the compliment. Rebecca touched the side of her hair, and Fletcher knew where she must have spent most of the previous afternoon. The state's attorney hadn't missed a trick, and if he could have called for the jury to deliver their verdict before a question had been asked, he suspected that they would have happily sentenced him, as well as his client, to the electric chair.

The judge nodded, and the state's attorney rose from his place. Mr. Ebden had also joined in the charade. He was dressed in a dark charcoal suit, white shirt and a sober blue tie-the appropriate attire in which to question the Virgin Mother.

"Mrs. Elliot," he said quietly, as he stepped on into the well of the court. "Everyone in this courtroom is aware of the ordeal you have been put through, and are now going to have to painfully relive.

Let me reassure you that it is my intention to take you through any questions I might have as painlessly as possible, in the hope that you will not have to remain in the witness stand any longer than is necessary."

"Especially as we have been able to rehearse every question again and again for the past five months," murmured Fletcher. Nat tried not to smile.

"Let me begin by asking you, Mrs. Elliot, how long were you married to your late husband?"

"Tomorrow would have been our seventeenth wedding anniversary."

"And how did you plan to celebrate that occasion?"

"We were going to stay at the Salisbury Inn, where we had spent the first night of our honeymoon, because I knew Ralph couldn't spare more than a few hours off from his campaign."

"Typical of Mr. Elliot's commitment and conscientious approach to public service," said the state's attorney as he walked out into the well of the court and across to the jury. "I must, Mrs.

Elliot, ask you to bear with me while I return to the night of your husband's tragic and untimely death," Rebecca bowed her head slightly. "You didn't attend the debate that Mr. Elliottook part in earlier that evening: Was there any particular reason for that?"

a "Yes," said Rebecca, facing the jury, "Ralph liked me to stay at home and watch him whenever he was on television, where I could make detailed notes that we would discuss later.

He felt that if I was part of the studio audience, I might be influenced by those sitting around me, especially once they realized that I was the candidate's wife."

"That makes a great deal of sense," said Ebden.

Fletcher penned a second note on the pad in front of him.

"Was there anything in particular you recall about that evening's broadcast?"

"Yes," said Rebecca. She paused and bowed her head. "I felt sick when Mr. Cartwright threatened my husband with the words "I will still kill you."" She slowly raised her head and looked at the jury, as Fletcher made a further note.

"And once the debate was over your husband returned home to West Hartford?"

"Yes, I had prepared a light supper for him which we had in the kitchen, because he sometimes forgets."

She paused again. "I'm so sorry, forgot, to take a break from his arduous schedule to eat."

"Do you recall anything in particular about that supper?"

"Yes, I went over my notes with him, as I felt strongly about some of the issues that had been raised during the debate." Fletcher turned the page and made another note. "In fact, it was over supper that I learned Mr. Cartwright had accused him of setting up the last question."

"How did you react to such a suggestion?"

"I was appalled that anyone could think Ralph might have been involved in such underhanded tactics.

However I remained convinced that the public would not be taken in by Mr. Cartwright's false accusations, and that his petulant outburst would only increase my husband's chances of winning the election the following day.""And after supper did you both go to bed?"

"No, Ralph always found it difficult to sleep after appearing on television." She turned to face the jury again. "He told me that the adrenalin would go on pumping for several hours, and in any case, he wanted to put some finishing touches to his acceptance speech, so I went to bed while he settled down to work in his study." Fletcher added a further note to his script.

"And what time was that?"

"Just before midnight."

"And after you had fallen asleep, what was the next thing you remember?"

"Being woken by a shot, and not being certain if it was real or just part of a dream. I turned on the light and checked the time by the clock on my bedside table.

It was just after two o'clock, and I remember being surprised that Ralph still hadn't come to bed. Then I thought I heard voices, so I walked over to the door and opened it slightly. That was when I first heard someone shouting at Ralph. I was horrified when I realized it was Nat Cartwright. He was screaming at the top of his voice, and once again threatening to kill my husband. I crept out of the bedroom to the top of the stairs and that was when I heard the second shot. A moment later Mr. Cartwright came running out of the study, continued on down the corridor, opened the front door and disappeared into the night."

"Did you chase after him?"

"No, I was terrified."

Fletcher scribbled yet another note as Rebecca continued. "I ran downstairs, and straight into Ralph's study, fearing the worst. The first thing I saw was my husband on the far side of the room slumped in the corner, blood trickling from his mouth, so I immediately picked up the phone on his desk and called Chief Culver at home."

Fletcher turned yet another page and continued writing furiously. "I'm afraid I woke him, but the chief said he would come over as quickly as possibleand that I was to touch nothing."

"What did you do next?"

"I suddenly felt cold and sick to my stomach, and I thought I was going to faint. I staggered back out into the corridor and collapsed on the floor. The next thing I remember was a police siren in the distance and a few moments later someone came running through the front door. The policeman knelt down by my side and introduced himself as Detective Petrowski. One of his officers made me a cup of coffee and then he asked me to describe what had happened. I told him all I could remember, but I'm afraid I wasn't very coherent. I recall pointing to Ralph's study."