Stuart Woods - Dark Harbor

Stone picked up an autopsy photograph, a closeup of Dick’s head. He pointed at Dick’s forehead. “Look at that,” he said.

THE CORONER CALLED the inquest to order at five minutes past eleven. There were no more than half a dozen attendees, one of whom, a young woman with a notebook, appeared to be a reporter from the local press. They had passed a television crew in the hallway outside the courtroom.

Sergeant Young was called as the first witness and gave twenty minutes of testimony, using a large television set to display the photographs of the scene. When he was done, the medical examiner gave the autopsy results and agreed with the trooper’s assessment of the events.

“Is there anyone else who has relevant testimony?” the coroner asked.

Stone stood up. “Your Honor, my name is Stone Barrington. I am the attorney for Richard Stone and executor of his estate. I have some questions for the medical examiner, if I may.”

The coroner instructed the M.E. to take the stand again.

“Doctor, I refer to your photograph number four taken at the autopsy. May we have that on the screen, Your Honor?”

A technician brought up the photograph.

“Doctor, as part of your autopsy, did you place a rod or other object in the head wound to determine the trajectory of the gunshot?”

“I did,” the doctor replied. “I inserted a twelve-inch rod into the wound.”

“And what angle did the rod indicate?”

“It indicated that the gunshot came from the left side of the head and from an elevated angle of fifteen degrees.”

“Was the wound a contact wound? That is, was the barrel of the gun held against the head before firing?”

“Yes, it was a contact wound.”

Stone held his left hand, finger pointing, to his head and elevated his elbow. “So, in order to create that trajectory, the gun would have to have been held in this fashion?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Doctor, have you ever conducted another autopsy on a person who killed himself with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head?”

“Yes, at least a dozen times. It’s a very common way of committing suicide.”

“In any of those cases, was there a gunshot trajectory similar or identical to the one in this case?”

The doctor thought for a moment. “No, I don’t believe there was.”

“Doctor are you aware that Mr. Stone was right-handed?”

“Yes. It was in the trooper’s preliminary report.”

“But, if Mr. Stone indeed shot himself, he would have done so with his left hand?”

“Yes, that is so.”

“In any of the other cases you mentioned, did the victim use other than his dominant hand to fire the shot?”

The doctor thought again. “I can’t be positive from memory, but I don’t recall such a case.”

“Doctor, the trooper has testified that it is his belief that Mr. Stone laid his head on the desk, then fired the fatal shot. On reflection, do you believe that the trajectory of the gunshot is consistent with his theory?”

“Perhaps not,” the doctor said.

“Your Honor, may I use the blackboard?” Stone pointed to the board at one side of the courtroom.

“Go ahead,” the coroner said.

Stone walked to the blackboard and quickly sketched a man’s head lying on a desktop, then he drew a line through the head and into the desktop.

“Doctor, is this approximately the path that the trooper described in his report, with the bullet lodging in the desktop?”

“Yes,” the doctor replied.

Stone drew another line through the head, approximating the trajectory of the bullet described by the doctor. “Doctor, is this the approximate path of the bullet, given the trajectory in your report?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Do you see that the bullet would have lodged in an entirely different place in the desk, if fired in this manner?”

“Yes, I do.”

“It would then appear that the only way to reconcile the trajectory of the bullet with the place where it struck the desk would be with Mr. Stone sitting in an upright position?”

“It would seem so.”

“With the gun held so?” Stone again assumed the awkward position he had demonstrated earlier.

“Yes.”

“Would this trajectory also be consistent with the gun being fired by a person unknown standing next to and above Mr. Stone’s position?”

The doctor took a deep breath. “Yes, it would be.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Your Honor, I suggest that the preponderance of the evidence suggests that this was murder, not suicide, that it was likely that the shooter first shot Mr. Stone, then went upstairs and shot his wife and daughter.”

“What about the noise of the gunshot?” the coroner asked.

Stone went to the evidence table and picked up the Keltec.380 in its plastic bag. “The pistol was silenced, Your Honor.”

The coroner turned to Trooper Young. “Sergeant, do you have anything further to add?”

“No, sir,” the trooper said.

The coroner faced his small audience again. “The verdict of this court is declared to be open, that the victims could have been killed by either Mr. Stone or by an unknown party, and that the police investigation should continue. This court is adjourned until such time that there is further evidence to hear in this case. The bodies of the victims are released for burial.”

The coroner rapped once with his gavel, then gathered his papers, got up and left the room.

Outside the courtroom Stone was met by the television crew and the young woman from the press, but he declined to speak further, referring them to the testimony in the courtroom.

As they were standing on the street, looking for a cab, Sergeant Young approached them. “You’d have to phone for a taxi,” he said. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

“I need to go to a funeral parlor, then to the airport,” Stone said.

“I’ll drive you.”

They got into the state police car and drove away. “Looks like you’ve made some more work for me,” Young said. “Sorry about that,” Stone said.

“Don’t be. You made a valid point. I’ll come over there tomorrow and go over the whole thing again.” “Thank you,” Stone said.

AT THE FUNERAL PARLOR, Stone made arrangements for the cremation of Dick, Barbara and Esme Stone and instructed that their ashes should be mingled and shipped to him in Dark Harbor. He and Dino were back on Islesboro by two o’clock.

WHEN STONE AND DINO left the Islesboro airport to drive back to the house, they were amazed at the number of cars on the road and parked outside the Dark Harbor ice cream parlor. Apparently, summer residents were pouring off the ferry.

Back at the house he found Lance and Holly working in Dick’s secret office.

“How’d everything go?” Lance asked.

Stone told him about the autopsy photographs. “At least I managed to get an open verdict, pending further investigation,” he said. He began looking for a secure place to lock up the crime scene, autopsy and ballistic reports, and to his surprise, he opened a cabinet and found a safe inside.

There had been nothing about a safe in Dick’s will or in the accompanying letter. Below the safe’s dial was a keyhole, and Stone went through Dick’s keys until he found one that fit, but it didn’t open the safe.

“Maybe I can help,” Holly said from behind him.

“You a safecracker?” Stone asked.

“I had some training at the Farm,” she said. The Farm was the CIA’s training facility for agents.

“You go right ahead,” Stone said, stepping out of her way.

Three minutes later, Holly stepped back from the safe.

“Now try your key,” she said.

Stone inserted Dick’s key in the lock and opened the door. “That was spectacular,” Stone said.