Chapter 12 #2
The first file was a folder of the original crime scene photos.
A marker had been set to indicate the location of the gun, and the yellow tape showed the outline of the councilor’s body.
The next set of photos were of the autopsy.
The bullet wound was unmistakable. He opened another folder that had the results of the fingerprints.
He stared at it for several seconds, to be sure that what he hoped not to find wasn’t there.
“Blimey!” he shouted, causing Watson to flinch.
“Sorry, pal. I’ve got some good news to work with.
” There were two sets of indistinguishable prints on the handle of the gun.
The blood from the gunshot wound covered anything discernible.
There was one fingerprint on the trigger marked Unknown.
Henry’s fingerprints were on the barrel.
You can’t shoot a gun by holding the barrel.
He began to type up his own findings, noting that the gun would probably have to be tested again.
That might be more difficult. He would have to show and explain the reasons why, which is exactly what he was composing.
It occurred to him to phone his friend and colleague Helen Miller, the city’s top forensic scientist.
He checked the time. It was after hours, but Helen was a bit of a workaholic and could be found in her lab any time of the day or night, or the wee hours of the morning. After two rings someone answered. “Pathology. Miller here.”
“Of course you are,” Oliver teased.
“And to what do I owe the pleasure?” Helen quipped in return.
“I have a few questions I hope you can answer for me.”
“What’s this about?” she asked.
“If I tell you, then I’ll have to kill you,” Oliver said with a half-serious tone.
“Such a sweet-talker you are, DCI Townsend.”
He didn’t want to put her in an uncomfortable position. “If I told you it was a secret and you can’t let on, would that suffice?”
“You might have to take me to dinner for that kind of ask.”
Oliver thought to himself, It’s about time one of us made a move.
Oliver had been a widower for five years.
He hesitated when it came to dating. At first he thought he would be “cheating” on his deceased wife, but then he thought he was probably too old.
At fifty-two, the dating scene seemed to be for younger folks.
At the very least the date was companionship. He replied, “Just let me know when.”
Helen couldn’t see the smile on his face, but she could hear it in his voice. “Yer on. Shoot.”
Oliver winced at the word. “Funny you should say that. Ten years ago there was a shooting in the back of a bank. It was a councilor.”
“Right. They never found the man.”
“Well, I think I have,” Oliver said with confidence.
“How so?” Helen voice was filled with intrigue.
“Let me ask you a few questions first. Let’s say I had an unknown fingerprint from a certain crime scene, which was not identified at the time of the crime because it wasn’t in the system.”
“Go on,” Helen urged.
“Ten years later someone gets arrested and obviously their prints are now in the system.”
“And you want me to see if they match?” Helen asked before he had a chance.
“Helen, whoever said you weren’t brilliant wasn’t paying attention.”
Helen scoffed. “Who said that about me?”
“Kidding. No one.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Helen answered curtly. She continued. “So where is said unidentified print?”
“On a flash drive,” Oliver replied.
“I don’t suppose you would want to email it to me, eh?”
“No. No, I would rather not.”
“So how can I make a comparison?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Oliver answered.
“Let me see if I understand. You have the original unidentified print.”
“Correct.”
“And where is the new print?”
Oliver hesitated then said, “Serious Fraud Office.”
“Hmm. I see. Pretty up there, innit?”
“Indeed,” Henry answered. “Any chance you can access it?”
“I might be able to, but you have to tell me more.”
“When are you leaving work?”
“In a few minutes. Why?”
“Would you mind stopping by my flat? I’ll explain everything to you.”
“Do you have wine?” she asked.
Oliver looked around his flat. “No, but I can run out and get whatever you want.”
“Perfect. I’ll have a Chateau Grange-Neuve, Pomerol 2016, if they have it.”
Oliver was quickly scribbling it on a piece of paper while he held his phone up to his ear. “And what would be your second choice?”
“Ask the store manager.”
“Right.”
“What is your address?”
Oliver gave her the information. “See you in a bit.” He immediately phoned the local wine shop and asked about her preference. They had one bottle. He asked them to hold on to it and he’d be there in a jiffy.
Forty minutes later, the wine had been uncorked and poured into a decanter.
He looked around the room. It needed a bit of tidying up.
“Watson, how many times have I told you to pick up yer toys?” The cat blinked and looked the other way.
“Yer no help.” Oliver picked up the newspapers that he had piled for recycling and brought them out back.
Then he went into his bedroom and put on a fresh shirt and a pair of scuffs.
He checked himself in the bathroom mirror.
“Could use a shave, old boy.” He quickly ran the electric razor over his face.
He debated about aftershave. He didn’t want to smell like a rent boy, then decided the smell of his soap would be good enough.
He dragged a comb through his salt-and-pepper hair. At least he hadn’t gone bald.
The buzzer rang and Watson took his usual spot on the dining room table.
Oliver tried to shoo him off, but Watson was having nothing to do with being dismissed.
He simply kept moving from one side of the table to the other.
Oliver let out a huff and then opened the door.
“Good evening, Helen. Thanks so much for humoring me.”
“I must say your request intrigued me.” She walked straight over to Watson. “Hello, handsome.” The cat stretched and offered the side of his face to be scratched under his chin. “Aren’t you a sweet thing?”
“I’ve been teaching him manners,” Oliver said and helped her out of her coat. He pulled a chair from under the table. “Please sit. Don’t mind him, he thinks he’s part of this undercover operation.”
Helen continued to stroke the purring kitty. She cocked her head. “And?”
“And, your wine, madame.” Oliver poured a glass for her and refilled his tumbler with whiskey.
Helen lifted her glass to the light, then gave it a few swirls, sniffed the aromas, and then tasted it.
Oliver observed Helen’s knowledge in wine tasting. “Does it meet with your approval?”
“It does, indeed.” She lifted it again. “Cheers!”
“Cheers!” Oliver’s angst about having a woman in his house disappeared.
After his wife passed, he had moved into a smaller flat.
He joked with his friends, calling it “a gentleman’s cave,” knowing it was an oxymoron.
“I am a civilized Neanderthal.” His eyes darted around the room one more time to be sure nothing was out of place.
He was generally neat, but a sock on the floor wouldn’t be unusual.
Helen took another sip of her French red wine. “So tell me, Sherlock, what are you up to?”
He leaned over her shoulder and pulled the evening newspaper in front of them, pointing to the headline. “Yes, there are people who still prefer something tangible.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” She glanced at the paper. Oliver put his finger on the headline about the judge.
“This bounder?” she asked.
“Ah, you know him.”
“Dodgy, indeed.” Helen took another sip. “So, what does this have to do with fingerprints?”
“According to a witness, they recognized him and said he was at the scene of the crime.” Oliver cleared his throat.
“Why do I sense there is something you’re not telling me?” Helen glanced up at him.
Oliver walked to the other side of the table and pulled out a chair. He began to reiterate Henry’s story. “I am certain he had absolutely nothing to do with it. But word got out that the judge had it in for him and he wasn’t going to get a fair trial.”
“Why so?”
“Because it was the judge who pulled the trigger.” Oliver waited for a reaction.
“Well, blow me down,” Helen replied. “I never got a good vibe from him. For years there had been rumors of bribes and a bit of extortion. But murder?”
“According to Henry, the councilor had been in the bank several minutes before and withdrew ten thousand pounds. When Henry went on his break he was behind the bank in the alley. He saw the councilor arguing with two men. The one in the camel-hair coat pulled out a gun, there was a struggle, the gun went off, and Bob’s your uncle. ”
“Back it up a bit. How was Henry implicated?”
“He rushed to the councilor’s aid and moved the gun out of the way so he could administer help.
When the police arrived, he was leaning over the councilor, he had blood on his hands, literally, and there was an open envelope filled with cash lying on the ground.
The coppers thought it was a robbery gone bad. ”
“What about the judge?”
“He was the man in the camel-hair coat. Henry recognized him when he was leaving the nick, and the judge recognized Henry as being the witness. There was no way Henry was going to get out of jail alive.”
Helen exhaled. “That is quite a story, innit?”
“It is, which is why I want to compare the prints they recently took from the judge after he was arrested. If the print from the trigger matches his, then I can file for a withdrawal from the Crown Prosecution Service.”
“This will also implicate the judge in the murder,” Helen said thoughtfully. “He’s quite the bugger.”
“Justice can be a glorious thing when done properly,” Oliver offered.
“Let’s get to work,” Helen said and moved her glass to the side.
Oliver plugged the flash drive into the side of his laptop and opened both of the files. Helen gave him a cursory glance. “How did you get this?”
“My charm?” Oliver joked.
“It’s probably best I don’t know,” Helen said.