One by one, everyone in the courtroom emptied their handbags, backpacks, and pockets onto the prosecutor’s table. Fenway had intended to search Rose Morgan first, but she kept far enough away that there was always someone closer to the table who agreed to be searched first. Fenway’s father had very little in his pockets: a fancy, complicated money clip with a few credit cards and a driver’s license, and a ring with only two keys, one for his Mercedes s500 and one for his home.
His phone was in Charlotte’s purse. For her part, Charlotte had a well-organized handbag with similar luxe items as Cynthia Schimmelhorn had, although it was clear their aesthetic tastes were wildly different.
Amanda and Xavier had nothing out of the ordinary. Piper’s backpack was full of cords and connectors and small devices, but none of the dozen pockets held any weapons.
Judith Cygnus had five different medications in her purse, as well as a white handkerchief with blood on it. Fenway gestured to it on the table. “What’s this?”
Judith shrugged. “I got a nosebleed just before I came into the courtroom. It happens all the time now that things have progressed.” She laughed. “I honestly don’t know how Virg thinks we’ll make it to that clinic in Mexico—”
And then her face fell, pain evident in her eyes. Fenway grimaced, but while Judith was getting control of her emotions, Fenway patted down the insides of her purse.
Leda Nedermeyer’s purse was even messier than Fenway’s. In addition to her wallet and keys, the handbag contained three empty glasses cases, a tube of sunblock, a couple of bottle caps, a travel-size toothpaste, three paperback books (a scholarly-sounding title discussing the natural world in the works of John Milton, Pride and Prejudice, and a romance novel with a shirtless, deeply tanned, heavily-muscled man holding an alabaster-skinned heavy-lidded blonde on the cover), six pill cases, two packs of gum, and a minibar-sized bottle of cinnamon-flavored whiskey. She muttered to herself as she put everything away.
Judith Cygnus passed by, between Fenway and the prosecutor’s table.
“Hey!” Leda said sharply, then there was a muffled thump. Fenway turned her head. Leda Nedermeyer’s purse lay on the floor, the contents scattered and the tiny bottle of cinnamon whiskey rolling down the aisle.
“Oh!” Judith said, feigning surprise. “I’m so sorry. I get so dizzy from these cancer treatments, you know.”
Leda glared at her, but said nothing as she bent down to pick up the contents of her purse, although she didn’t attempt to go after the bottle of cinnamon whiskey.
The only ones who hadn’t been searched were Evans Dahl, Jennifer Kim, and Rose Morgan.
“All right,” Fenway said to Rose. “It’s your turn.”
“Sorry,” Rose said, “I don’t consent to a search.”
Fenway narrowed her eyes.
“I don’t have a gun—I don’t have any weapons—but I don’t consent to a search.”
“Everyone in this room now thinks you have a gun in your purse. Or your jacket.”
“Be that as it may, you can’t compel me to give up my personal property for search without a warrant.”
“Or a reasonable expectation that you have a weapon,” Jennifer Kim said.
“Nice try, but this doesn’t meet the Supreme Court standard,” Rose replied. “The reasonable expectation only applies to public schools.”
“It’s a public building.”
“It’s still not a school. You want to forcibly search me, go ahead. When we’re out of here, my first call will be to my lawyer. I seem to remember he did pretty well when you tried to hold me without evidence last week.”
Fenway rested her chin in her palm. Then she shook her head. “I got nothing. Jennifer, Piper—can you two think of any legal way to compel her to be searched?”
Kim shook her head. Piper shrugged.
“You obviously have something you want to hide,” Fenway said. “Convince me it’s not a gun.”
“Maybe I’m not as ready to share the color of my tampon case as you all are. Or maybe I’m tired of the cops searching me for no reason. There’s such a thing as having principles, you know.”
“This is where you want to take that stand?”
“If you don’t take a stand for what you believe in when the stakes are high, Miss Stevenson, maybe you don’t believe in anything at all.”
Fenway sighed. She turned to Jennifer and spoke in a low voice. “All right, Jennifer, what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. If she does have a gun, we obviously want to take it from her. But if she doesn’t have it, and she has anything else, or if there’s something in here she says is embarrassing, we could get sued—or accused of violating her civil rights.”
“But the law is on her side, right?”
ada Kim shook her head. “I know that’s not a risk my boss would want me to take right now.” She looked at Fenway. “You don’t think she’s got a gun, do you?”
“Come on, Jennifer. Look at all of the people in here. You see anyone else who’s a better suspect than Rose?”
Kim stared hard at Rose for a moment. “Honestly,” she murmured, “I thought it might be your father.”
“My father? He was in front of the prosecution’s table. Totally wrong angle. I would have heard it from that direction—you would have, too.”
“Yes, I guess you’re right. He might have had someone do it for him.”
Fenway scoffed. “Like who?”
“Like your stepmother.”
“Charlotte? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” Kim put her hands on her hips. “She’s got a gun registered in her name. She’s got an excuse for entering through the same entrance your father goes through—one where they don’t have a metal detector. And I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the targets from the gun range after she goes there, but there’s a nice cluster around the bullseye in almost all of them. She’s a good shot.”
Fenway was taken aback. “When in the world did you get her targets from the gun range?”
Kim shook her head. “I know you’re a busy woman, Fenway, but have you honestly forgotten—”
“Oh, right. When she was arrested for murder. Still, I didn’t realize you were on the case.”
“I wasn’t. But I saw pictures of the targets. We were joking that she should teach some of our officers how to shoot.”
“So.” Fenway leaned on the prosecutor’s table with both hands. “You think Charlotte did it, and I think Rose Morgan did it.”
“Honestly? I think the shooter slipped out of the courthouse without us catching them. I bet they’re a hundred miles away by now.”
Dez had made it sound like no one escaped before the whole courthouse was locked down, but Fenway had no way to clarify that. Someone could have gotten out. That’ll wreck my perfect record of catching murderers. Oh well. The streak has to end sometime. “So what’ll we do about Rose refusing to be searched?”
Jennifer shrugged. “I’m not sure quite how much we can do. I believe she’s within her rights to refuse.”
“Doesn’t the state’s interest in preventing a murder outweigh her right to privacy?’
Jennifer shook her head. “We can’t reasonably assume that a murder will happen. I don’t want to argue that in front of my boss. I won’t be responsible for opening us up for litigation like that.”
Fenway scoffed. “You’d rather put all of our lives at risk?”
“Look, Fenway,” Jennifer said, “I appreciate that you’re trying to do something constructive instead of letting everyone stew in their own juices while we’re in here, but the odds are good that the shooter escaped. The double doors didn’t shut for about fifteen seconds, and it’s very possible the other door served as the escape route. I think even your favorite b&e suspect over there—” she acknowledged Piper with a nod of her head “—understands that this building was designed to keep people out, not prevent their escape once they’re inside.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it. You have to follow it, though.”
Spoken like someone who’s lived on the wrong side of a previous decision. Fenway nodded. “So that leaves you and Evans.”
“I will also claim Fourth Amendment privilege,” Evans Dahl said. He didn’t look any more comfortable in the straight-backed wooden chair off to the side of the defense table that Xavier and Bryce had helped him into. “Especially as I have paperwork for cases on the back burner. I don’t want the prosecution—or anyone in county law enforcement—to get their hands on it.”
“Surely your pockets and your suit jacket—”
“Get Judge Miller back in here and I’ll have no choice to do what she says,” Evans Dahl said, pushing his round-rimmed glasses up on his nose. “Until then, you’re not getting anything from me.”
Jennifer Kim screwed up her face. “I think I have to side with my legal colleague and decline based on the Fourth Amendment.”
Fenway was aghast. “What? You actually performed some of the searches with me! Are you telling me you’re a complete hypocrite?”
Kim walked around the prosecutor’s table and grabbed her briefcase. “Not a complete hypocrite. I didn’t force Miss Morgan to comply and then refuse myself. In fact, I didn’t force anyone to comply.”
Fenway opened her mouth and closed it again. She couldn’t believe this was happening. “And what about interviewing people in here? You refuse to do that too?”
ada Kim squinted, then shook her head. “No, you’re free to ask me questions. I don’t have a problem with that. I suppose I might plead the fifth if you ask me the wrong kind of question.”
Fenway was glad she’d trained to be a nurse instead of a lawyer. Both Evans and Jennifer—and Rose, too, for that matter—seemed insufferable and smug. She wondered if that’s what she was like when anyone had a medical question.
Was interviewing people the best step? Maybe she should look for the second slug. Cygnus had only been hit once, but Fenway had heard two shots. But the second slug could be anywhere, and probably buried deep in a wall or table. Besides, during the interview, someone might give some information that would narrow things down. She’d rather have a general idea of where to look first.
“We’re going into the interview portion of our morning next,” Fenway announced to the group. “I’ll ask you things like what you saw this morning, both in the courtroom and on your way here. If we can get a full picture by piecing together your reports, we might be able to figure out where the killer is, or where the murder weapon might be.”
She looked out over the people in the gallery. They mostly looked bored, except Rose who was like acting like a trapped cat—and most certainly had her legal claws out.
Again, it was Cynthia Schimmelhorn who stepped forward to go first. “Good. Something to occupy my time rather than staring at the wall. Where shall we conduct this interview?”
Fenway pointed to the nook in the corner. “It’s not the best, but it’s likely the most private spot in here. At least people won’t be able to tell what we’re saying. You couldn’t make anything out when I was on the walkie-talkie, right?”
“Correct.”
Fenway turned her head toward Piper, who was still working on the pc at the judge’s bench. “Any luck communicating with McVie?”
Piper looked up. “What?”
“I said have you had any luck getting ahold of McVie?”
“Oh.” Piper shook her head. “Not yet.”
Something told Fenway that Piper wasn’t working as hard as she could to communicate with McVie. Shifting her weight from foot to foot, Fenway didn’t press it any more. “Okay. Keep working.”
Then she found Xavier, who was sitting back in the gallery with Amanda’s head on his shoulder. “Hey, would you give me a hand with these chairs?”
“Oh. Uh, sure.”
Fenway handed a straight-backed chair from behind the prosecutor’s table to Xavier, and she took one. They brought them into the nook on the side of the courtroom and Fenway arranged them to face each other. It looked more like a quiz show set up than an interrogation room, which Fenway supposed was okay.
Once she arranged the chairs, she grabbed her purse and her fingerprint kit and walked into the nook. Cynthia sat in the chair facing inward. “What are you waiting for, Miss Stevenson? Let’s get to it.”
Fenway nodded in agreement and took the chair next to the wall, facing out.
She reached down and pulled her phone out of her purse.
“I didn’t think you had any signal in here,” Cynthia said.
“I don’t, but I don’t need a cell connection in order to record.” Fenway opened the voice memo application and clicked on the record button. “The date is November twelfth, 10:16 a.m. Coroner Fenway Stevenson interviewing Ms. Cynthia Schimmelhorn.”
She raised her eyes to the stately woman in the chair across from her. “Do you consent to having this conversation recorded, Ms. Schimmelhorn?”
“I—uh, yes.”
“Great.” Fenway leaned back in her chair. “Can I get you to state your full name for the record?”
“Cynthia DiFazio Schimmelhorn.”
Fenway snapped her fingers. “DiFazio! Like the DiFazio Theater at Nidever. Was the theater named after you before you were married?”
Schimmelhorn blinked. “Uh—no, actually. Well, in a sense. I did make the donation, but I requested that the theater be named after my late father.”
“Oh—I’m sorry for your loss.”
The older woman smiled. “It was over a decade ago, dear.”
“Right. Anyway, can you tell me about your relationship with Professor Cygnus?”
“My relationship?” Schimmelhorn’s mouth dropped open.
Fenway furrowed her brow. “Sure. He was your professor when you were at Nidever, right?”
“Oh.” Cynthia Schimmelhorn visibly relaxed. “Well, yes, he was.”
“Changed your life, from the stories I hear.” Fenway attempted a half-smile, trying to get the posh woman to open up a bit, although she wasn’t quite sure what she could use.
“He—he did. I was, perhaps, not the best student. I had issues with, well, authority.” She cleared her throat. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you this.”
“You were pretty close with him.”
“No.” Cynthia shook her head. “When I was a student, perhaps. Not lately.”
“I’ve been to the theater. It can’t be more than five years old. You mean to tell me that you donated enough money to construct a five-hundred-seat theater and a four-story classroom building attached to it, and you’re not close with Professor Cygnus.” Fenway squinted. “You named your daughter after the character you played, too, right? Nerissa?”
Schimmelhorn popped back in her seat as if she’d gotten an electric shock. “How did you know that?”
“Because I was investigating a murder last week and your name kept coming up.” Fenway rested her chin in her hand. “So how much had the two of you talked recently?”
Cynthia shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Recently?”
“Sure. Like, say, the last six months.”
“I don’t—I don’t really remember.”
“You don’t remember.”
“A couple of times, I think. We must have run into each other at a restaurant.”
“Really? With his wife sick at home, he’s going out to a restaurant?” Oh, right, he’s got a mistress too. Fenway wondered if Cynthia knew about Leda Nedermeyer, and wanted to ask about her. However, the nook wasn’t private enough to ask that without risking either Judith or Leda—or both—hearing it.
“Perhaps it was in line at one of the local coffee roasters. Whatever it was, it was simply in passing.”
“Had you heard anything about the money that the scholarship fund was laundering?”
“Certainly not. We simply exchanged pleasantries.”
“You didn’t ask how Othello was going?”
“No, I don’t suppose I did. I don’t really remember.”
Fenway looked at Cynthia, who had an exasperated look on her face, but betrayed no other emotion. Fenway folded her arms. There was something here that Cynthia Schimmelhorn wasn’t telling her, but questioning her right next to the open area wasn’t something conducive to telling secrets. So Fenway changed tactics. “When did you get to the courthouse?”
Schimmelhorn dropped her shoulders, probably relieved that the questioning was moving on to something else. “I pulled into the lot at seven forty-five or so.”
“Over an hour early for a nine-o’clock arraignment?”
“I was meeting Bryce. We needed to go over a few things.”
“Like what?”
Schimmelhorn smiled. “I apologize, Coroner, but I’m not at liberty to discuss business conversations in a forum where everyone can hear.”
Fenway nodded. She took deep, even breaths, trying to keep herself calm, but perhaps interviewing people in the nook wasn’t as good of an idea after all.
“You met Mr. Heissner inside the courthouse?”
Schimmelhorn shook her head. “No. We met at Java Jim’s.”
Fenway cocked her head. “There’s one next to the courthouse?”
“No, the one on Third Street.”
Nodding, Fenway continued, “Ah yes, I know that Java Jim’s well. How long did you stay?”
“About twenty minutes. We walked to the courthouse together.”
“And did you go through the metal detector together?”
“Yes. Well—not exactly together. I went first, then Mr. Heissner.”
“Of course. And the two of you were with each other the whole time?”
“Yes. The whole time.”
“You walked into the courtroom together?”
“Ah.” Schimmelhorn nodded. “Yes. The two of us definitely walked in together.”
“And where did you sit?”
Schimmelhorn pointed at the wall that separated the nook from the full room. “Right on the other side of this wall. Last row, next to the column.”
Fenway cocked her head. “Did you say you were on this side of the column, or the side closest to the center aisle?”
“It was the center aisle.”
“You showed up forty-five minutes early and took a seat in the last row?”
Schimmelhorn folded her arms. “Sometimes I have to take phone calls. I didn’t want to disturb the proceeding if I had to exit.”
“But there’s no cell service in here.”
“I didn’t know that, did I?” Schimmelhorn snapped. “I wouldn’t have sat so far away if I had known.” She shook her head. “I was trying to be polite.”
Fenway nodded and leaned forward. “Did you see anything suspicious, either before the arraignment started or afterward?”
“Hmm.” Schimmelhorn looked up and to her left, as if trying to remember. “Well—as I said, there was a man in a black sweatshirt with a hood on it standing next to me.”
Fenway nodded. “Right. A hoodie.”
“Yes. I’m not sure if it said anything on it, but he stood in the row behind me.”
“I thought you said you were in the last row.”
“I mean, he was standing in the aisle behind me.”
“He didn’t take a seat?”
“I don’t know. As soon as the courtroom started to fill up, he went away. I assume he sat down, but I didn’t see where.”
“Did you see him again?”
“No.”
“What about him seemed suspicious to you?”
“I—I don’t really know. He didn’t seem like he was dressed appropriately for court, for one thing. And he seemed nervous.”
“What did he look like? Tall? Short?”
“He was medium height, I suppose. Maybe five-foot-eight. I hate to say this, but perhaps his skin was a bit on the darker side.”
Fenway’s annoyance crept up. “You mean he was black.”
“No! No.” Schimmelhorn shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this. He seemed to me to be either Hispanic or perhaps Palestinian.”
“Latino or middle eastern, you say?”
“Maybe not. I don’t know all the nationalities. He had dark hair, and I thought he might be in the wrong place.” Cynthia considered this a moment. “Maybe he was the relative of someone else who was getting arraigned in another courtroom.”
“Or maybe the relative of one of the victims.”
Cynthia brightened. “Yes! Maybe a relative.”
“Did you see a gun?”
“No.”
“Where were you when the shooting happened?”
“Sitting in the back row, as I’ve said, Miss Stevenson.”
Fenway blinked. “That’s right, I remember now. You said the shots came from behind you, didn’t you?”
Cynthia nodded.
“So you’re saying the shooter was in the aisle between the back row and the wall.”
“I’m just telling you what my impression was, Miss Stevenson.”
Fenway had the same impression; the shots came from behind her. People had been walking in and out using the center aisle, which likely would have blocked any shot from the prosecution side of the courtroom—or made it significantly harder, anyway. “Tell you what—why don’t you show me where you were standing when the shooting started?”
“Yes.” Cynthia Schimmelhorn stood and smoothed the skirt of her suit. Fenway picked up her phone from the chair and followed her out of the nook and into the open courtroom. All the others were on the far side of the gallery. Xavier and Amanda were talking, as were Nathaniel and Charlotte, but everyone else sat and stared, as if they were stunned. Which Fenway supposed they were.
The last row of seats was on their right, and the curved wall was on the left. The large white in-wall speaker enclosure was about ten feet further down when Schimmelhorn passed the large square column and stopped, placing her hand on the back of the first seat. “Right here.”
Fenway nodded. “And you say the shooting sounded like it was behind you?”
“Yes. Although, I can’t be sure it wasn’t across the aisle. It didn’t sound like it was on this side.”
“Loud sudden noises can play tricks on your ears,” Fenway said, but she was scouring the floor with her eyes. She knelt down to search, but the overhead lights cast dark shadows under the rows of seats.
Why hadn’t anyone seen the shooter? People were coming and going through the center aisle—two loud shots? Someone must have seen something.
She stood again and looked straight ahead to where Cygnus had been standing in front of the defense table. It was a clear shot—although she wondered if Jennifer Kim would have been in the way.
Hm. Was there another angle?
Fenway looked at the large, square column. She took several steps backward to the center aisle. She couldn’t see the other side. As she walked down the aisle, the far side of the aisle remained hidden until she was almost even with the gallery gate.
She stopped and cocked her head.
There hadn’t been anyone that close to the front—not that she remembered, anyway. And when the shots were fired, she and McVie had hit the floor. They didn’t look to see where the shots had come from.
Had the shooter really been that lucky?
Walking back to the column, Fenway stepped to the side closest to the side wall. She looked down to the defense table, and noted that the seat she was sitting in was also aligned. If she had heard the shots directly behind her, the shooter could have been standing pretty close to this spot.
Turning on her phone’s flashlight, she knelt and started shining the light on the floor.
A glint of light from behind one of the chair legs.
She squinted. A shell casing.