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“What are you talking about?” demanded Dawson.
Decker took out his phone. “I just got these pictures and reports from the forensic tech who worked your father’s crime scene. They tell a very different story than suicide.”
“How?”
In answer Decker took out the spool of twine and rolled out a length of it about a foot longer than he was tall and held it up.
“Twine?” said Dawson, looking confused.
“I had the tech measure the twine that was found at the scene. It was seven feet, four inches long. That’s about the length of this section of twine.”
“So?”
“So why would he use a length of twine that long? From the triggers to the gun stock and back to his hand was about forty-three inches. He had to wrap it around the stock to pull the triggers the right way to discharge it. Then he wraps it once around his hand, that’s maybe a few inches. What’s the other three feet or so for?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Maybe he just cut off a long length without measuring it. The rest was just extra. So that proves nothing.”
“No,allof that length was actually needed.”
“What do you mean?”
“A mark made by the twine was found around your father’s wrist, and another trace of it through one of the handles on the desk drawer. I also had the tech take pics from overhead, to show the top of the desk.”
“Why did you do that?” asked Caroline.
“Blood spatters can be worth a thousand words and a thousand convictions. Blood and other organic matter were everywhere, except the photos I just got reveal a long, thin line that ran across the top of the desk. A thin line that was not impacted by the blood spatters.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that Decker is right,” said Southern, who had been following Decker’s words closely. “Someone killed your father.”
Decker explained, “When the shotgun went off, the twine that was used to pull the triggers was on top of the desk and pulled taut. It prevented blood and other detritus from colliding with the desk along that line. It’s a thin trail, to be sure, but it’s clearly there.” He passed her the phone with the photo on it.
“I don’t understand,” said Dawson, staring down at the picture.
“Someone took the twine, wrapped it around the shotgun’s triggers and gunstock after securing it to the desk, ran the line around your father’s wrist, through the desk drawer handle, and then over the top of the desk where the person probably squatted on the floor, well below the top of the desk and out of harm’s way. Then he pulled the twine and fired the shotgun from that position, killing your father. That would account for all of the forensic evidence that we found.”
“But my father was a big, strong man. He wouldn’t have—”
Decker interrupted. “He was undoubtedly unconscious. If he was drugged, the autopsy will show that. If he was struck across the face, the shotgun blast would have removed any evidence of such a blow.”
“So you’re really saying he was murdered?” she said in disbelief.
“I believe so.”
“Did he leave a note?”
“That’s right, you couldn’t know that,” said Decker.
Jamison said, “It said that he had killed Stuart McClellan and was committing suicide because he felt guilt about that.”
“Do you have the note?”
Jamison brought a screen up on her phone. “Here’s a photo of it.”
Dawson looked at it closely. “That looks like my dad’s handwriting and signature. I’ve seen it often enough. If someone did forge that, they were really good.”
Decker said, “We had several people who were familiar with your dad’s handwriting say the same thing, but that’s not really a confirmation. We’re having the handwriting analyzed by an expert. I think they will find that it’s a clever forgery.”
