circular staircase

Cigar smoke and wet wool, the court room air was heavier than lead. Ingmar rubbed his moist palms on his best suit. That’s when he noticed the chalk on his suit jacket sleeve. Brushing hastily, Ingmar looked around to see if anyone noticed. Mary had worked so hard to black his shoes, iron his suit, clean his hat. Ingmar’s back straighten as he thought of his Mary.

He forced himself to look calm. Pressed by a rainy afternoon, the jury looked a little bored and a lot sleepy. A chemist by training, Professor Ahlberg was a man of science, the science of blood patterns and chemical reactions. There was no void in the blood splatter on the Brentwoods’ bathroom wall showing the dear lady was alone when she fell. Based on malicious rumors, the police had arrested John Brentwood in a flurry of garden party gossips and screaming headlines.

Murder on the Main Line! Ingmar knew wives are usually killed by husbands. Local Scion Cuckolded! He knew John Brentwood had scolded his wife Adelaide about the household accounts. Society Girl Bludgeoned! Yes, their girl Maisie witnessed a nasty argument before Adelaide was found dead.

However, the young forensic scientist knew cases must be built on facts not penny dreadful melodrama. The fine doctor the state brought to the stand to detail the autopsy had been convincing yet clueless. Ingmar while not a medical doctor knew he could blow the well respected doctor’s testimony to smithereens. With his accent and his painstakingly accurate scientific language, Ingmar also knew he was pedantic, incomprehensible, and plain old boring.

Over espresso, Mary encouraged him to smile more. He’d rolled his eyes at her. The acceptance of rigorous forensic science hung in the balance, a man’s life hung in the balance, the weight of testifying crushed his sternum and the woman wanted him to be a comedian. The bailiff called the scientist’s name. Ingmar started. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dried his hands. Jeb Elliot, the defense attorney, patted Ingmar’s shoulder as he walked to the witness stand.

“You dropped this Doctor,” the guard said picking something up from the court floor.

It was a flip book. Ingmar had purchased it at the county fair to amuse the children. Junior had scribbled his childish hieroglyphics on pages of a dancing clown. Jan had added a dancing dog with glasses that looked a lot like his own countenance.

Sitting in the witness box, Ingmar smiled thinking of his boys and their present to him. One of them must have slipped the little funny book in his pocket to make him happy. He looked at the twelve jurors and then at the defense attorney. A ghost of a smile flitted across his stern face, he hid the flip book in the palm of his hand.

“Professor Ingmar Ahlberg would you detail your credentials for the jury?” Elliot asked, steadying himself for a long winded testimony.

“I am a chemist, a husband, and a father. I am a scientist who has spent ten years studying crime scenes and working with police and district attorneys. For me, it is not about solving a case or winning a trial, for me a body is a book for me to read, to decipher, to uncover the truth of what happened to the life that body once held. Today, I’m here to tell you what Adelaide Brentwood told me.”

Alert and eager, the jury members leaned closer to the witness stand as Ingmar explained the victim’s accidental fall and subsequent head wound. Petting the book in his fingers, Ingmar explained Adelaide’s last story.