Marla’s eyes opened wide, and she stiffened upright. She had probably been wondering why she was here, Gotthilf thought to himself in amusement, and the mention of the hated Schardius name would have been like a dash of cold water in the face.
“Herr Schardius was not involved in these alleged offenses,” Byron took over. “In fact, we were investigating him for other crimes, but his only involvement in Herr Schmidt’s activities was apparently as a victim. But he is not present today because in an apparent fit of madness he kidnapped Frau Linder,” he nodded to Marla, “and attempted an assault on her. She was rescued without harm…”
“Thank God,” Marla and Franz uttered in unison. Gotthilf almost smiled at that, but he resumed watching the rest of the group waiting for his cue.
“…but in the resulting turmoil Herr Schardius was shot resisting arrest.”
There was a murmur in the room for a moment. Byron looked at a file open in front of him, then held up a picture of One-Eye, as they had started calling him. “We have evidence, though, that this man—one of the two Italian thieves and murderers—was trailing Herr Schardius. We also have evidence that he was being urged by Herr Schmidt to assault Herr Schardius, perhaps to kill him. He was shot and killed by some unknown assailant the same night that Herr Schardius died, the night before Herr Schmidt died.”
Byron closed a file sitting in front of him as a sign of finality, then looked to Gotthilf.
“But that still leaves us with the question of how Herr Schmidt died.” He opened a folder. “The obvious assumption was that he committed suicide, based on the circumstances of how his body was found.” Frau Gericke sniffled, and everyone glanced quickly that direction, then away. “And there is no question that his death was caused by the gunshot to his head. But…” Gotthilf paused for a long moment, “we no longer believe that the gunshot was self-inflicted.”
The mayor’s eyes widened, and the widow choked on a breath. Everyone else in the room looked surprised.
“But,” Stephan Burckardt ventured, “the gun was on the floor under his hand.”
Marla looked over at Burckardt for a moment, then looked away.
“Yes, it was,” Gotthilf said. “And that fact misled us for quite some time. But we discovered some evidence that proved Herr Schmidt was not holding the gun when it was fired. So then we had to look for someone who would benefit from Herr Schmidt’s death.”
Gotthilf closed the file in front of him, and began staring at one individual in the group as Byron picked up the narrative.
“We have a few suspects in mind, but we don’t think it will take us long to find the killer.”
“How?” Jacob Lentke asked from his seat at the end of the line.
“Herr Schmidt’s murderer didn’t understand that when you shoot someone from close range,” Byron replied, “especially a head shot like that one was, there will be a very fine mist of blood splashed out from the wound by the bullet, and part of that mist will land on the shooter’s hand and arm. Also, what you might think of as burnt gunpowder soot will also be deposited on the shooter’s hand and arm. And both the blood and the gunpowder is very hard to wipe off.”
Gotthilf continued to stare at one person.
“We have tests now that we can use to find traces of blood and traces of gunpowder on people’s hands and clothing.” Byron shrugged. “We’ll do the tests on the hands and clothes of our suspects. It won’t take long to find him.”
Burckardt frowned. “How is that possible?” His tone was excited and he waved his hands in front of him. “It sounds like magic!”
“No, that’s science,” Byron replied.
Burckhardt laughed abruptly. The sound was nervous and high-pitched; quite distinctive, in fact. “It’s utter nonsense!”
Marla stood up so quickly that her chair tipped over behind her as she backed away from Burckardt. “You!” she said. “You’re the one who pushed Schardius through the wall. I recognize that laugh.” She pointed a finger at him, and shouted, “I recognize that laugh!”
“What?” Burckardt said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Byron,” Marla turned to her brother-in-law. “I’m sure he’s the one.”
“Ridiculous!” Burckardt said, standing up himself. Franz stood and stepped up beside his wife, facing the secretary.
Byron stood up also. As tall as he was, he was a threatening figure even though his hands were still at his sides. “Herr Burckardt,” he said sternly, “even if Marla’s testimony and the testimony of the other women in the room wouldn’t stand in court, the tests for blood and gunpowder will. It’s science,” he repeated. “What will we find when we test your hands and your clothes, Herr Burckardt?”