“And that’s what occurred here?”

“Yes.”

“You say a bullet caused this trauma to the victim’s basal ganglion. Do you mean a shotgun pellet?”

“No. I mean a bullet, probably small-caliber, fired into the victim’s head, probably at close range.”

There’s a stir in the courtroom. Reporters in the front two rows are taking copious notes.

Nelson pauses for a bit of dramatic effect, as if he is hearing this revelation for the first time.

“Doctor, can you tell us the time of death?”

Coop consults his notes, a copy of the pathology report.

“Between seven P.M. and seven-ten P.M.,” he says. “We fixed it at seven-oh-five P.M.”

“How can you be that precise?”

“A number of procedures,” he says. “The secret is to find the body soon after death. The various degrees of rigor mortis will tell you something. Lividity itself will give you some clues. If the skin blanches when pressed, turns white, the blood has yet to coagulate. This would mean that death occurred within less than half an hour of the examination. If the blood can’t be pressed out of the capillaries, the skin will stay the same dark tone when pressed. The victim has been dead longer. In this case I was able to take the temperature of the liver. This is an organ well insulated by the body. It’s not subject to rapid temperature variations of the outside atmosphere. In this case, I would consider it a precise means of determining the time of death.”

“I see. Then is it your testimony, doctor, that Benjamin Potter was shot in the head by a small-caliber firearm sometime between seven P.M. and seven-ten P.M., and that it was this wound that resulted in death?”

“Yes.”

“Then is it safe to say that the shotgun blast heard in Mr. Potter’s office was not the cause of death?”

“That’s correct,” says Coop.

There’s more stirring from the audience. Two of the reporters leave, probably to telecast live news shots from their vans parked in front of the courthouse.

Nelson now heads into the imponderables, the caliber of the small round and the distance from which it was fired. Coop explains that the answers to these questions are less certain since the bullet was but a fragment, and any tattooing that might have been left on the skin from a point-blank shot was obliterated by the massive shotgun wound. It is Coop’s opinion, stated to the court, that the bullet that caused death was itself fragmented by the shotgun pellets as they entered the brain.

“The shotgun blast,” he says, “in all medical respects, was an unnecessary redundancy.”

“Unless,” suggests Nelson, “someone was trying to make a murder look like a suicide?”

Precisely,” says Coop.

He is now Cheetam’s witness.

“Dr. Cooper, you say mat this mystery bullet fired into the head of Mr. Potter was the cause of death. Were you able to find an entry wound for this bullet?”

“No, as I said …”

“You’ve answered the question, doctor. So we have no entry wound that you can find for this bullet. How large was the bullet in question, what caliber, can you tell us?”

Coop’s eyes are turning to little slits.

“Not with certainty. It was a fragment.”

“Oh, a fragment. How big was this bullet fragment, doctor?”

Coop consults his report. “Ten point six eight grains,” he says.

“And when you conducted the post mortem, did you find shotgun pellets lodged in the victim’s head?”

“Yes.” Sensing Cheetam’s juggernaut, Coop’s gone to short answers.

“How many of these pellets did you find?”

“In the victim, or in the office ceiling?”

“Let’s start with the victim.”

Coop looks at his notes again. “There were sixty-seven removed from the cranial cavity during the post mortem.”

“And in the ceiling?”

“Four hundred and ninety-two.”

“Do you know the size of this shot found in the victim and in the ceiling?”

“Mostly number nine.”

“Do you know what these pellets were made of?”

“They were composed of lead with a thin coating of copper.”

“Do you know, doctor, how many pellets there are in a normal load of number-nine shot?”

“About five hundred and eighty-five …”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Nelson has caught Cheetam wandering. “If Mr. Cheetam wants to call a ballistics expert, he’s free to do so. Dr. Cooper is here to testify as to the medical pathology in this case.”

“Sustained.”

“Still,” says Cheetam, “the doctor knows his shot. He’s right on with the number.”

“Objection. Now counsel’s testifying.”

“Mr. Cheetam, direct your comments to the witness and kindly frame them in the form of a question.”

“Sorry, Your Honor.”

“Dr. Cooper, the shotgun pellets you found in the victim and in the ceiling of Mr. Potter’s office, were these all number-nine shot?”

“No. They varied in size.”

“They varied?” Cheetam’s eyebrows arch for effect, and he turns toward the jury box, forgetting for a moment that it’s empty.

“Some were one shot-size larger and some were one shot-size smaller, but most of them were number-nine shot.” Coop’s voice is flat, as if he’s saying “So what?”

Cheetam pauses for a moment. He wants to ask Coop whether such variations in shot size are common. But Nelson will have the court kick his butt. He moves on.

“Now this supposed bullet fragment, you said earlier that it was ten point six eight grains. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“How large were the shotgun pellets found in the victim?”

Again Coop looks at his notes. “They averaged about point seven five grains of weight.”

“So this other thing, this thing you identified as a bullet fragment, was a little bigger?”

“No, it was a lot bigger,” says Coop. “Approximately fifteen times bigger.”

“I see.” Cheetam’s smiling, not to appear set back by an unhelpful answer.

“Doctor, have you ever heard of the phenomenon called ‘fusing’ as it’s applied to shotgun ballistics?”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Nelson’s at him again.

Cheetam’s having a difficult time trying to get where he wants to go.

“Let me reframe the question, Your Honor.”

“Please.” O’Shaunasy’s looking over her glasses at him again.

“In the course of your medical practice I assume you’ve done hundreds, perhaps thousands, of autopsies.”

Coop nods.

“And I assume that some of these, perhaps a considerable number, would have involved shotgun wounds.”

“A number,” says Coop.

“In the course of these autopsies involving shotgun wounds, have you ever encountered a situation in which two or more, perhaps sometimes even several, shotgun pellets fuse together to form a larger mass of lead?”

Cheetam turns to engage Nelson’s eyes, an imperious grin having finally arrived on his face.

“I’m familiar with the phenomenon. I’ve seen it,” says Coop.

The grin broadens on Cheetam’s face.

“Well, isn’t it possible that this object which you have identified as a bullet fragment, isn’t it possible, doctor, that this amorphous piece of lead is in fact just a number of shotgun pellets which have become fused together by the heat of the shotgun blast as they traveled down the gun barrel?”

Cheetam turns his back toward Coop. He’s now facing Nelson, straight on, with his arms folded, waiting for the expected shrug of the shoulders and the concession of “It’s possible.”

“No,” says Cooper. “These were not fused pellets.”

Cheetam whips around and takes a dead bead on the witness.

“How can you be so certain, doctor? Are you a ballistics expert now?”

Coop is slow to answer, methodical and deliberate.

“No,” he says. “I’m not a ballistics expert. But I’ve taken enough steel jackets from bullets out of bodies to recognize one when I see it.” Then, as if to pound the point home, he adds, “The fragment removed from the basal ganglion of Benjamin Potter was not lead. It was a portion of a steel jacket, used only in the manufacture of pistol and rifle bullets.”