Lizzie, p.37
Lizzie, page 37
“It was a bigger newspaper?”
“Yes, it was larger. I don’t think there was two sheets.”
“Oh, a single folio paper.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t remember what the newspaper was?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Mr. Medley, how long do you think you were in the cellar before you left with this hatchet wrapped up in paper?”
“I don’t think over a half hour.”
“You went right off after showing it to Captain Desmond?”
“Yes, sir. I took it down to the city marshal’s office. After I wrapped it in paper.”
For a moment, Lizzie thought Robinson had missed this. His face showed no expression of surprise, his back did not stiffen the way it had earlier when he’d heard unexpected and conflicting testimony. She almost reached out involuntarily as if to touch Robinson — where he stood too far away to touch — nudge him, alert him to what Medley had just said. It was Officer Medley who had earlier testified that he had seen no footprints on the barn loft floor. If his testimony now could be shown to be in direct contradiction to what Desmond had said, would not his story about the barn seem untrustworthy as well? She kept watching Robinson. He had heard, she realized, he had heard.
“You wrapped it in paper,” he said softly. There was no emphasis on the “you”. He delivered his words not as a question but as a statement, a simple repetition of what Medley had just told him.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where did you get your paper?”
Again no emphasis, the word “your” simply flowing unobtrusively into the rest of the sentence.
“In the basement.”
“A piece of newspaper?” Robinson asked.
“I think it was a piece of brown paper. I wouldn’t be sure as to that. It was a piece of paper, and that was all I remember surely.”
“You wrapped it up in a paper and folded it up,” Robinson said, walking back again to the defense table. Again he picked up the Boston Globe. “Perhaps you will illustrate how you folded it up in the paper.” He handed him the newspaper. “You won’t need the piece of wood,” he said, “just the hatchet head.”
“This is only as near as I can remember doing it,” Medley said.
“Well, that’s quite right, that’s all I have a right to ask you.”
Medley set the hatchet head in the exact center of the newspaper spread in his lap. He folded the page over it.
“I’m not very tidy at such things,” he said.
He folded the page again. He turned the partially wrapped hatchet head sidewards in his lap, and folded the newspaper over it several more times.
“Now that,” he said, “as near as I can think, is about how I did it. Then I put it in my pocket.” He looked down at the package. “Nothing stylish about the manner of wrapping it up,” he said.
“Well, I’m glad to find a man that’s not in style,” Robinson said. “Then you carried it off down to the police station?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you show it to any other officer?”
“Yes, I showed it to one officer as I was passing out. I can’t think now who it was. I had it in my pocket.”
“Side pocket?”
“Yes.”
“Did you wear a sack coat at the time?”
“Yes, sir. A cotton summer sack coat. Not like this one. It was a light-colored coat. And I showed him the hatchet head. I think I tore enough of the paper off, or something, to let him see what it was.”
“Did you state that you were a patrolman last year?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And are you now?”
“No, sir.”
“You’ve been promoted?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When?”
“In December.”
“Now, Lieutenant Edson, you participated in the search of the Borden house on Monday, August eighth, did you not?”
“I did.”
“Did you or any other party, to your knowledge, on that Monday take anything away from the house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you take?”
“Officer Medley had a hatchet head in his pocket.”
“Did you see it?”
“He showed it to me partly.”
“Do you know where he got it?”
“I do not.”
“When did he show it to you?”
“Just as he was about to leave, he came to me and pulled it out of his pocket. It was in a paper.”
“It was wrapped in a paper?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You didn’t see it before that?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you examine it?”
“No, sir. Glanced at it, that’s all.”
“What did he do with it?”
“Went off with it. Away from the building.”
“It was only the small hatchet? Had no handle?”
“No handle.”
“And he didn’t have any handle in his possession, did he? That he showed to you?”
“No, sir.”
“You didn’t see any loose handle around there?”
“No, sir.”
“And you didn’t find one yourself?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, I don’t care for anything else. You spoke of being now lieutenant of police, and last August acting sergeant of police?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That is a promotion, I take it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When were you promoted?”
“February, this year.”
“Has Captain Harrington been promoted?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Doherty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is Mr. Medley’s capacity now?”
“Inspector with rank of lieutenant.”
“Was he the same last year?”
“No, sir.”
“What was he last year?”
“Patrolman.”
“Anybody else of those that were around the Borden house that have been promoted?”
“Connors.”
“What was he, and what is he?”
“At that time, he was acting sergeant.”
“Now lieutenant?”
“Captain.”
“Go clear up by one promotion?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And of the others that you recall?”
“Desmond. Captain.”
“What was he last year?”
“At that time, he was acting captain.”
“Now he is captain?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anybody else?”
“No, sir.”
“Has Mr. Mullaly been promoted?”
“No, sir.”
Lizzie smiled.
It was Mullaly who had surprised everyone earlier by testifying that he’d found a second piece of the hatchet handle in that box on the basement shelf.
My name is Francis W. Draper. I am by profession a physician. My medical education was in the Harvard Medical School in Boston. I have been in practice as a physician since 1869, now twenty-four years. I have been one of the medical examiners for Suffolk County since the office was created by the legislature in 1877. In that time, I have been called upon in a great many cases, nearly thirty-five hundred. All cases of suspicion, all cases of death, where a homicide was suspected or charged.
The first knowledge I had of this matter was the receipt of a dispatch at my home in Boston, which purported to be a telephone message from Dr. Dolan. I came down to Fall River the same day, but I did not at that time go with him to see the bodies. I arranged with him, and the next day — August eleventh — went to Oak Grove Cemetery and saw the bodies with him. At that time, I assisted at an autopsy of those bodies. I made an examination of the wounds upon the head of Mr. Borden, and I drew these marks upon the plaster cast as it is here. They are intended to be an accurate approximation of position and length. I will try to hold it, but I should like to refer to my notes as well.
“How many of the wounds,” Knowlton asked, “and which of them, penetrate the bone of the skull?”
“Four of them. The one which cut through the left eye, and the three in this vicinity, above and in front of the left ear.”
“How deep was the wound that went through the eye?”
“I don’t know, sir. Because it went through the bone behind the eye, and how deep it went into the brain, I don’t know.”
“How many of the others went into the bone of the skull, without going through?”
“Three of them, sir.”
“And which three of them?”
“These in the left temple.”
“The short one, and the two on each side there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the three that went through are the three there, and the one in the eye?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything in the nature or character of the wounds upon the head of Mrs. Borden that assists you in determining the size of the instrument or of the cutting edge of the instrument used to inflict the wounds?”
“No, sir.”
“Is there anything in the nature or character of the wounds upon the head of Mr. Borden which would so assist you?”
“There is.”
“Would the skull itself be of assistance in pointing out such things as occur to you to be important?”
“It would.”
“Then in that case, although I regret very much the necessity of doing it, I shall have to ask Dr. Dolan to produce it.”
He turned toward Robinson as the medical examiner came from the back of the courtroom, Andrew Borden’s skull in his hands.
“I understand it to be agreed,” he said, “without recalling Dr. Dolan to the stand, that this is the skull of Mr. Borden?”
Robinson nodded impatiently, lifting his hand and waggling it to assure agreement on this point. He was leaning over the back of his chair, in quiet conversation with his client. In a moment Knowlton saw Lizzie rise from her chair. The deputy sheriff rose at almost the same instant. There was a buzz in the courtroom as she made her way out, the deputy sheriff following. Knowlton turned back to the witness box.
“Now, Dr. Draper,” he said, “I will ask you whether from an examination of that skull, coupled with the observations of your autopsy, you are able to determine the length of the edge of the instrument which inflicted the wounds.”
“I believe I am, sir.”
“What do you say it is?”
“Three inches and one-half.”
“Will you tell us what it is that leads you to that conclusion?”
Draper reached into his bag and brought out a pie-shaped wedge. “This metallic plate of stiff tin,” he said, “is three and a half inches on its longer side.” He held the skull firmly in place on the railing of the witness box, and brought the piece of tin to it. “Adjusting it that way,” he said, “it fits in the wound in the base of the skull, cutting across the large arteries supplying the brain. It also rests against and cuts the surface of the upper portion, but takes in this edge and no more. I also found another wound in the skull which fits, but not so well. That shows, but not so well as the posterior wound, the same fact.”
“Are you able to say whether this hatchet head is capable of making those wounds?” Knowlton asked.
“I believe it is.”
“Have you attempted to fit that in the wounds?”
“I have seen the attempt made.”
“Will you do it yourself?”
“I will try.”
Knowlton handed him the hatchet head. The courtroom was suddenly quite still. The silence was not lost on Robinson. He turned immediately to the jury box.
“I shall have to ask you,” Knowlton said, “to point out to the jury — so that they can see it — the cutting edge to which you refer. And then, after you’ve done that, to show what you mean by the insertion of the three-and-a-half-inch piece of tin, and then by the insertion of the hatchet.”
“If I may go one step further in the demonstrations, I will say a four-inch plate does not go into either of those places.”
“Will you show us, so that the jury can see it, how that hatchet went in there?”
Robinson’s attention was on the jury. As Draper fitted the actual head of the hatchet into the wound he had earlier described, the eyes of each man in the jury box were fastened on that gleaming white skull.
“Now won’t you try the four-inch piece of tin?”
The attention of the jury was unwavering. Robinson turned to where Draper was now trying to insert the larger piece of tin into the same wound.
“I attempt to get this four-inch in,” Draper said, “and I cannot get it in, in any way, into that wound in the base. The same applies to the front, but not to the same degree.”
“Now, having shown what you desire to call attention to the jury, what do you say the cutting edge was of the instrument that caused the wound that you have described the borders of?”
“Three and a half inches.”
“Are there any other wounds, besides those, on which you can make any accurate determination as to the size of the cutting edge?”
“Not so far as I have studied the materials.”
“What in your opinion, doctor, was the cause of these wounds?”
“Blows upon the head with an edged instrument or weapon of considerable weight, supplied with a handle.”
“Would a hatchet be consistent with the description that you have given?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In your opinion, could the results you found have been produced by the use of an ordinary hatchet in the hands of a woman of ordinary strength?”
“In my opinion, they could, sir?”
Professor Wood was on the stand again when Lizzie came back into the courtroom, the deputy sheriff following her. Robinson turned to her as she took her customary seat behind him. Their eyes met. She could read nothing in those eyes.
“And who handed the hatchet head to you, professor?” Knowlton asked.
“City Marshal Hilliard.”
“Where?”
“In his office.”
“Is that the hatchet head?”
“Yes, sir...”
... it has been in my possession about all the time since. When I received this hatchet, this piece of handle was in the head in its proper position, this fractured end of the handle being close up to the iron. That is, it was in — in that relative position — so far as the upper and the lower end of the eye of the hatchet was concerned. This fractured end was just underneath or flush with the lower edge of the hole in the hatchet, of the eye of the hatchet as I have heard it called here.
When I received this hatchet, it contained more of a white film upon both sides than it does now. But it still contains — adherent tightly in little cavities here in the rusty surface, which can easily be seen with a small magnifying glass — white dirt, like ashes, which is tightly adherent and which have resisted all of the rubbing which this hatchet has had since it came into the courtroom. And it is still visible there and gives the side of the hatchet, as you can see, a very slight grayish appearance here in this round part.
That was far more marked on the hatchet on both sides when I first received it than it is at the present time.
And that coating there looks as if it might be ashes.
I don’t know.
I haven’t tested it to see whether it is ashes or not. I couldn’t do that. It might be any white dirt, so far as I could see, so far as I know.
The fractured ends of this bit of handle, the rough end, had a perfectly white, fresh look, and it was not stained as it is now. And these chips here, these two large chips from the side of this piece, and a little chip from this side also, had not been removed when I had it. When I drove the handle out from the eye, I placed the hatchet in a vise and drove this wood out.
And upon examination with a magnifying glass, that fractured end of the handle was perfectly clean. There was no dust or dirt, no fragments of dirt which could be seen in the angles in this fractured end by means of a magnifying glass. And they cannot be seen there today. It is as clean now, so far as coarse dirt is concerned, as it was then.
In soaking — in order to determine whether there had been any blood upon this handle between the hatchet head and the handle — I placed this to soak in water containing a little bit of iodide of potassium, which removes blood pigment in my experience better than water itself, and allowed it to soak there for several days.
But soaking that bit of wood in that solution darkened the fractured end somewhat so that it came out a darker color than it had been when I placed it in the solution. That’s probably due to some of the discoloring matter being soaked off from the outside and absorbed by the wood.
Then I tested that solution — after taking this piece of wood out of it — tested that solution for blood pigment by chemical tests which I need not detail, and found that there was no blood removed from the handle.
Both sides of the hatchet were uniformly rusty, as they are now. And it will be noticed that on the cutting edge here, there are a few smooth pieces in the rust, which I made myself by scraping the rust from the beveled edge. Those smooth spots were done by me in scraping the material with my knife for chemical testing, in order to determine whether there was any blood mixed with the iron rust or not.
There were also several suspicious spots upon the underside of the hatchet, one of which is plainly perceptible here, three-fourths of an inch from this little notch in the lower edge of the head.
That is a shiny spot which can be easily seen now, and which is not a bloodstain.
It is a stain of some varnish of some kind. There were several other reddish spots upon the side of the hatchet which might or might not contain blood, so far as I could determine by inspection, and which I proved not to be bloodstains.
“Professor Wood,” Knowlton asked, “what is your opinion as to the question whether this hatchet could have been used to inflict the wounds which you have heard described, and then subjected to any cleaning process to remove the traces of blood? As to whether or not you would be able to find them upon the hatchet?”
“We object to that question,” Adams said.
“Yes, it was larger. I don’t think there was two sheets.”
“Oh, a single folio paper.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t remember what the newspaper was?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Mr. Medley, how long do you think you were in the cellar before you left with this hatchet wrapped up in paper?”
“I don’t think over a half hour.”
“You went right off after showing it to Captain Desmond?”
“Yes, sir. I took it down to the city marshal’s office. After I wrapped it in paper.”
For a moment, Lizzie thought Robinson had missed this. His face showed no expression of surprise, his back did not stiffen the way it had earlier when he’d heard unexpected and conflicting testimony. She almost reached out involuntarily as if to touch Robinson — where he stood too far away to touch — nudge him, alert him to what Medley had just said. It was Officer Medley who had earlier testified that he had seen no footprints on the barn loft floor. If his testimony now could be shown to be in direct contradiction to what Desmond had said, would not his story about the barn seem untrustworthy as well? She kept watching Robinson. He had heard, she realized, he had heard.
“You wrapped it in paper,” he said softly. There was no emphasis on the “you”. He delivered his words not as a question but as a statement, a simple repetition of what Medley had just told him.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where did you get your paper?”
Again no emphasis, the word “your” simply flowing unobtrusively into the rest of the sentence.
“In the basement.”
“A piece of newspaper?” Robinson asked.
“I think it was a piece of brown paper. I wouldn’t be sure as to that. It was a piece of paper, and that was all I remember surely.”
“You wrapped it up in a paper and folded it up,” Robinson said, walking back again to the defense table. Again he picked up the Boston Globe. “Perhaps you will illustrate how you folded it up in the paper.” He handed him the newspaper. “You won’t need the piece of wood,” he said, “just the hatchet head.”
“This is only as near as I can remember doing it,” Medley said.
“Well, that’s quite right, that’s all I have a right to ask you.”
Medley set the hatchet head in the exact center of the newspaper spread in his lap. He folded the page over it.
“I’m not very tidy at such things,” he said.
He folded the page again. He turned the partially wrapped hatchet head sidewards in his lap, and folded the newspaper over it several more times.
“Now that,” he said, “as near as I can think, is about how I did it. Then I put it in my pocket.” He looked down at the package. “Nothing stylish about the manner of wrapping it up,” he said.
“Well, I’m glad to find a man that’s not in style,” Robinson said. “Then you carried it off down to the police station?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you show it to any other officer?”
“Yes, I showed it to one officer as I was passing out. I can’t think now who it was. I had it in my pocket.”
“Side pocket?”
“Yes.”
“Did you wear a sack coat at the time?”
“Yes, sir. A cotton summer sack coat. Not like this one. It was a light-colored coat. And I showed him the hatchet head. I think I tore enough of the paper off, or something, to let him see what it was.”
“Did you state that you were a patrolman last year?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And are you now?”
“No, sir.”
“You’ve been promoted?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When?”
“In December.”
“Now, Lieutenant Edson, you participated in the search of the Borden house on Monday, August eighth, did you not?”
“I did.”
“Did you or any other party, to your knowledge, on that Monday take anything away from the house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you take?”
“Officer Medley had a hatchet head in his pocket.”
“Did you see it?”
“He showed it to me partly.”
“Do you know where he got it?”
“I do not.”
“When did he show it to you?”
“Just as he was about to leave, he came to me and pulled it out of his pocket. It was in a paper.”
“It was wrapped in a paper?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You didn’t see it before that?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you examine it?”
“No, sir. Glanced at it, that’s all.”
“What did he do with it?”
“Went off with it. Away from the building.”
“It was only the small hatchet? Had no handle?”
“No handle.”
“And he didn’t have any handle in his possession, did he? That he showed to you?”
“No, sir.”
“You didn’t see any loose handle around there?”
“No, sir.”
“And you didn’t find one yourself?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, I don’t care for anything else. You spoke of being now lieutenant of police, and last August acting sergeant of police?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That is a promotion, I take it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When were you promoted?”
“February, this year.”
“Has Captain Harrington been promoted?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Doherty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is Mr. Medley’s capacity now?”
“Inspector with rank of lieutenant.”
“Was he the same last year?”
“No, sir.”
“What was he last year?”
“Patrolman.”
“Anybody else of those that were around the Borden house that have been promoted?”
“Connors.”
“What was he, and what is he?”
“At that time, he was acting sergeant.”
“Now lieutenant?”
“Captain.”
“Go clear up by one promotion?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And of the others that you recall?”
“Desmond. Captain.”
“What was he last year?”
“At that time, he was acting captain.”
“Now he is captain?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anybody else?”
“No, sir.”
“Has Mr. Mullaly been promoted?”
“No, sir.”
Lizzie smiled.
It was Mullaly who had surprised everyone earlier by testifying that he’d found a second piece of the hatchet handle in that box on the basement shelf.
My name is Francis W. Draper. I am by profession a physician. My medical education was in the Harvard Medical School in Boston. I have been in practice as a physician since 1869, now twenty-four years. I have been one of the medical examiners for Suffolk County since the office was created by the legislature in 1877. In that time, I have been called upon in a great many cases, nearly thirty-five hundred. All cases of suspicion, all cases of death, where a homicide was suspected or charged.
The first knowledge I had of this matter was the receipt of a dispatch at my home in Boston, which purported to be a telephone message from Dr. Dolan. I came down to Fall River the same day, but I did not at that time go with him to see the bodies. I arranged with him, and the next day — August eleventh — went to Oak Grove Cemetery and saw the bodies with him. At that time, I assisted at an autopsy of those bodies. I made an examination of the wounds upon the head of Mr. Borden, and I drew these marks upon the plaster cast as it is here. They are intended to be an accurate approximation of position and length. I will try to hold it, but I should like to refer to my notes as well.
“How many of the wounds,” Knowlton asked, “and which of them, penetrate the bone of the skull?”
“Four of them. The one which cut through the left eye, and the three in this vicinity, above and in front of the left ear.”
“How deep was the wound that went through the eye?”
“I don’t know, sir. Because it went through the bone behind the eye, and how deep it went into the brain, I don’t know.”
“How many of the others went into the bone of the skull, without going through?”
“Three of them, sir.”
“And which three of them?”
“These in the left temple.”
“The short one, and the two on each side there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the three that went through are the three there, and the one in the eye?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything in the nature or character of the wounds upon the head of Mrs. Borden that assists you in determining the size of the instrument or of the cutting edge of the instrument used to inflict the wounds?”
“No, sir.”
“Is there anything in the nature or character of the wounds upon the head of Mr. Borden which would so assist you?”
“There is.”
“Would the skull itself be of assistance in pointing out such things as occur to you to be important?”
“It would.”
“Then in that case, although I regret very much the necessity of doing it, I shall have to ask Dr. Dolan to produce it.”
He turned toward Robinson as the medical examiner came from the back of the courtroom, Andrew Borden’s skull in his hands.
“I understand it to be agreed,” he said, “without recalling Dr. Dolan to the stand, that this is the skull of Mr. Borden?”
Robinson nodded impatiently, lifting his hand and waggling it to assure agreement on this point. He was leaning over the back of his chair, in quiet conversation with his client. In a moment Knowlton saw Lizzie rise from her chair. The deputy sheriff rose at almost the same instant. There was a buzz in the courtroom as she made her way out, the deputy sheriff following. Knowlton turned back to the witness box.
“Now, Dr. Draper,” he said, “I will ask you whether from an examination of that skull, coupled with the observations of your autopsy, you are able to determine the length of the edge of the instrument which inflicted the wounds.”
“I believe I am, sir.”
“What do you say it is?”
“Three inches and one-half.”
“Will you tell us what it is that leads you to that conclusion?”
Draper reached into his bag and brought out a pie-shaped wedge. “This metallic plate of stiff tin,” he said, “is three and a half inches on its longer side.” He held the skull firmly in place on the railing of the witness box, and brought the piece of tin to it. “Adjusting it that way,” he said, “it fits in the wound in the base of the skull, cutting across the large arteries supplying the brain. It also rests against and cuts the surface of the upper portion, but takes in this edge and no more. I also found another wound in the skull which fits, but not so well. That shows, but not so well as the posterior wound, the same fact.”
“Are you able to say whether this hatchet head is capable of making those wounds?” Knowlton asked.
“I believe it is.”
“Have you attempted to fit that in the wounds?”
“I have seen the attempt made.”
“Will you do it yourself?”
“I will try.”
Knowlton handed him the hatchet head. The courtroom was suddenly quite still. The silence was not lost on Robinson. He turned immediately to the jury box.
“I shall have to ask you,” Knowlton said, “to point out to the jury — so that they can see it — the cutting edge to which you refer. And then, after you’ve done that, to show what you mean by the insertion of the three-and-a-half-inch piece of tin, and then by the insertion of the hatchet.”
“If I may go one step further in the demonstrations, I will say a four-inch plate does not go into either of those places.”
“Will you show us, so that the jury can see it, how that hatchet went in there?”
Robinson’s attention was on the jury. As Draper fitted the actual head of the hatchet into the wound he had earlier described, the eyes of each man in the jury box were fastened on that gleaming white skull.
“Now won’t you try the four-inch piece of tin?”
The attention of the jury was unwavering. Robinson turned to where Draper was now trying to insert the larger piece of tin into the same wound.
“I attempt to get this four-inch in,” Draper said, “and I cannot get it in, in any way, into that wound in the base. The same applies to the front, but not to the same degree.”
“Now, having shown what you desire to call attention to the jury, what do you say the cutting edge was of the instrument that caused the wound that you have described the borders of?”
“Three and a half inches.”
“Are there any other wounds, besides those, on which you can make any accurate determination as to the size of the cutting edge?”
“Not so far as I have studied the materials.”
“What in your opinion, doctor, was the cause of these wounds?”
“Blows upon the head with an edged instrument or weapon of considerable weight, supplied with a handle.”
“Would a hatchet be consistent with the description that you have given?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In your opinion, could the results you found have been produced by the use of an ordinary hatchet in the hands of a woman of ordinary strength?”
“In my opinion, they could, sir?”
Professor Wood was on the stand again when Lizzie came back into the courtroom, the deputy sheriff following her. Robinson turned to her as she took her customary seat behind him. Their eyes met. She could read nothing in those eyes.
“And who handed the hatchet head to you, professor?” Knowlton asked.
“City Marshal Hilliard.”
“Where?”
“In his office.”
“Is that the hatchet head?”
“Yes, sir...”
... it has been in my possession about all the time since. When I received this hatchet, this piece of handle was in the head in its proper position, this fractured end of the handle being close up to the iron. That is, it was in — in that relative position — so far as the upper and the lower end of the eye of the hatchet was concerned. This fractured end was just underneath or flush with the lower edge of the hole in the hatchet, of the eye of the hatchet as I have heard it called here.
When I received this hatchet, it contained more of a white film upon both sides than it does now. But it still contains — adherent tightly in little cavities here in the rusty surface, which can easily be seen with a small magnifying glass — white dirt, like ashes, which is tightly adherent and which have resisted all of the rubbing which this hatchet has had since it came into the courtroom. And it is still visible there and gives the side of the hatchet, as you can see, a very slight grayish appearance here in this round part.
That was far more marked on the hatchet on both sides when I first received it than it is at the present time.
And that coating there looks as if it might be ashes.
I don’t know.
I haven’t tested it to see whether it is ashes or not. I couldn’t do that. It might be any white dirt, so far as I could see, so far as I know.
The fractured ends of this bit of handle, the rough end, had a perfectly white, fresh look, and it was not stained as it is now. And these chips here, these two large chips from the side of this piece, and a little chip from this side also, had not been removed when I had it. When I drove the handle out from the eye, I placed the hatchet in a vise and drove this wood out.
And upon examination with a magnifying glass, that fractured end of the handle was perfectly clean. There was no dust or dirt, no fragments of dirt which could be seen in the angles in this fractured end by means of a magnifying glass. And they cannot be seen there today. It is as clean now, so far as coarse dirt is concerned, as it was then.
In soaking — in order to determine whether there had been any blood upon this handle between the hatchet head and the handle — I placed this to soak in water containing a little bit of iodide of potassium, which removes blood pigment in my experience better than water itself, and allowed it to soak there for several days.
But soaking that bit of wood in that solution darkened the fractured end somewhat so that it came out a darker color than it had been when I placed it in the solution. That’s probably due to some of the discoloring matter being soaked off from the outside and absorbed by the wood.
Then I tested that solution — after taking this piece of wood out of it — tested that solution for blood pigment by chemical tests which I need not detail, and found that there was no blood removed from the handle.
Both sides of the hatchet were uniformly rusty, as they are now. And it will be noticed that on the cutting edge here, there are a few smooth pieces in the rust, which I made myself by scraping the rust from the beveled edge. Those smooth spots were done by me in scraping the material with my knife for chemical testing, in order to determine whether there was any blood mixed with the iron rust or not.
There were also several suspicious spots upon the underside of the hatchet, one of which is plainly perceptible here, three-fourths of an inch from this little notch in the lower edge of the head.
That is a shiny spot which can be easily seen now, and which is not a bloodstain.
It is a stain of some varnish of some kind. There were several other reddish spots upon the side of the hatchet which might or might not contain blood, so far as I could determine by inspection, and which I proved not to be bloodstains.
“Professor Wood,” Knowlton asked, “what is your opinion as to the question whether this hatchet could have been used to inflict the wounds which you have heard described, and then subjected to any cleaning process to remove the traces of blood? As to whether or not you would be able to find them upon the hatchet?”
“We object to that question,” Adams said.
