The Witness Plant by G. Taylor Snow

The Witness Plant by G. Taylor Snow

The knife flashed. Again and again. The body slipped quietly to the floor with a slight groan. The knife had not finished its work. It now went about the room methodically dismembering every plant it could find and strewing potting soil as it went—a swiss cheese plant, a Hindu rope plant, an African mask plant, a showy Medinilla (which had a blue ribbon by it), a prayer plant. Finally the knife grew tired. There was a sound of running water. Several doors opened and closed. As the knife passed by the prayer plant again, there was a sound of quiet laughter. The irony after all. Then only silence.           

Roger Brockbank stared at the body before him, blood staining the white carpet. In his years as a detective and now district attorney he had seen it all. But this was different. Obviously this was a crime of rage, but what accounted for the destruction of all the plants and their leaves and pieces and potting soil being strewn about the room? The victim, a middle aged woman, lay face down in her gore. Dozens of stab wounds. She had been found by the housekeeper, who had called the police. She was in the next room being questioned, but was hysterical. The body was several hours cold.

The woman was Sarah Carboni, a well known socialite, horticulturalist and philanthropist. Roger’s lieutenant filled him in on the details. She was the past president of the Cascade Heights Floral Society. She had apparently won many awards with her exotic plants. Roger couldn’t help wondering if someone had acted out against her as a matter of professional jealousy. The murder scene sickened him.

Nevertheless, the methodical Roger, the down-to-earth Roger, knew that this was a very high profile murder and that the press would be all over it. He walked over to the window of Mrs. Carboni’s 10^th floor penthouse condominium and pondered the situation. In the quiet suburban neighborhood below, a stream of late afternoon traffic crawled by in front of the luxury condominium building. Kids were laughing and playing in the park across the street. Several police cars, with lights still flashing, were lined up on the street. Roger mused about what this case could mean to him. He had passed up a well paying corporate job out of law school for the excitement of police work. He had been content to let the Law Review nerds hustle the big jobs. After working as a line detective for several years, using his political connections he got himself appointed as the District Attorney, but he had greater aspirations than that. Successfully solving this murder case could substantially advance his career.

He turned back to the room. The crime lab technicians were appraising the crime scene, taking pictures and dusting for fingerprints. The apparent murder weapon, a long black handled serrated kitchen knife, lay near the body. Nothing subtle about the choice of murder weapon, Roger thought. A weapon of convenience rather than premeditation. A lab technician picked it up gingerly and wrapped it in a white cloth, staining it red. At that point Mr. Anthony Carboni burst through the front door into the condominium.

“What the hell is going on here,” he cried. He saw his wife’s body on the floor, covered with a sheet, with blood everywhere. He knelt and lifted the sheet and swore audibly.    

“Who’s in charge here?” he demanded.

“I am,” said Roger. “I am the District Attorney and these are my people. We were called by your housekeeper who reported finding Mrs. Carboni, as you see here.”

He paused. Anthony Carboni calmed down. He was breathing heavily.

“There is no evidence of a break-in or of anything having been stolen,” Roger said. He motioned towards a side table on which a valuable diamond brooch lay. “The murderer was probably someone Mrs. Carboni knew.” He paused again, studying Mr. Carboni carefully. “I am so very sorry, Mr. Carboni. We are doing all we can to understand what happened and why.”

Anthony Carboni looked around distractedly. Roger wasn’t certain that the man had heard anything he had said. Finally, having gotten control of himself, Mr. Carboni went off into the bedroom.  

“Lieutenant Franklin, I am leaving you in charge,” said Roger. “Arrange for Mr. Carboni to be at my office on Thursday morning at 10 o’clock. Meanwhile, get me all the background information you can on both Mr. and Mrs. Carboni.”

Roger left, dreading having to pass through the press line that had formed outside the condominium building on the street. He never liked having to deal with the press, they asked too many questions. As he passed out of the Carboni’s condominium he noticed a tall philodendron plant in the entryway. It had not been hacked up. The murderer missed that one, he thought wryly.

Back at the office on Thursday morning Roger met with Anthony Carboni. Mr. Carboni was the president of his own steel company, which was a very successful and prosperous business. He came dressed in a charcoal black suit and a striking red and yellow paisley tie and was in a calm, almost serene mood. He exuded the confidence of someone who is used to being in charge of his world. After formalities, Roger asked him if he had any ideas about who might have wanted to kill his wife.

“I can’t imagine who would have done this,” Mr. Carboni stated matter of factly. “She was well liked and well respected by all who knew her.” He stopped to consider. “But, her success usually came at the expense of her rivals. I’ve met a few of them. You wouldn’t know it, but competition for horticultural recognition and awards can be cutthroat. If someone in her circle of plant lovers did this, that might explain the apparent violence visited on all the plants. You should check out that angle, Mr. Brockbank.” He spoke rapidly but showed no emotion as he said all this.

Roger nodded. “Mr.Carboni, where were you on the day of the murder around noon,” asked Roger. “You understand, I just need to ask that question. Don’t worry, we’ll check out the rival plant lovers angle.”

Acting somewhat offended, which Roger thought was feigned, Anthony Carboni replied: “Well, I was at my desk. I often take lunch at my desk and yesterday was no exception. After lunch I had a long meeting with my vice president. I got the call from someone at your office that my wife had been killed and I came right away, at four o’clock.”

“Tell me about your relationship with your wife, when and how you first met, how things have been between you,” Roger followed up.

Anthony Carboni told how they were high school sweethearts. His wife’s parents objected to their dating, as her family was very upper class and he came from a poor Italian immigrant family. But he was the premier high school jock, so they dated. One thing led to another and they fell in love and got married. Eloped, actually, at his insistence. Unfortunately they were unable to have any children. As a result, she had thrown herself into her horticultural and society work and he into his business, which he had started on his own. He was very proud of the success he had achieved. He felt that their relationship was fine, with each of them very involved in their own successes. After more cordialities the interview ended.

A couple of weeks went by. As expected, the murder was a front page story in all the local newspapers at first, but it had slowly slipped to the inside section. Nevertheless, the press was hounding him and Roger was feeling the pressure to be able to report news of progress in the investigation. Roger summoned his lieutenant. Lieutenant Franklin appeared at the door and was invited in.

“What have you found out in the meantime,” he asked

“We talked to the neighbors,” Lieutenant Franklin reported. “No-one heard anything unusual at the time of the murder. The Carbonis kept pretty much to themselves. They were never heard to argue. We checked all their bank records, and our investigation has turned up no unusual debts and no large or suspicious transactions. There is a life insurance policy on the life of Sarah Carboni, but it was taken out years ago. They had plenty of money, it seems. They made public appearances occasionally, appearing in the society section of the newspaper, so they were well known. Their place of residence was no secret. We have also been following up on persons in her circle of friends and horticulturalists, but I have nothing to report on that yet.”

“Mr. Carboni told me that he was at his office having lunch at the time of the murder,” Roger said. “Check this out with witnesses, but do it discreetly,” Roger directed.

“Do you suspect him?” asked Lieutenant Franklin.

“I don’t know who to suspect,” replied Roger. “But I can’t rule anyone out yet either. I am searching for a motive. And money doesn’t seem to be it.”

Two more days went by. The Lieutenant met with Roger again. “I talked to the persons in Mr. Carboni’s office who would have reason to know of his comings and goings. His alibi seems tight. His secretary confirmed that she brought him his sandwich on the day of the murder. She thought he had eaten lunch in his office as usual, as she cleaned up the remains of his lunch afterwards. But there is this. On that day she went shopping on her lunch break and was gone an extra long time. And the secretary admitted that her boss occasionally ran home during lunchtime for one reason or another.”

Roger looked up sharply at this. He was aware that the Carboni Steel Company was only a ten minute drive from the Carbonis’ condominium. Mr. Carboni could have had time to go home, commit the murder, and come back, thought Roger. But why? What possible motive could he have had?

More time passed with no new leads until Lieutenant Franklin knocked loudly on District Attorney Brockbank’s door early one morning. “I found out from a second visit to the next door neighbor that there was a gardener person who often visited Mrs. Carboni,” the lieutenant announced. According to the neighbor, he came often and had a key to the condominium. Apparently she trusted him a great deal. The neighbor has not seen him since the murder.”

“Find him, Lieutenant!” barked Roger. “Find him and bring him in.”

“Oh, and we have found no evidence that either of the Carbonis was having an extramarital affair,” said Lieutenant Franklin over his shoulder as he was exiting.

“Find the gardener,” yelled Roger after the Lieutenant.

Twenty-four hours later Lieutenant Franklin was able to report that the gardener had been found, one Frederick Thomas. Mr. Thomas was an elderly gentleman with a lifetime of experience in horticulture. He had been employed by Mrs. Carboni to help her care for her expensive collection of plants. She spent many hours each day, explained Mr. Thomas, in giving tender loving care to her plant collection, and it showed in their beauty and vitality and in winning many prizes. When he heard of Mrs. Carboni’s death and read in the newspaper of how the plants had all been hacked to pieces, he had gone into mourning. He loved her plant collection almost as much as she did. He too had a seemingly ironclad alibi, being out of the city on the day of the murder. That lead, therefore, seemed to lead nowhere. Or did it?  

Three months after the murder, on a whim, Roger went to the Carboni Steel Company to have a look around. Mr. Carboni was only too pleased to give him a tour of the plant, especially the impressive blast furnaces. Roger was duly impressed. Back in Mr. Carboni’s executive office, Roger noticed a photograph on the wall, one taken the very morning of the murder according to Mr. Carboni, with Mr. Carboni front and center in a tan suit with his executive team. That picture, Mr. Carboni explained, would go into the company’s annual report. Roger noted that Mr. Carboni was currently wearing a charcoal black suit. Roger thought he recalled Anthony Carboni coming to his condominium the afternoon of the murder wearing a dark suit like the one he had on. They parted company, leaving Roger with more food for thought.

Notwithstanding the paucity of evidence, as time passed Roger was beginning to feel the pressure to make an actual arrest in this case. He considered Anthony Carboni as his only real suspect, but he had an alibi. So, Roger thought, he could perhaps prove that Anthony Carboni had the opportunity at the critical time to be at the murder scene. But what about the motive? That still eluded him, and without it he had only flimsy circumstantial evidence on which a jury could rely.

One afternoon Roger decided to revisit the Carbonis’ condominium. Perhaps there was something he had missed. When he arrived he found that the condominium had been cleaned up and, to his surprise, Mr. Thomas was there, evidently still having a key. He had trimmed and repaired what plants could be salvaged from the rampant destruction that had been wrought upon them, and he was carefully tending the remains. Roger took the opportunity to question Mr. Thomas.

“Do you have any idea about who might have murdered Mrs. Carboni?” he asked straight out. “And why the murderer would have wanted to hack all the plants to pieces.”

Mr. Thomas looked up from his work, put down his shears, and without hesitation, looking straight at Roger, said, “It was Anthony Carboni! He killed her! No question about it!”

“Why? How can you be so sure?” asked Roger, somewhat taken aback.

“Because he hated plants,” said Mr. Thomas. “Plants were Mrs. Carboni’s hobby, the center of her life, and Anthony Carboni hated his wife for it. She told me how he felt about her hobby and how he would rant and rave about it.” A tear trickled down Mr. Thomas’s cheek.

Mr. Thomas went on to explain in detail about how Mrs. Carboni’s love of her plants had come between her and her husband, but Mr. Carboni had made no effort to understand it. He had no time for her or her plants. His life was all steel.

Of course, Roger thought, it seemed that since her life was all plants, she had no time for him and his steel business. He began to feel that at last he may have found a motive for the murder. But how to prove it?

The gardener had more to say. He began to tell Roger about plants, how they responded to love, how they knew who cared for them and who didn’t, how they could sense feelings. That is why, he said, that Mrs. Carboni had been able to develop such beautiful flourishing plants that won awards. “They responded willingly to her touch.” He spoke almost rhapsodically. “You can talk to plants and they hear you, or at lease sense you.”

A light began to go on in Roger’s mind. He had heard about the so-called secret life of plants from a magazine article he had read a few months back but had dismissed it as so much pseudo science. Mr. Thomas knew all about it. Roger now remembered the philodendron in the entryway which had survived the hacking. He mentioned it to Mr. Thomas and asked him a series of very pointed questions. They then entered into a long conversation, at the end of which Roger had a clear plan. He had a lot of work to do.

Back in his office, Roger now reviewed what he had learned. Mr. and Mrs. Carboni had in fact a very contentions relationship, each in his or her own world and neither understanding the other. He had a witness who could testify to this. He had found a motive, potentially strong enough to motivate a crime of passion. There was the circumstantial fact that Anthony Carboni had the opportunity to leave his office and return on the day of the murder without being noticed. The murder weapon was the kitchen knife, easily available to the murderer, suggesting the murder was not planned. And Mr. Carboni had worn a tan suit on the morning of the murder but appeared in a dark suit when he came to the condominium after the murder. That could explain why no clothes with blood on them had been found. His thoughts went to the blast furnaces. What an easy way to dispose of evidence, he thought. Still, without a confession or an eye witness, it was all still circumstantial.

One afternoon shortly after his visit with Mr. Thomas, Roger made up his mind. He rose from his chair, slammed his hand down on the desk causing papers to fly in all directions, and declared to no one in particular that Anthony Carboni was his man. He knew he was staking his reputation as the District Attorney on this case, perhaps even his career, but he made the decision to have Anthony Carboni arrested on the charge of murdering his wife.

The public reaction was immense. Could it really be that this man, a figure of great respect in the community, a philanthropist, well regarded by all who knew him, would kill his wife? And for what reason? The mayor’s office made it clear to Roger that he had better be right about this. Roger agreed, but his gut instinct was telling him that he was right. Yet he felt fear, a feeling foreign to him, having been a very successful prosecutor as District Attorney. He was now on unfamiliar ground. He had a plan, but it would take all of his charm and creativity to sell it to the judge and jury.

On the day of the trial the courtroom was packed. This was a very high profile proceeding, covered by local and national media. Mr. Carboni had retained a very well known defense attorney, who had assured his client that his alibi—backed up by witnesses—and the lack of a clear motive, would make for an easy victory in court. Nevertheless, Anthony Carboni was extremely nervous that morning. He knew that juries could be unpredictable.

Roger was also nervous. He usually approached a trial with a high degree of confidence, but this trial was going to be different—very different. What he was about to try would make or break his reputation.

The judge ordered opening statements. Roger went first and made an impassioned argument based on circumstantial evidence. He had to show the jury the other side of Anthony Carboni, the side not known to the public. The defense attorney then proceeded to downplay such evidence and to argue that the evidence would show that Mr. Carboni had no credible reason to murder his wife and was at his company at the time of the murder.    

Having the burden of proving guilt, Roger began by calling several witnesses, including Mr. Carboni’s secretary in an effort to throw doubt on Mr. Carboni’s alibi, and a couple of forensic experts to testify about the crime scene. However, when Roger called as a witness Frederick Thomas, the gardener, and began to elicit his testimony there was a distinct change in the tone of the trial. 

“Tell the court, Mr. Thomas, how you knew Sarah Carboni and what the nature of your relationship with her was.”

“I was her gardener, or more accurately, her plant consultant. For many years. She relied on me for advice in the care and cultivation of her exotic plant collection. She won many prizes for her plants in various shows. She loved those plants, they were her life’s work.”

“Were you aware of her husband’s feelings towards his wife’s life’s work?”

Defense counsel was on his feet.

“Yes, Sarah often told me of how he would rant on her about her obsession with the plants.”

“Objection, your Honor, this is hearsay,” said defense counsel.

“Objection sustained,” said the judge.

This is going to be difficult, thought Roger, how to get into testimony Mr. Carboni’s highly negative attitude towards his wife.

“Tell me, Mr. Thomas,” continued Roger, “were you ever physically present when Mr. Carboni confronted his wife over her hobby?”

“Objection again, your Honor. And the question is leading,” said defense counsel.

“I only asked if Mr. Thomas was physically present.” said Roger to the judge.

“You may answer the question, Mr. Thomas,” said the judge.

“Yes, I was,” said Mr. Thomas.

“How did you know that Mr. Carboni objected to his wife’s hobby?”

Defense counsel was about to object again, but he hesitated and Mr. Thomas said he saw the results of Mr. Carboni’s feelings.

“How is that,” asked Roger.

“She showed me bruises on her arm that her husband had given her over it.”

“Your honor, I ask that that testimony be stricken.”

It’s first person testimony, your Honor, not hearsay,” said Roger. “Mr. Thomas is testifying to what he saw.”

The judge considered this, then said, I will allow it.”

Roger wrestled with Mr. Thomas’s testimony a few more times, then dismissed him but reserved the right to recall him later. Defense counsel then had his turn to cross examine Mr. Thomas.

“Mr. Thomas, you never saw Anthony Carboni physically abuse her, right?” he asked.

“That is true.”

“And you never overheard an argument between the two of them?”

 “Yes, that’s true too, but…”

“In other words, you have no direct knowledge of a harmful or abusive relationship between Mr. and Mrs. Carboni?”

“Yes, but…”

“For all you know, they were a very happily married couple,” posited defense counsel.

“They were not,” said Mr. Thomas emphatically, “and I never said or implied otherwise.”

Defense counsel realized his mistake and moved to strike the last exchange from the record, but the judge let it stand.

During all of this Roger looked over at the jury often to see how they were reacting to both his direct examination and defense counsel’s cross examination. It was hard to read them. But he did notice that Mr. Carboni was gripping the defense table tightly during Mr. Thomas’s testimony.

Roger then recalled Mr. Thomas to the witness stand and proceeded to lay a foundation for his testimony as an expert horticulturist about plants and their sensitivity to human emotions. When defense counsel objected to this on the grounds of irrelevance, Roger argued to the judge that since the attack on the plants was a critical piece of evidence at the scene, it was highly relevant to explore what the plants might have had to do with the murder. The judge allowed the testimony to continue. Mr. Thomas then testified about the ability of plants to sense whether someone wished them well or not, even to respond to physical threats or violence perpetrated in their presence. A murmur of anticipation ran through the courtroom, as the public began to sense that something unusual was developing. Mr. Thomas stepped down from the witness stand.

Roger drew a deep breath as the bailiff called the next witness, Philo Dendron. At this his assistant wheeled into the courtroom the philodendron that had been in the entryway of the Carboni condominium. Surprised exclamations broke out in the courtroom and the judge struggled to restore order.

“Is this some kind of a joke, Mr. Brockbank?” demanded the judge, when he could be heard again. Defense counsel was on his feet objecting vigorously as well.

“No, your honor, definitely not.  May I approach the bench?”

“Please do, and explain yourself.” 

The defense counsel joined Roger in a private conversation with the judge, out of the hearing of the jury and the spectators in the courtroom. Roger explained to the judge what he intended to do with the philodendron and what the scientific basis was for it. The judge listened impatiently, then ordered a recess in the trial until after lunch and told both Roger and defense counsel to meet with him in chambers immediately.

Once in chambers, Roger offered to provide scientific evidence for what he wanted to do, including the testimony of a top forensic expert whom he was prepared to call as a witness. He explained that eye witness testimony, even if by a seemingly inanimate plant, was extremely germane, and he cited instances in which plants had been able to identify persons who had committed violent acts in their presence. Defense counsel objected to the introduction of such testimony as ludicrous, not to mention that it constituted prejudicial surprise. Roger further explained that the testimony of the forensic expert which he intended to present had only just become available, so it had not been possible to provide defense counsel with advance notice. Finally, defense counsel declared that he would move for a mistrial if the judge allowed the District Attorney to proceed with this offer of evidence.  

At the end of the discussion, the judge agreed to allow Roger to proceed with his so-called expert testimony, provided he first put his forensic expert on the stand and established his qualifications. The judge also warned Roger that if he got a conviction which seemed in any way to depend on gimmickry with this plant, he would declare a mistrial. Roger nodded acceptance, but thought to himself that a mistrial under such circumstances was better than an acquittal. At least he would get another chance at trying Mr. Carboni, and more time was what he needed.

When trial resumed after lunch, Roger called a Professor Julius Weinstein to the stand and proceeded to develop his credentials as an expert in electroencephalography. Professor Weinstein then outlined how the responses of plants to certain stimuli could be detected by changes in electric potential and recorded graphically. He testified that there was ample evidence that plants responded to the death of living tissue, especially of someone with whom they were particularly attuned. 

“A special communion or bond of affinity can exist between plants and their keeper, a kind of cellular consciousness common to all life,” he explained. He then proceeded to describe an instance in which the survivor of two plants was able to identify the person who destroyed the other plant. “It is possible to detect responses in the plant tissue itself,” he stated.

During this testimony Roger occasionally looked over at Anthony Carboni, who was staring with undisguised contempt at the philodendron, which was resting on its platform quite placidly in a corner of the courtroom, waiting for its turn on the witness stand. Defense counsel, meanwhile, stood during all of this testimony with his hands on his hips and a look of utter disbelief twisting his face. Finally Roger wound up his examination of Professor Weinstein by having him explain how electrodes could be attached to the leaves of a plant, such as a philodendron.

“A philodendron is an especially responsive plant,” he said, “and it is possible to record the plant’s responses to various stimuli presented to it in the form of ‘thought spectrograms’ on a graph.”

The philodendron was then brought forward, along with an array of equipment that had accompanied it into the courtroom. Mr. Thomas was called back to the stand again to testify from his personal knowledge that this particular philodendron had stood in the entryway of the Carbonis’ condominium, that it had not been destroyed during the murder, and that it had a clear view of the living room where the murder had been committed. He also testified that as the Carbonis’ gardener he had first hand knowledge of this plant that stood in the courtroom, that it was the same plant that had been at the Carbonis’ condominium, and that it had not been tampered with since the murder, since he had personally cared for it in the interim.

Electrodes were now attached to its leaves by Roger’s assistant. A graphical display was positioned so that the jury could see it clearly as well as the rest of the courtroom, and especially Anthony Carboni. Roger explained that the needle on the graph, like a seismograph, would trace a response to a variety of stimuli which he would present to it. The assistant stood by, monitoring the equipment, and for some reason unknown to Roger looked extremely uncomfortable. He seemed to be trying to catch Roger’s attention. Roger had the air of a cat about to pounce. Mr. Carboni, on the other hand, looked miserable. Defense counsel looked dismayed. The judge looked doubtful. And the spectators in the courtroom were hushed in anticipation.

District Attorney Brockbank was in his element, he had the entire courtroom under his spell. When all was in readiness, he explained that he would present various persons to the awareness of the philodendron and register its responses as a form of identification, somewhat like a line-up. He presented himself before the plant, directed his thoughts to it, and asked if the plant knew him. There was no response. He had his assistant do the same, again without a measurable response. He then walked over beside Mr. Thomas and had him stand up and face the philodendron. Mr. Thomas focused his thoughts directly at the plant with a benevolent smile on his face and spoke kindly to it and the plant responded strongly to Mr. Thomas with smooth tracings of the needle. The jury was startled out of a sense of skeptical amusement, as they began to realize that perhaps there was something to this apparent hocus-pocus.

Then Roger walked over to the defense table where Mr. Carboni was sitting and asked him to stand up. Defense counsel leaped to his feet. “Objection, your honor!  My client cannot be asked to testify against himself!”

“Your honor,” replied Roger calmly, “Mr. Carboni is not being asked to testify against himself or to do anything other than stand up. It is common for a key witness—in this case, the plant, which was an eye witness—to be asked if it can identify the defendant as the perpetrator of the crime in question.”

“The objection is overruled,” pronounced the judge reluctantly. “Mr. Carboni, please stand up.  Defense counsel, you may sit down. Proceed, counselor.”

Mr. Carboni stood up extremely reluctantly, all the while glaring at the plant and muttering. At the same moment that Mr. Carboni and the philodendron were engaging with each other, Roger pointed to him and, for the benefit of the jury, asked in a loud voice, “Is this the man that killed Sarah Carboni, your owner and caretaker?”

As soon as Anthony Carboni had stood up, the needle on the graphical display had begun to move and now it exploded in a frenzy of tracings that exceeded the capacity of the graph to contain them. The jury broke out in cries of surprise and the courtroom erupted. But above the din could be heard another voice, that of Anthony Carboni.

“I knew it, I knew I should have destroyed that plant too!” he cried. “I hated them, I hated all of them, I HATED those damned plants! My wife loved them like they were her children, she never had any time for me,” he continued without a pause. “She never paid any attention to me or to my successes. It was always those plants, always her flower shows, her awards, her…her…. It was never me. She never had time for me!” And he collapsed at the defense table, pouring out his guilt in sobs to the astonishment of his defense counsel.  

Several days later Roger Brockbank, his assistant and Lieutenant Franklin were convened in Roger’s office.

“So he outright confessed to the murder?” asked Lieutenant Franklin.

“A total confession, he held nothing back,” replied Roger. “He came home on his lunch hour to tell his wife about something great that had happened at work. He found his wife totally absorbed in tending her plants as usual and unwilling to even listen to him for a moment. Something snapped inside of him. Years of frustration and jealousy suddenly came to the surface and he went berserk. He doesn’t remember much about it, but when he came to his senses, he reverted to the methodical businessman. In a daze, he carefully washed himself, took off all his clothes, shoes and all, and put them in a large laundry bag, took a long hot shower, and changed into clean clothes and a new suit. He then returned to work and found an opportunity to throw the bag of clothes into one of his blast furnaces. He then went back to his normal routine, and was there when the call came that his wife had been killed.”

The group around Roger listened in fascination.

“So it was jealousy after all, a jilted lover, but the interloper was house plants,” summarized Lieutenant Franklin. “She wouldn’t listen to him, but he wouldn’t listen to her either. They lived in different worlds, probably for many years.” He smiled at his own sagacity. “But I have a question, Roger.  How in the world could the plant understand your questions?”

“I also have a confession to make, Lieutenant,” began Roger, with a sly smile. “I didn’t expect the plant to understand my questions, they were for the jury’s benefit and to provoke Mr. Carboni. However, I had arranged with my assistant here to trigger the graphical responses you saw on the screen. I wanted to trap Anthony Carboni into revealing himself, and it worked. After meeting with the gardener, I finally understood Mr. Carboni’s motivation for killing his wife. As you said, Lieutenant, jealousy. But the gardener helped me see how to bring it out of the man, based on plant science—and a little sleight of hand.” He looked triumphantly around the room at each person.

However, Roger’s assistant wasn’t looking very triumphant. “Roger, I was trying frantically to signal you in court that I had not been able to set up the necessary triggering mechanism that morning. All that I did was connect the plant to the graphical analyzer in the manner Professor Weinstein showed me. What happened after that was entirely up to the plant.”

It took a few seconds for the import of his words to sink in. “You mean,” said Roger, “the plant—that philodendron—that plant which was a witness to the murder—actually responded on its own? that the response we saw on the graph came from the plant?!” It was evident that Roger himself had not really believed in the plant science for which he had so carefully laid a foundation with his expert witness.

For a while no one spoke. Then all eyes seemed drawn with one accord to the far corner of the office, in which stood a luxuriant philodendron plant. It had grown up to the height of the room and was now curling its way across the ceiling.

“My wife gave me that some time back,” proffered Roger weakly, by way of explanation. “She thought the office needed some plant life, as she put it.” As he said this, however, he looked like he had just eaten something very unsavory. There ensued another long pause. Finally, Roger stood up and, without speaking, walked over to two open file drawers and shut and locked them, closed the files that lay open on his desk and swept them off the top into desk drawers which he also proceeded to lock, and walked out of the room, stopping only long enough to cast a last accusing look at his wife’s philodendron.

The next day the philodendron was gone.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright G. Taylor Snow 2025

Image Source: Toa Heftiba from Unsplash.com