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Authors: Robert Traver

BOOK: Anatomy of a Murder
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“My, my,” I said. “And then what happened?”
“He ran like a deer,” Parnell said and then fell silent, glumly examining his cold cigar. During the telling he had become more and more morose and I thought it was time to cheer him up. But I still couldn't see how all this was important to our case.
“Well, there's no law against a young couple being on the beach, Parn,” I said. “Not yet, at least. Maida told us over lunch, remember, that she'd heard this Mary gal was going with some young officer. What's all this big build-up about?”
“It wasn't their being on the beach,” Parnell doggedly went on. “It was their attire, their vestments—or rather the lack.” He rolled his eyes at us. “They didn't appear to have on too many clothes.”
Maida and I glanced quickly at each other, at loss for words, as glum Parnell stared straight ahead. I felt almost sorry he had found out about the incident. For what possible use could such a thing, however spicy, be to the defense of our case? Surely honorable old Parnell was not suggesting, even obliquely, that we somehow blackmail Mary Pilant into co-operating with the defense? Or was he?
“Maybe this was just Army gossip, Parn,” I said. “After all you got
the story in a public tavern from a man who wasn't even there.”
Parnell shook his head. “No, Polly. I checked on that. I asked this young soldier who he'd heard the story from and he said he had got it directly from this bunkmate who had seen it. Then I asked him when and
where
he had heard it from this bunkmate, and he said his buddy had told him the story over a beer in Barney's bar the next night, that is, the very night of the shooting—early that evening, shortly before Laura Manion had showed up to play pinball. Then I asked him if anyone else knew about this story—now get this, Paul—and he said that no one else knew it, that his buddy had purposely clammed up so that he wouldn't get in a jam with this young officer. I pressed him on this, asking him who was at the bar, and he said no one but the bartender. I asked him if the bartender could possibly have overheard it, and he finally agreed it was possible, because, as he now remembered, the bartender had suddenly left the bar and disappeared upstairs, leaving them alone.”
“Technicolor, popcorn buttered generously with old crankcase oil, and a screen a block long,” I said, shaking my head. “I swear this case has a h'ant on it.”
“You mean,” excited Maida said, “you mean, Parn, that the bartender ran and told Barney and then—and then the feathers hit the fan?”
“I—I don't know what I mean,” Parnell said bleakly. “I'm telling you what I heard. Then I asked this young soldier where his buddy was and he said he was back at camp loading the last truck preparatory to taking off. I said, ‘Take me to him,' and in half an hour—after my first harrowing ride in a jeep—I had the story straight from the young man himself. It checked in every particular.”
I longed to have a picture of Parnell and his tattersall riding in a jeep. Even the very waves must have risen in salute. “Where are the young soldiers now, Parn?” I said.
“They're on their way to a camp down in Georgia. They left before noon, already several hours late. I have their names and addresses in my notebook.” He shrugged morosely. “And that's my big scoop.”
“But if Barney did learn from his bartender of Mary's—ah—indis-cretion with this young officer,” Maida said, “then why didn't he go a-gunning for the young omcer?—or even Mary? Why should he pick on the poor innocent Manions?”
Parnell threw out his hands. “I don't know,” he said slowly. “The more I learn about this case the less I know. I don't even know for
sure that Barney did know about Mary—ah—being on the beach the night before with the young officer. But it seems common knowledge that he did know she was dating this young fellow and also that he was trying desperately to break it up.” Parnell paused. “I guess it would take a whole panel of psychiatrists to unwind the mind of that one … . Perhaps he was mad at the whole Army—because of it he was no longer the big frog in Thunder Bay, and finally, to heap insult on injury, it was stealing his girl. Then when Army wife Laura Manion wandered into his web he concentrated all of his accumulated venom and frustration on her.” He shook his head. “I don't know-I'm only an old whisky-drinkin' lawyer myself—and also, I'm afraid, a sentimental old fool.”
After that we drove along in silence, each lost in his own thoughts, perhaps lost, as I was, in the spell of the magnificent lake, leaving gently with such deceptive tranquillity below us, washed in the glow of the dying sun, each wheeling sea gull seeming nailed in the sky.
On the way home we braved the tourists and stopped off at the Halfway House for our supper, preceded by some well-earned drinks—“just two,” we solemnly resolved—and there found a new small Negro combo, with a pixilated piano man who so seared our hearts, or at least mine, that all our resolutions were forgotten. We were so far carried away, in fact, that along about closing time Maida even asked Parnell to dance with her, a calamitous enterprise which I believe the old goat would have undertaken except that he was mercifully stricken with a cramp in his bad leg and had to beg off. Instead all of us wove our way homeward and, fortunately, did not run across any patrolling sheriffs.
Pamell appeared at my office the next morning, even before Maida, and joined me in my second “eye-opener” cup of coffee. “I've been thinking, boy,” he said. “I didn't sleep very well last night.”
“I've been thinking, too, Parn,” I said, indicating an open letter on my desk. “Found that little present at my mail slot last night. Letter from the Army officer I wrote at Thunder Bay giving us the brush-off on an Army psychiatrist. Writes that since Lieutenant Manion didn't belong to his outfit—was just there on loan—we'd better write the Lieutenant's own outfit. Sent me the address.” I shook my head. “So we're back to scratch—no psychiatrist and the trial date appproaching on wings.”
“That's one of the things I've been mulling over, Paul,” Parnell said. “You know, of course, that under the statute we must serve timely notice on the prosecution of our intention to claim the defense of insanity and at least four days before the trial. When do you propose to serve that notice, boy? Time's a-flyin'.”
“That problem's been bothering me most all night, Parn—ever since I read that damned letter. Up to now I've been putting off serving the notice for several reasons: till I saw we could actually get a psychiatrist; then with the vague idea of not tipping our hand to the other side any sooner than we had to; and also to possibly prevent or delay the People from sicking their own rebuttal psychiatrists on our man.” I paused. “I'm glad you raised the subject because I've just about made up my mind that we should serve the notice now—today—and let the chips fall where they may. What do you think?”
“But won't that do just what you're trying to avoid?” Parnell said thoughtfully. “Tip off our defense and give the other side a longer psychiatric crack at him, as it were? Mind, now, I'm not objectin boy; I'm merely tryin' to test your thinkin'—our little game, you know. I'm listenin'.”
So Parnell and I were away again, endlessly debating the pros and cons of our strategy for the fast approaching trial. I pointed out that if we delayed the serving of our notice this might in itself give the People their grounds for a continuance since Mitch could then argue that he needed additional time in which to obtain a decent rebuttal psychiatric examination. Parnell agreed and then raised the question of whether the People could ever get to examine our man.
“It's a little brainstorm I had during the night,” he added.
“What do you mean?” I said. “Surely you're familiar with the
procedure that permits a prosecutor in felony cases to file a petition with the Court suggesting insanity and asking for a psychiatric examination and sanity hearing? The moment we file our notice of insanity Mitch can petition the court—on the sole ground that we've thereby furnished him—that the defendant may have been insane (he needn't admit it), and hence get to paw over our man.”
Parnell grinned evilly. “I'm aware of that procedure, boy,” he said. “I have it fully in mind. If and when such a petition is filed we'll simply tell our man to clam up and tell the People's psychiatrist to go fly a kite. He simply won't play.”
I fidgeted uneasily. “You mean, Parn, we'd tell Lieutenant Manion not to let the People's psychiatrist have at him?”
“Not only tell him not to let them examine him—but not even talk with them,” he said. “I mean our man will tell 'em all to go plumb to hell.”
“But how can you expect to get away with it, Parn? That procedure's on the law books, man, and has been for years. Won't I risk being jailed for contempt or something?”
“We'll chance it,” Parnell replied. “There are a lot of rusty old things in the law and on the law books, boy, that couldn't stand up for five minutes if their constitutionality were seriously challenged. Nearly every new supreme court report that comes out has at least one shining example. The Legislature's forever getting some unconstitutional bug in its britches, and I think this old law is one of them. I've had my droopy eye on this statute for years and in my opinion it isn't worth the paper it's written on. Constitutionally, I mean.”
“I'm beginning to see,” I murmured. “I'm beginning to see … .
“Don't you see,” Parnell went on, warming to his subject, “one of the basic provisions of both the State and Federal constitutions is that no man shall be compelled to testify against himself in any criminal case. That's of course the Fifth Amendment—the very one that's getting to be such a dirty word these days in certain sturdy flag-waving quarters … .”
“Let's not get on that now, Parn,” I said, rolling up my eyes.
Parnell had awakened during the night with the whole argument laid out cold. “I must have put a nickel in me subconscious.” If any statute or procedure purported to
force
a person charged with crime to submit to a hostile psychiatric examination, wasn't it thereby unconstitutional and bad?
“Hm,” I mused, over the bold soundness of the old man's vision. “But supposing the good judge overrules all our fine constitutional arguments? Either we appeal—which is tantamount to a People's continuance—or the other side still gets its examination.”
Parnell grinned and shook his head. “No, boy. No such thing. If the judge rules against us our man still tells 'em all to go to hell. And if he tells them that what're they going to do? The Judge, Mitch, the Doctor, anyone? If our man simply won't talk
who's
going to make him talk? They can't threaten to jail
him
for contempt, the poor bastard's already there. And you're in the clear, Polly. You co-operated. And what kind of a psychiatric examination would they have if he wouldn't play ball? The whole procedure of psychoanalysis, to be effective, presumes ardent co-operation from the subject; hence the overstuffed couch.”
A key rattled in the outside door and Maida burst in with her usual boisterous calm and only twenty minutes late.
“What you two doing?” she demanded. “Telling dirty stories?”
“I wish to God we were,” I said. “We've been exploring the dismal legal swamps of insanity.”
“Well,” Maida sniffed, “I must say each of you has excellent laboratory material to work on.”
“Bring your book, young lady,” I said. “Enough of this insubordination. Please respect our years if not our brains. You can't play detective every day. See, Parn, one day out and she's more sassy and spoiled than ever.”
Maida went to her room and presently reappeared with her book and bristling battery of pencils. “Back to the salt mines,” she sighed, twisting and squaring herself around for her dictation, as all stenographers seem bound to do, like the circling of a dog bedding down for the night.
“Ready?” I said, when the squirmings and maneuvers had ceased.
“Ready.”
“I've got a combined notice and proof of service and three letters. Make the notice an original and three—no, four, we need a set for Parn—with one blue cover for filing. Got it?”
“Got it.”
I turned to the form of notice of insanity in Judge Gillespie's work on Michigan criminal law and started dictating.
I dictated the notice of insanity and a letter of transmittal to Mitch of his copy and one to the county clerk for the original. “Add a postscript to the county clerk's letter: ‘I trust that by pure chance, as usual, you will contrive to get at least one good-looking babe on the jury to ease our pain.'”
Maida sniffed and glanced at Parnell. “Murder or no murder, the boss must always make his little joke.”
“Now fix up a letter to a Colonel Mugfur at the address on this letter,” I said, handing her the rejection letter from the Army officer at Thunder Bay. “Send him the same letter I wrote the Thunder Bay brass asking for an Army psychiatrist, fixing it where needed to make sense. Send it airmail special delivery. Times a-fleetin'. Have you got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good girl. Now type all that up as fast as you can. House Detectives McCarthy and Biegler must clamp on their false mustaches and be off.”
“And leave poor little me here all alone?” Maida said plaintively.
“See, Parn, there's no quicker way to ruin a good house-broken stenographer than to let her play detective for a day.”
“Almost as bad as queen for a day,” Parnell observed with admirable neutrality as Maida plodded out to her salt mine.
 
I leaned back and lit one of my Neapolitan stink weeds. “Parn, all this stuff we've been discussing is simply further evidence of the crazy state of the law on the defense of insanity in criminal cases,” I said. “Take this notice to Mitch. Isn't it a precious example of what I mean? Here we notify Mitch of our intention to claim and prove insanity and at the same time boldly admit that we haven't got—and therefore certainly haven't yet consulted—any psychiatrist. Our man is nuts simply because I say he's nuts. A man is shot down in cold blood. I say his killer should go free because Dr. Biegler has appointed himself sole court psychiatrist. Quick, Watson, my black leather sofa! What a business.”
“Don't you exaggerate the situation? After all, it isn't you who determines that the man is insane—you'll still have to go find a psychiatrist to back up your guess.”
“We'll find one. You know that, Parn. If we had the money we'd probably have a half a dozen on ice right now.”
“Aren't you being a little harsh on the profession of psychiatry, Paul? Do you claim all of them are quacks and charlatans?”
“No, I didn't mean that, Parn. I don't mean that at all. What I guess I mean is—” I paused, “—is that, as Lieutenant Manion said, this whole insanity procedure is so goddam unscientific. I—I guess it grieves me that our profession can prolong such a primitive rickety state of affairs.”
“Perhaps, Paul,” Pamell said, “and then again perhaps the law is wiser than you think. Perhaps this is just further evidence of the wonderful elasticity of the law, of its broad accommodation, of the
room
it gives a jury to move around in to reach a just result.” Parnell paused thoughtfully. “Justice, you know, lad, cannot be measured with calipers. And surely you do not mean to infer that it would be an unjust verdict if Lieutenant Manion were acquitted on the ground of temporary insanity? Or does your zeal for abstract justice extend even that far?”
Shrewd Parnell was driving me into a corner and both of us knew it. “Well,” I said lamely, “no … I don't mean exactly that. It—it's just—”
“No, of course you don't mean that, Paul,” Parnell dryly cut in. “So what are you belly-aching about? How would you solve the problem, if you think the present system is so bad? What's the new and improved Biegler Plan? Would you like to have some judge appoint a panel of State-paid psychiatrists to say your man was sane when he shot Barney? Would that make you feel better and more scientific? Suppose a panel of bearded ‘nonpartisan' psychiatrists paid by the State pawed over our man—as you seem so badly to want—to determine his state of sanity when he shot Barney? What do you think they'd find? I give you three guesses. And what would you do when they emerged from their huddle and found him sane? Why, you'd scream like a wounded horse and race out to find three more psychiatrists who'd swear he was nuts. Probably four. Then maybe the State would raise you two, like a couple of night cooks playing stud poker in the kitchen. Well, at least the way things are you're spared that expensive mockery. It at least won't be a battle of which side can produce the most psychiatrists.”
“You're hurtin', Pam,” I said, smiling ruefully.
“I think it's time I'm hurtin', boy. What you forget, Polly, is that criminal trials are from their very nature intensely partisan affairs —primitive, knock-down, every-man-for-himself combats—the very opposite of detached scientific determinations. You of all men
should know this. In fact I believe that's one of the reasons why—in this wonderful laboratory age when everything we touch or buy is pumped full of science and little else—people are so drawn to the hurly-burly of a criminal trial. They're
starved
for real drama and raw emotion, for the purging catharsis of knowing the chips are really down; they recognize that a criminal trial is the real McCoy.” Parnell shook his head. “No, Paul, the law may be wiser than you think. Let us hear no more of its being unscientific.”
Parnell had pressed me pretty hard. “Well, Pam, you may be right on there being no easy alternatives to the present procedure,” I said. “In fact I rather think you are. But if you're correct in the constitutional analysis you just gave the People will not only not have an equal crack at our defendant but no crack at all. And is that right and just? Damn it, I almost hope Mitch tries to file a petition to examine our man. If you're right under present procedures they
can't
examine him if we won't let them. And I still say that's a primitive, haywire, and goddam unscientific legal arrangement. So suppose we call the argument a draw?”
“Discussion, boy, not argument,” Parnell said. “Yes, let's call it a draw. And now that we've neatly drawn and quartered the law of insanity, what else are we doing today?”
“Well, Parn, I think I'd better go visit my people. For one thing I'd better go see if they're still living together—which. God knows, I can't be sure of from day to day. And I must go over some things with them in the light of yesterday's expedition. Like to go along?”
Parnell nodded his head. “That I would, Polly. I've got a little plan of my own. And I guess I'll have to ride with you or go on the bus.” He paused and grinned at me. “You know, I haven't done much driving of late years—alas, since that careless Dolly Madison folded my Maxwell around a tree.” He blinked his pale blue eyes. “Now I wonder if I
could
still drive? Hm … .”
“I don't know what you're talking about, Parn, but I'll drive you,” I said, grinning. “What're you up to now, you crafty old fox?”
“Don't be asking, boy. All in good time, all in good time. I've got me a wee plan.”
Maida came in with the finished letters which I signed and she stashed away in their envelopes. “Where to today, boys?” she beamed. “I'm rarin' to go.”
I sighed and shook my head. “All right, all right,” I said. “Put a sign on the door and come tag along. We'll mail this stuff on the way.”
“The die is cast,” I said soberly, emerging from the Chippewa post office. “For the lieutenant's sake I hope we've guessed right.”
For the most part we were silent on the drive to Iron Bay. Maida came to life briefly when we drove past the Halfway House. “Wouldn't you two like to stop off and recapture your lost youth?” she quipped. “Ah, to be young and carefree and gay again—at four-bits a shot.”
“Humph,” Parnell said, morosely smacking his parched lips. “One day I'm just up an' goin' to quit drinkin' that vile stuff.”
“When the moon turns to blue cheese,” Maida sniffed.
“Green, my dear,” Parnell corrected her. “Yessir, someday soon I'm just gonna up an' quit … .”
I let Maida and Parnell off at the side door of the courthouse. “Polly,” Parnell said earnestly, “after you get the Lieutenant up to date on yesterday's doings, there's something, one question, I want you to ask him.”
“What's that, Parn?”
“Ask him simply this: ‘If you didn't intend to kill Barney when you went to the bar with a loaded gun, just what
did
you intend to do?' Ask him that, Paul, and
make
him answer—it could be important.”
“O.K., Parn,” I said, shrugging. “Is this part of your mysterious wee plan?”
“Could be, could be,” Parn said, smiling enigmatically. “Come, Maida, let us away. Your unimaginative boss is getting inquisitive again.”
“Hm … .” I said, pondering what the sly old goat was up to now.

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