Anatomy of a Murder (30 page)

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Authors: Robert Traver

BOOK: Anatomy of a Murder
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“The People offer in evidence People's Exhibit 1 for identification as People's Exhibit 1,” Mitch said, handing the report to the reporter.
“It may be so received and marked,” Judge Weaver said.
“You may examine,” Mitch said, and he went back to his table.
I advanced before the witness. “Doctor, did it appear to you that Barney Quill had been shot five times with bullets from a gun?” I asked.
“It did.”
“And it appeared that each shot had plowed through him—as a layman might say—and come out on the other side?”
“That is correct.”
“A layman might even say that the deceased was well ventilated?”
“Ha … . Precisely.”
“Then I take it you did not find any bullets?”
“No. I mention that in my report.”
“Yes, I noted that. But your conclusion that the wounds were caused by bullets was more or less of a surmise, then, was it not?”
“Well, in a sense yes.”
“Based to some extent upon the history of the case and the information given you by the men who requested and were present at the autopsy?”
“Yes.”
“You understood when you performed this autopsy that the subject had been shot by the defendant in a barroom?”
“Yes.”
“And this and certain other information had been supplied you by the officers?”
“Well, yes. From them and from reading the newspaper, of course.”
“But the officers gave you certain background information before you did your post?”
“That is correct.”
Someone was walking softly behind me and I turned around. It was Claude Dancer, of all things, now rocking on his heels and staring up innocently at the skylight. I turned back to the witness. “So that to some extent your explorations were suggested by information you had received from them?”
“Yes. But my primary purpose was to determine the cause of death. And I did determine it. I didn't need any information from anybody to do that.”
“Of course not, Doctor,” I said. “You have made it very plain that the deceased was well drilled.” I too wanted to make it perfectly clear to the jury that the defense was not trying to cast any doubt upon the evident fact that the Lieutenant had shot Barney; my design in fact lay quite the other way. But right now I was gunning for different if not bigger game—and the clever Claude Dancer was perhaps smelling a rat. In any case I would soon see. “Tell us then, Doctor,” I said slowly, “tell us how come you checked to determine whether spermatogenesis was occurring in the subject's testes?”
“I object!”
a deep booming voice exploded in my ears, and Claude Dancer had finally flung off the mask of being a mere helper.
“On what grounds, Mr. Dancer?” the Judge inquired mildly.
“On the grounds of incompetency and immateriality,” he said. “The People have called this witness to show the cause of death. He has shown it. Cross-examination should be confined to that issue. Surely the question of whether this man was capable of—of spermatogenesis or what not would have no bearing on that issue.”
“Mr. Biegler?” the Judge said.
“That is precisely why I asked the question, Your Honor,” I said. I turned and picked up the autopsy report from the stenographer's desk. “I now read from that portion of the doctor's report called General Findings on the top of page five, and I quote, ‘Spermatogenesis was occurring in both testes.' That is part of the People's autopsy report. That report has now been admitted in evidence in this case and I think I am entitled to inquire into anything that is in their report.”
“The objection is overruled,” the Judge said. “Take the answer.”
“You may answer now, Doctor,” I said.
“Answer what?” the understandably bewildered doctor said. “I—I guess I forgot the question.”
“Read back the question,” the Judge told the reporter.
The reporter scowled and flipped the pages of his notebook, at the same time rapidly moving his lips, whether in reading or profanity I knew not. He found the place and cleared his throat. “‘How come, Doctor, you checked to determine whether spermatogenesis was occurring in the subject's testes?'” he read back in the bored singsong monotone that all court reporters seem occupationally compelled to cultivate.
“You may venture to answer now, Doctor,” I suggested. “The coast is clear.”
“Because they asked me to,” the doctor replied.
“Who asked you to?”
“The officers present.”
“I see,” I said. “Now did you know when you made that examination that another doctor had taken a vaginal smear from the defendant's wife and had reported it negative for spermatozoa?”
“I did.”
“Objection,” Claude Dancer boomed. “Based on hearsay, irrelevant … . Report of other doctor best evidence.”
“You're a little late, Mr. Dancer,” the Judge said mildly. “The question seems to have been answered.”
“Then I move that the answer be stricken and the jury instructed to disregard both the question and answer.”
The Judge's voice seemed to rise a trifle. “The motion is denied. Please proceed, Mr. Biegler.”
“Now the primary purpose of this portion of your examination was to determine whether or not the seminal fluid of the deceased contained sperm?” I went on.
“Correct.”
“And that inquiry had nothing to do with determining the cause of death?”
“Nothing whatever.”
“In determining death you would ordinarily never make such an examination on a body that had so obviously met death from gunshot wounds?”
“Never.”
“And you made this particular examination solely because you were asked to do so by the prosecuting officers?”
“I did.”
“Now, Doctor, if a question ever arose as to whether a man had had intercourse with a woman who claimed that he had, and her smear for sperm showed negative, whereas the tests on the man were positive for seminal sperm, all that might be some evidence that he had
not
had intercourse, might it not?”
“Objection,” Claude Dancer thundered behind me.
“Overruled,” the Judge said.
“Yes,” the witness answered.
“So that if that question ever arose at some later date—like say at a murder trial—nobody could argue or claim—not even a defense lawyer, for example—that the claimed absence of sperm in the woman
might
have been caused by the absence of sperm in the man?”
I turned around and looked at Claude Dancer, jerking my head sideways, as though ducking a snowball, and the courtroom tittered and Claude Dancer regarded me stonily. I turned back to the witness.
“I suppose that is true,” he said. “I assumed then as I do now that that was the main purpose of their request.”
“Objection—the witness assumes,” Claude Dancer pressed.
“Objection sustained,” the Judge ruled.
“Move that the answer be stricken and the jury instructed to disregard.”
“The motion is granted. The jury will please disregard the last answer. Proceed, Mr. Biegler.”
“Now, Doctor, were you asked to make an examination to determine whether the deceased had recently had intercourse and reached a sexual climax?”
“I was not.”
“Did you make any such examination?”
“I did not.”
“Could you have done so?”
“I could have.”
“Would it have disclosed the answer?”
“It should have.”
“But you were not asked to, and you did not?”
“Correct.”
“And you did not hear the subject discussed?”
“I did not.”
I stole a look at the jury. Some of the jurors were looking at each other and my Finnish ex-soldier was staring straight at me. Did I seem to detect a sort of half-smile on his face?
“Now, Doctor, one or two more questions and I think we'll about be done. Did you make any examination to determine the alcoholic content of the blood of the deceased?”
“I did not.”
“Were you asked to?”
“No.”
“Could you have made such a determination if requested?”
“Very easily.”
“That's all, Doctor. Thank you,” I said, and I went back to my table.
“Nice going,” the Lieutenant whispered.
“We've at least got our foot in the door,” I whispered back.
“Any re-direct, Mr. Prosecutor?” the Judge inquired.
Mitch and his helper conferred. “No further questions,” Mitch said, half rising.
The Judge turned to Dr. Raschid. “You may go, Doctor. That is all.” As the doctor gratefully sped on his way the Judge looked at the clock. “We will take a fifteen-minute recess,” he said gravely. “All right, Mr. Sheriff.”
Max hammered the crowded courtroom to its feet. “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye—this honorable court is recessed for fifteen minutes.” There was a collective sigh, like an escaping jet of steam, and most of the crowd scraped and shuffled its way to the exits.
Parnell had disappeared and was nowhere to be found. I hoped that he had not developed a sudden and overpowering thirst. I hurriedly joined the Manions in the conference room, with the Sheriff hovering importantly outside the door—the observant jury had to pass that way—and explained to them the possible significance of some of the testimony that had been developed from the good Dr. Raschid, most of which I was pleased to see they already grasped. Yes, the prosecution now seemed bent on suppressing all mention of the rape, they readily saw. Perhaps if they saw it that way the jury also might, I hoped. Anyway, I could take care of all that later in my argument. I scribbled a quick reminder in my trusty notebook, without which most trial lawyers would fly straight out into space.
But most of all I sought to calm and reassure the Manions; the important thing right now was to keep
them
from flying off into space; most of our real work together had been done. In a tantalizing sense the trial itself was like a well-rehearsed play, a play that was to be played but one night and then carted off forever to storage. But then again, in another and more disturbing sense, it wasn't like a well-rehearsed play at all: inevitably some character would forget his lines or, worse yet, someone might sneak in some surprise new dialogue that might change the whole course of the drama. I was too old and battered an attendant at courtroom “first nights” not to be aware of that ever-gnawing probability.
Something
would surely happen; like poor old Smoky Madigan and his expectant June bride, it was not a question of
whether
but
when … .
“I don't like that Claude Dancer,” Laura said, crushing out her cigarette. “He's—he's so cocky and self-assured. And he acts like he hates us.”
“Confidentially, Laura,” I said, “I'm learning not to love him myself.” For one thing, I thought but did not say, he was far too smart and dangerous; moreover he possessed the buzzing persistence of a gnat.
The Lieutenant, sitting on a cold radiator over by the window reading about his then approaching trial in an old
Mining Gazette
, looked up and spoke. “When the Judge overruled Dancer, when you were questioning the doctor, one of the jurors grinned and almost laughed out loud.”
“Was it that husky young blond fellow sitting in the first row, on the extreme left end?” I asked.
“That's the one. He seems to be a fan of yours. He watches you like a cat.”
I thoughtfully lit a cigar and stared out at the lake. Maybe, I thought, maybe I had better pretty well try my case for this intelligent young juror. (Any fan of Biegler's, of course, was by hypothesis nudging the very portals of genius.) I remembered that when I was D.A. I had almost unconsciously selected and played to a lone juror during my longer trials. Some small sign usually came along, some tiny tacit recognition that you and the juror were talking the same language. And that way one seemed to gain—or at least I seemed to gain—a greater sense of immediacy and impact during one's efforts; that way there seemed to be a tangible goal upon which to concentrate, a discernible target at which to aim whatever arts of conviction and persuasion one possessed. “Hm … .” I said absently, holding out my lighter for Laura.
“Thanks, Paul,” she said, removing her glasses. “I can't see across the room with these darn things. Can't you also manage to have me knitting bootees?”
I grinned evilly. “Scarcely, my dear,” I said. “Scarcely.”
Yes, my work was pretty well done with the Manions. If they hadn't learned their roles, if they didn't know their parts, it was far too late to do anything about it now. I remembered the time when, years before, I had taken my bar exams in Lansing, and had gone there several days early, perhaps hoping to soak up some wisdom and a measure of belated inspiration by sheer propinquity alone. Owlish and fear-haunted, I had crept nervously up to the supreme court and called on the clerk, amiable little Jay Metzner, who then also acted as clerk for the bar examiners. He had stopped me at the door.
“Halt!” he commanded. “Not another step, young man! From your ghastly and ravaged appearance I can see you are here bent on taking the bar exams. So you've called on little ol' Jay and you want me to give you an open sesame.” He had come over and put both hands on my shoulders. “Well, here's your open sesame, son. Go out and have yourself a few drinks, not too many of course. Then pick yourself up a willing girl if you can. The campus of this old capitol building is. fairly heaving with them. Then go out and forget all about your goddam bar examinations.” He shook his head. “If after three years of monastic study you don't know your stuff, by God, son, you never will, you never will.” And little Jay had been right, bless his soul.
Max Battisfore popped his head in the door. “Five more minutes, Polly,” he said. “The Judge wants to see you.”
“Thanks. Right away, Max,” I said. “I'm getting my grease paint back on. The show must go on.”
The Judge and Mitch and Claude Dancer sat chatting in chambers along with the pardoned young photographer from the
Gazette
.
“This young man says his Public, meaning his boss, wants him to take our pictures—out of the courtroom, that is,” the Judge smilingly told me. “I thought defense counsel might like to join us.”
“Thank you, Judge,” I said. “That was thoughtful of you.” I had known this subject would come up, sooner or later, and I was ready for it. “But I'm sorry,” I lied softly. “Right now I'm up to my ears with my clients. Perhaps later on.”
“Very well,” the Judge quickly said. “By all means get back to your people.”
As I turned away I thought I detected an appreciative gleam in the Judge's eyes. Was he aware of my strategy to build up the all-powerful, much-publicized State against the lone, unsung—and unphotographed—defense? “Over here away from the windows, gentlemen,” I heard the photographer saying. I hurried back and told the Manions that under no circumstances should they permit their pictures to be taken. There would be time enough for all that later on, if things went right. I did not even try to explain; just now they had quite enough on their minds.
 
“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye … .”
The rest of the afternoon session lurched by with a dreary sort of speed. Trials are never fast, except on TV, where drab reality must ever yield to the more pressing reality of peddling the sponsor's nostrums. By stipulation the charts were introduced in evidence and set up before the jury. The next prosecution witness was Coroner Lei-part, a rather shy-appearing little man who led a double life—as coroner and undertaker.
Under Mitch's questioning—Claude Dancer seemed to have slipped his mask back on—he told of finding Barney Quill's riddled body lying face down behind the bar. “Lying in a pool of blood.” It lay on its right side near the middle of the bar and, yes, the man was quite dead. The bartender had let them in when he had arrived with the state police around 2:00 A.M. What had he done then? Well, after the measurements and “pics” had been taken he'd put the body in the basket and fetched it in to Iron Bay and held
it in cold storage until the autopsy on Sunday, which he had attended. Then he had fetched the body back to his place and embalmed it and shipped it off to Wisconsin. As the coroner gave his testimony the thought occurred to me that he might have been talking about the misadventures of a roll of linoleum.
“Your witness,” Mitch said.
On cross-examination I brought out that the bartender was alone when he had admitted the coroner and the state police; that this was over an hour from the reported time of the killing; that he, the coroner, had turned the clothing of the deceased over to the state police, who had presumably shipped it to East Lansing to be tested in the crime laboratory … .
“For what purpose?” I asked.
“For evidence of sperm or seminal stain,” the coroner answered.
I half looked around, waiting for the Lansing “organ” to thunder, but all was pastoral silence. “Do you know the results of those clothing tests, if any?”
“I do not. The state police should.”
“Were you present during the autopsy when the officers asked Dr. Raschid to determine the spermatic capacities of the deceased?”
“I was there at all times.”
“And?”
“Yes, I was there then.”
“And was that done for the purpose of refuting any possible later claim that the deceased might not have possessed those capacities?”
“That was my understanding, yes.”
“Was there any discussion among the officers about asking the doctor to determine whether the deceased had recently ejaculated?” I asked. (I wondered how the comely juror, the heavily virginal Doris Flanders, was weathering all this. I sneaked a small look and found that she was bearing up remarkably well, leaning forward on the edge of her seat, in fact.)
“There was some discussion, yes,” the coroner said.
“In the presence of the doctor?”
“No.”
“And no such examination was made.”
“I'm not sure that there could have been.”
“Oh? Were you here when Dr. Raschid testified earlier?”
“No, I just got here. I got two cases waiting for me now.”
I lifted my eyebrows in surprise. “Two more murdered people?
My, my—I hadn't heard. Seems it never rains but it pours … .”
“No, two bodies.”
“In your role as coroner or embalmer?”
“Waiting to be embalmed.”
“My heartfelt congratulations, Mr. Coroner, but will you please answer my previous question?”
“What question?”
“I asked you whether in fact Dr. Raschid made any examination to find out whether the deceased had”—idiom tugged mightily, but idiom regretfully lost—“had recently reached a sexual climax.”
“He did not.”
“Or any test for the alcoholic content of the blood?”
“He did not.”
“Was that discussed by the officers?”
“I don't know.”
“That's all, Mr. Coroner. I think you can get back to your waiting customers now.”
Smiling: “They're in no hurry, Mr. Biegler. They rarely complain.”
Mitch had no re-direct and he next called a commercial photographer who quickly identified a flock of 6 x 10 glossy photographs he had taken for the prosecution, all of which were by stipulation admitted swiftly in evidence. Barney would have loved them, I thought, because they were all of him: various views of the great Barney lying inert and crumpled behind the bar; Barney lying exposed on the slab, full face, left and right profile, Barney on his back, the ventilation marks showing up splendidly. And showing, too, that beautifully superb and willful body which had been stilled forever all because of one dark and tangled impulse … .
“To the defense,” Mitch said.
I was about ready to waive cross-examination when Laura Manion leaned over and whispered to me excitedly. “That man! He took some pictures of me that night. I—I just remembered … .”
“Good girl,” I whispered, and I slowly arose and left my table and walked thoughtfully up toward the witness. Well, here was the first switch in the expected dialogue, I thought; with luck this time perhaps fortunately for our side. But there would be other times, times that would hurt, there always were.
“Mr. Burke,” I said pleasantly, indicating the latest exhibits, “were these all the pictures you took for this case?”
He shot a look at Mitch's table. “No, there were some others.”
“Perhaps they didn't turn out?” I said.
“No, they all turned out.” A note ot professional pride crept into his voice. “Most of my pictures turn out.”
“Of course, Mr. Burke,” I said. “And these you have produced here are splendid examples of your craftmanship.” I paused. “Perhaps you forgot to bring the others?” There was no answer and I did not press. “Perhaps the others were needless duplicates?”
“No. They weren't any duplicates of poses.”
“Oh,” I said surprised. I glanced at the jury and saw that there was growing contagion in my surprise. “Perhaps the other pictures had nothing to do with the case at all?—perhaps they were merely some interesting little side shots? Made to gratify an artistic whim? A gnarled stump you couldn't resist? Perhaps a tree? Or a rummaging bear at the Thunder Bay dump?” I paused. “Perchance even a woman?”
The witness was not happy. “They were photographs of Lieutenant Manion's wife.”
I paused and looked around at the clock. The heads of Mitch and his assistant were nodded close in a huddle. I glanced at the jurors who were in turn glancing quickly at each other. My young Finnish juror was looking straight at me and—was it possible?—seemed almost to nod. I turned back to the witness.

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