Winter of frozen dreams (26 page)

In addition to the insurance complexities the discovery of Davies's body was recounted. Residents of the apartment building, its manager, and its maintenance man testified. Again a parade of police officers were called to the stand to reconstruct the scenario and their consequent investigation.

The condition of the body, the water level of the bathtub, the noise of the bathroom fan were explained to the jury. Eisenberg emphasized that not a hair or a fingerprint or any other piece of evidence relating to Barbara Hoffman was found in the apartment. No one had seen her leave or enter Davies s home that tragic Easter weekend or ever.

The letters signed by Davies and mailed that fatal weekend were read to the jury and entered into the record.

Day three of the trial moved quickly. The prosecution proceeded at a faster pace than anticipated, and Torphy was pleased with the progress.

For the jury the avalanche of words and exhibits produced strain. The circumstantial nature of the states presentation demanded concentration on detail, and quickly the assignment seemed an ordeal. The notoriety of the case, the glare of the TV cameras—silent yet always

visible—the excitement of the packed courtroom, the gravity of the charges intensified the pressure and the communal isolation.

The jury was strictly sequestered. Television and radio were forbidden the jurors. Mail, laundry, telephone calls— any contact with the outside world—were carefully screened. One of the jurors could not abide by the regulations, and on Saturday night the foreman spoke to a bailiff about the problem.

David Butterfield, twenty-three years old, a maintenance man by trade, had a penchant for beer. Two drinks were permitted with the evening meal, no more, and a couple of beers barely wetted Butterfields parched throat. He asked that a case of beer be delivered to his motel room. When told that the request could not be honored, he got angry. What could a few beers harm? he protested. As it became clear he wouldn't get his wish, Butterfield turned nasty. He denounced the rules, cursed the situation, and insinuated that if his desire for a case of beer wasn't satisfied he'd retaliate by causing a hung jury.

Judge Torphy was informed of the threat. Burr and Eisenberg were alerted to the development, and with both lawyers present Torphy questioned Butterfield concerning the incident. The maintenance man admitted that he may have muttered a vague threat. Judge Torphy severely reprimanded him and dismissed him from jury duty. The selected alternate was a woman. A brief announcement was issued informing the press of the change.

7

It was Saturday, the third day of the trial. Liza slumped into the cushions of an old easy chair, crunching granola and watching the TV from over the tips of her toes. A fly cruised the kitchen.

There was a rap on the door, and the fellow who rented the upstairs apartment entered. Two cans of beer

dangled from a plastic holder. He offered one to Liza, yawned, took a seat on the wooden vegetable crate she used as a hassock. His reluctant hostess accepted the beer without prying her eyes from the television set. He inquired about the attraction. Liza shushed him.

"It's the Barbara Hoffman trial/' she said finally.

"Trash for the masses/' he commented. The spray from his pop top tickled Lizas toes.

His name was Tim, and he claimed to be a Marxist-Leninist historian who couldn't secure a teaching position because of his radical politics. All that Liza knew for certain was that he drove a cab on the night shift, which was why his eyes were bleary at 9:00 a.m., and that he drank an excess of beer. He was tall, lean, but with a belly, and his scruffy beard yearned for a trim.

On the tube Don Eisenberg was cross-examining an insurance agent. The agent squirmed.

"Why are you interested in this bullshit?" Tim asked.

"Because I am," said Liza.

"An elucidating answer. Of course it is the best soap opera in town. My riders are voting three to one Eisen-berg'll get her off. They all agree she did it, and they think she'll walk because he's so clever. What's your vote?"

"I abstain," Liza said.

Her visitor shrugged.

"I took a guy from out of town to a massage parlor last night," Tim said. "He got in the cab and said, 'Where can I get a blowjob in this town?' so I took him to the Rising Sun. He gave me this." He held up a ten-dollar bill.

"And some lucky girl got to suck his cock, huh? You're aiding the oppression of the masses, Timothy."

"Ouch, you are a little sensitive this morning. I'm a humble cabdriver, a tool of the establishment, a lackey for the moneyed classes. My conscience does bother me for that shit."

"Quiet," Liza ordered and picked at an oat that had wedged in her teeth.

"You've been watching this drama every day?"

"Before work, yeah. At night they run highlights

from the days testimony, so I catch what I missed when I get home/ 7

They watched in silence for a while. The camera followed Eisenberg, who paced the courtroom as he challenged a witness. Occasionally it flashed a picture of Barbara Hoffman, visible only in profile, alone at the defense table, jotting notes on a legal pad or listening intently to the proceedings.

Barbara appeared a different person on the screen, Liza thought. So rigid and self-contained. Barbara had always been introverted, almost withdrawn, except when zonked on Quaaludes. Then her personality flipped and her characteristics were reversed. She was transformed from self-enclosed to supremely uninhibited. Liza recalled several notorious photography sessions at a studio on East Johnson Street.

At 817 East Johnson was the Whole Earth Co-op. Mandalas and crystals and cast-iron frying pans shared the window display. Inside, people wearing Birkenstok sandals and tie-dyed T-shirts sold organic vegetables, incense, whole grains, books on psychic healing, tofu, mineral water. An alleyway next to the co-op led to a guitar repair shop. A stairway turned up, and on the second floor were huge looms and the Weaving Workshop. Their neighbor had a blue door with a sign that notified the public that only persons eighteen years or older were permitted entrance. Inside the blue door was a dark hallway and rooms where men snapped pictures of women, often young girls who had run away from home. The girls would dance, wrestle, make love—whatever was the fantasy.

Barbara had participated in these photography sessions. She liked to show Liza pictures and describe the entire lurid show. She'd tell what she did and with whom and for how long and how much the exhibition earned. It was like listening to a little girl retell a playground adventure.

Liza shivered. She didn't want to go back to those days anymore, not even in her head.

"What's the problem? Beer and granola a lousy mix?"

"It's nothing/ 7 said Liza.

"You re very secretive today."

"I didn't sleep well, I guess. Too humid."

"Maybe you should take a nap before work."

Liza didn't appreciate Tims suggestive tone. On the tube Burr and Eisenberg were bickering about the admissibility of certain evidence.

"Lets me and you go to bed," Tim said directly.

"It's too hot."

"So what? It's going to be hot for two months."

"Then I'll be celibate for two months."

"We don't have to make a big production of it."

It never has been a big production, Liza thought. The Marxist-Leninist might be able to spout a fervent ideology, but he rarely lasted more than a few passionate minutes in bed before expending his energies and drifting off to sleep. Polemicists are crummy lovers, she had concluded after affairs with a couple of leftists in town.

She really didn't know why she bothered with Tim. Maybe because his tirades against the capitalist system amused her, reinforced her notion of victimization.

"A little nap, a little love," he said.

"I'm watching the trial," she replied. "And let's not mistake what we do for love."

"Enough. I can see that I hold no emotional or even utilitarian value for you."

"Not at the moment."

Tim tossed his beer can into the garbage bag in the kitchen. Dirty plates and an empty pizza box were stacked on the counter, to the delight of a yellow jacket that buzzed in through a screenless window.

An hour later Liza had completely forgotten her visitor and wondered how the warm, half-full can of beer had come to sit next to her chair. She heard the tinkling of

bicycle bells as children pedaled down the sidewalk.

Barbaras hair had been cut short and curled. She wore a blouse with frills. When she turned and glanced at the camera, it was the image of a little girl, fragile and innocent, that Liza saw.

— 8—

On Monday, June 23rd, the jury learned about cyanide.

Kenneth Kempfert of the state crime lab testified that he was given blood, urine, brain, liver, kidney, and stomach samples from the Davies autopsy to examine. The materials were tested for "every possible drug and poison I could think of/' he recalled. One week later he rechecked for cyanide and the mystery of Daviess death was solved.

Daviess body contained two micrograms, or twice the lethal dose of cyanide. One microgram per milliliter constituted a lethal dosage. This was an extremely small quantity. "A microgram is perhaps equivalent in weight to a small segment of a piece of hair, or less," Kempfert said. Small traces of Valium, not exceeding a therapeutic dose, were also found in Daviess bloodstream.

Stomach contents taken from Berge were retrieved and subjected to infrared spectrophotometry. Cyanide again showed its destructive hand. Berge's body contained over thirty-seven times the lethal dose.

Dr. William J. Bauman, the pathologist who did the autopsies and signed the death certificates for Berge and Davies, provided expert medical testimony. He educated the jury about cyanide: ". . . it is a popular conception that you take cyanide and you immediately drop dead, and that isn't true in most cases."

The chemical was extremely deadly because it inhibited the oxidation processes in the body's cells. A victim of cyanide poisoning suffocated, suffering pulmonary aspiration and hemorrhaging in the lungs. Death was neither pleasant nor instantaneous. Heart palpitations and giddi-

ness were the first indications of trouble, followed by a headache and convulsions as the victim struggled for breath. Vomiting often occurred, then expiration as the body was robbed of its ability to get oxygen. These symptoms could extend from two to seven minutes, and if there was food in the stomach a full twenty minutes could pass before the body began its fatal dance. It was an ugly and painful way to die.

Cyanide had a distinctive taste and smell, both of which could be masked from the victim by combining it with food. At an autopsy the pathologist had to check specifically for the chemical to discern its presence. However, there could be hints of its existence. Cyanide could smell like burnt or bitter almonds, and most pathologists would detect the odor when they examined the stomach. "You could kill yourself doing the autopsy if you smelled too much of it," Bauman said. But one-quarter of the population did not register the smell of burnt almonds, and Bauman coincidentally fit that category, and hence the smell eluded him twice.

Furthermore, if there was no food in the stomach, cyanide would leave a cherry color in the stomach contents; when food was present, the coloration did not appear. Thus it was not an accident that Berge and Davies died after eating large meals.

Harry Berge and Jerry Davies were the first two cases of homicide due to cyanide poisoning ever recorded in Wisconsin.

Bauman was at Tomahawk Ridge when Berge's body was uncovered. He described for the jury its frozen condition and the obvious indications of severe trauma to the head and genitals. These blunt-force injuries were inflicted before death. When the corpse had thawed sufficiently to examine, an assortment of minor lacerations was noted—scratches and bruises to the limbs and torso—and these were classified as postmortem inflictions. The abrasions suffered after death were consistent with the banging a body might incur from being dragged down stairs.

The eerie scene in Daviess bathroom was recounted.

Bauman remembered his bafflement at the apparent lack of any external or internal injury. The deterioration of Daviess body—the lips were desiccated, the eyes were drying out, the palm beneath the water was shriveled— made it difficult to estimate accurately a time of death. But the pathologist felt confident that 5:00 to 7:00 p.m. Saturday was a reasonable approximation.

In cross-examination Eisenberg asked questions about size and leverage. Both bodies had been moved some distance after their deaths, and neither body exhibited any rope burns or any other signs that an artificial device had been used to help transport them, so what accounted for their movement? Berge was 5'9" and weighed 155 pounds. Davies was 5'10" and weighed 170 pounds. Yet Barbara Hoffman was only 5'6" and weighed 110 pounds. How could she have moved them?

Burr objected, but Bauman was instructed to answer. It would have been very difficult, he conceded.

Under Eisenberg's persistent questioning Bauman admitted that though Daviess death had the look and feel of a murder it could have been a suicide. The defense lawyer grinned.

Eisenberg's smile, however, did not survive the day. In the afternoon Ken Curtis took the witness stand.

In a case comprised of innumerable and tiny bits and pieces, a case of incriminating circumstances and impossible coincidences, a case where the murder weapon was an insidious intellect and a chemical that dissolved in the bloodstream—elements irretrievable and unavailable for the jury's inspection—in a case devoid of fingerprints and eyewitness accounts, in a case fragile, elusive, and circumspect, Ken Curtiss testimony was crucial to the prosecution. He was the states main witness, and his singular importance was a cause of dire consternation to Burr and Spencer.

They had no reason to trust Curtis. Would he equivocate on the stand? Would his memory cloud and fade now that he had gotten the deal for Cerro?

Eisenberg, the prosecution feared, was the perfect foil