Tommy inhaled deeply. He had no idea how to assault this testimony. Mostly, because it was true. He knew that within a few moments, the prosecution would have painted an important brush stroke of their case—that on the night of Trader Vic’s death, Lincoln Scott was out and about, not pathetically shivering in his bunk beneath a thin, gray German-issue blanket, dreaming of home, food, and freedom like almost all the captive men in the South Compound.
He bit his lower lip, as Captain Townsend slowly began to question the witness. In that second, he thought the trial a bit like standing in the sand on the beach, just where the froth of the surf plays out, right at the point where the nearly spent force of the wave can still pull and tug at the sand, making everything unstable and unsteady beneath the feet. The prosecution’s case was like the undertow, slowly dragging everything solid away, and right at that moment, he had no real idea how to put Lincoln Scott back on firm earth.
Shortly after midday, Walker Townsend called Major Clark to the witness stand. He was the final name on the prosecution’s list of witnesses and, Tommy suspected, would be the most dramatic. For all of Clark’s blustery anger, Tommy still suspected him of having a streak of composure that would emerge on the stand. It would be the same sort of composure that had allowed the major to steer his crippled, burning B-17, with only a single engine functioning, to a safe landing in a farmer’s field in the Alsace, saving the lives of most of his crew.
When his name was called out by the Virginian, Major Clark rose swiftly from his seat at the prosecution’s table. Back ramrod straight, he crossed the theater quickly, seizing the Bible that was proffered and swearing loudly to tell the truth. He then sat in the witness chair, eagerly awaiting Townsend’s first question.
Tommy watched the major closely. There are some men, he thought, who managed to wear their imprisonment with a rigid, military sense of decorum; Clark’s uniform was worn, patched, and tattered in numerous places after eighteen months at Stalag Luft Thirteen, but the way it draped on his bantamweight frame made it seem as if it were newly cleaned and pressed. Major Clark was a small man, with a hard face, humorless and stiff, and there was little doubt in Tommy’s mind that he was a man who had narrowed his course through the world down into the twin requirements of duty and bravery. He would acquire the one and perform the other with a complete singleness of purpose.
“Major Clark,” Captain Townsend asked, “tell the court how it was that you came to this prisoner-of-war camp?”
The major bent forward, ready to begin his explanation, just as every other kriegie witness had, when Tommy arose. “Objection!” he said.
Colonel MacNamara eyed him. “And what might that be?” he inquired cynically.
“Major Clark is a member of the prosecution. I would think that fact alone would preclude him from testifying in this matter, colonel.”
MacNamara shook his head. “Probably back home, yes. But here, due to the exigencies and uniqueness of our situation, I will allow both sides some latitude in who they call to the stand. Major Clark’s role in the case was more akin to investigating officer. Objection is overruled.”
“Then I have a second objection, colonel.”
MacNamara looked slightly exasperated. “And that would be what, lieutenant?”
“I would object to Major Clark describing the history of his arrival here. Major Clark’s courage on the battlefield is not at issue. The only point it serves is to create an exaggerated sense of credibility for the major. But, as the colonel is well aware, brave men are capable of lying, just as easily as cowards are, sir.”
MacNamara glared at Tommy. Major Clark’s face was set and hard. Tommy knew the major would take what he had just said as an insult, which was precisely what he had intended.
The colonel took a deep breath before replying.
“Do not reach beyond your grasp, lieutenant. Objection remains overruled. Captain, please continue.”
Walker Townsend smiled briefly. “I would think that the tribunal might censure the lieutenant, sir, for impugning the integrity of a brother officer. . . .”
“Just continue, captain,” MacNamara growled.
Townsend nodded, and turned back to Major Clark.
“Tell us, please, major, how you happened to arrive here.”
Tommy sat back, listening closely, as Major Clark described the bombing raid that resulted in his plane crash-landing. Clark was neither boasting nor modest. What he was was accurate, disciplined, and precise. At one point, he declined to describe the B-17’s ability to maneuver on one engine, because, he said, that information was technical and might serve the enemy. He said this and gestured toward Heinrich Visser. One thing did emerge that Tommy found intriguing, if not critical. It turned out that Visser was the major’s first interrogator, before being released into the camp. Visser had been the man asking questions that Clark refused to answer, questions about the capabilities of the aircraft and strategies of the air corps. These had been standard questions, and all fliers knew to answer solely with their name, rank, and serial number. They also knew that the men who demanded these answers were security police, regardless of how they identified themselves. But what Tommy found interesting was that Clark, and therefore the other high-ranking members of the American camp, were well aware of Visser’s dual allegiances.
Tommy snuck a glance at the one-armed German. Visser was listening intently to Major Clark.
“So, major,” Walker Townsend suddenly boomed, “did there come a time when, as part of your official duties, you were called to investigate the murder of Captain Vincent Bedford?”
Tommy swung his eyes over to the witness. Here it comes, he thought to himself.
“Yes. Correct.”
“Tell us how that came about.”
For a moment, Major Clark turned toward the defense table, fixing Tommy, then Lincoln Scott, with a harsh, unforgiving glare. Then, slowly, he launched into his story, lifting his voice, so that it coursed past Captain Townsend, and reached out to every kriegie in the audience, and all those hanging by the windows and doors. Clark described being awakened in the predawn hours by the ferret’s alarm—he did not identify Fritz Number One as the ferret who discovered the body—and how he had carefully entered the Abort and first seen Vincent Bedford’s corpse. He told the assembly that the very first and only suspect had been Lincoln Scott, based on the prior bad blood, animosity, and fights between the two men. He also told how he had spotted the telltale crimson blood spatters on the toes of Scott’s flight boots and on the left-hand shoulder and sleeve of his leather jacket, when the black airman had been confronted in Commandant Von Reiter’s office. The other elements of the case, Clark said, fell into place rapidly. Trader Vic’s roommates had told of Scott’s construction of the murder weapon, and informed him about the hiding place beneath the floorboards where it had been concealed.
Clark stitched each element of the prosecution’s case into a single tapestry. He spoke at length, steadily, persuasively, with bulldoglike determination, as he gave context to all the other witnesses. Tommy did not object to the major’s words, nor to the damning portrait he created. He knew one thing: The major, for all his stiffness and military rigidity, was a fighter, much like Lincoln Scott. If Tommy battled him on every point, with a series of objections, he would respond like an athlete; each little struggle would only serve to make him stronger and more determined to reach the goal.
But cross-examination was a different matter.
As Major Clark finished his testimony, Tommy lay in wait, feeling for all the world like a cobra in the high grass. He knew what he was required to do. One single weakness in the steady, convincing story the major told. Just attack that one critical point and expose it for a lie, then the rest will crumble. At least that was what he hoped, and he knew where he was going to strike. Had known since the first minute he’d examined the evidence.
He stole a sideways glance over at Scott. The black airman was fingering the stub of the pencil again. Tom
my watched as Scott suddenly took the pencil and wrote on one of the precious scrap pieces of paper the single word: Why.
It was a good question, Tommy thought. One that still eluded him.
“One last question, Major Clark,” Walker Townsend was saying. “Do you have any personal animosity toward Lieutenant Scott, or toward members of the Negro race, in general?”
“Objection!”
Colonel MacNamara nodded toward Tommy Hart.
“The lieutenant is correct, captain,” he admonished Townsend. “The question is self-serving and irrelevant.”
Captain Townsend smiled. “Well, perhaps self-serving, colonel,” he responded. “But hardly irrelevant, I would wager.” He said this as he turned toward the audience, playing the moment for the assembled kriegies. It was not necessary for Major Clark to have answered the question. Merely by asking it, Townsend had answered it for him.
“Do you have other questions, captain?” MacNamara asked.
“No sir!” Townsend replied, snapping his words like a salute. “Your witness, lieutenant.”
Tommy rose slowly, moving out from behind the defense’s table with patience. He looked over at Major Clark and saw that the witness was sitting forward in his seat, eagerly anticipating the first question.
“Do you have, major, any particular expertise in criminal investigations?”
Major Clark paused, before responding.
“No, lieutenant. But every senior officer in the army is accustomed to investigating disputes and conflicts between men under our command. We are trained to determine the truth in these situations. A murder, while unusual, is merely an extension of a dispute. The process is the same.”
“Quite an extension, I’d say.”
Major Clark shrugged.
“So, you have no police training?” Tommy continued. “You’ve never been taught how to examine a crime scene, have you?”
“No. Correct.”
“And you do not have any special expertise in the collection and interpretation of evidence, do you?”
Major Clark hesitated, then answered forcefully. “I have no special expertise, no. But this case did not require any. It was cut and dried, right from the start.”
“So you say.”
“Correct, again, lieutenant. So I say.”
Major Clark’s face had reddened slightly, and his feet were no longer flat on the floor, but lifted slightly at the heels, almost as if he were about to spring up. Tommy took a moment to read the major’s face and body, and he thought the man wary but confident. Tommy moved over to Scott and Renaday and whispered to the Canadian, “Let me have those drawings, now.”
Hugh pulled out from beneath the table the three crime-scene sketches that Phillip Pryce’s Irish artist friend had drawn. He handed them to Tommy. “Nail the pompous bastard,” he whispered, perhaps just loud enough for any kriegie with keen hearing to understand.
“Major Clark,” Tommy said loudly, “I am going to show you three drawings. The first shows the wounds in Captain Bedford’s neck and hands. The second shows how his body was located in the Abort stall. The third is a diagram of the Abort itself. Please examine these, and tell me if you think they fairly represent what you yourself saw on the morning following the murder.”
Walker Townsend was on his feet. “I’d like to see those,” he demanded.
Tommy thrust the three drawings at Major Clark, then gestured toward the captain. “You can look over his shoulder, captain. But I do not recall your presence at the Abort crime scene, so I would question your ability to determine the accuracy of these pictures.”
Townsend scowled and walked behind Major Clark. Both men examined each drawing carefully. Tommy saw Captain Townsend bend over slightly, and start to speak in the major’s ear.
“Don’t speak to the witness!” he shouted. His words creased the still air of the makeshift courtroom. Tommy stepped forward angrily, pointing a finger in Townsend’s face. “You have had your opportunity with the witness, and now it is my turn for cross-examination. Don’t try to advise him in the middle of my cross!”
Townsend’s eyes were narrow, staring at Tommy Hart. Into this instant fury, Colonel MacNamara interjected himself, taking Tommy slightly by surprise by landing squarely on his side.
“The lieutenant is correct, captain. We need to maintain correct trial procedure as much as humanly possible. You will have a second opportunity under redirect. Now step back, and let the lieutenant continue, although, Mr. Hart, I’d like to see those drawings myself.”
Tommy nodded, handing them up to MacNamara, who also took his time to inspect them.
“They fit with my recollection,” he said. “Now, Major Clark, answer the question.”
Clark shrugged. “I would concur, colonel. They seem accurate enough.”
“Take your time,” Tommy said. “I wouldn’t want there to be some obvious error.”
Clark glanced at the drawings again. “They appear quite skillfully drawn,” he said. “My compliments to the artist.”
Tommy took the three drawings, then held them up above his head, so that the audience could see what he was speaking about.
“That won’t be necessary,” MacNamara growled, speaking before Walker Townsend had a moment to object.
Tommy smiled. “Of course,” he said to the colonel. Then he turned back to Major Clark. “Major, based on your examination of the crime scene in the Abort, based on your inspection of Trader Vic’s body, and based on your collection of the evidence in this case, would you please tell the court precisely how you contend this particular murder took place?”
Tommy pivoted, leaning back against the defense table, half-sitting, crossing his arms and waiting for the major to tell his tale, trying to impose an attitude of disbelief in his stance. Internally, he was nervous about the question. Phillip Pryce had long before burned into him the credo that no one ever asks a question in a trial that they do not know the response to, and here, he was asking Scott’s main accuser to take free rein and describe Trader Vic’s death. This, he knew, was something of a gamble. But he counted on Major Clark’s ego and pugnacity, and knew that the roosterlike officer would walk into the trap he’d set. He suspected the major didn’t see the danger in the crime scene sketches. And, Tommy presumed, the major had no idea that waiting in the wings was Nicholas Fenelli, the mortuary man and doctor-in-training, who would contradict everything Clark was about to say when Tommy called him to the stand and showed him the same pictures just as he had already done in Fenelli’s bare-bones infirmary. And in this conflict, Tommy thought, Scott’s insistent denials would take force and suddenly gain the wind of truth.
Clark paused, then said, “You want me to describe the killing?”
“Exactly. Just tell us how it happened. Based on your investigation, of course.”
Walker Townsend started to rise, then sat back down. He wore a small grin on his face.
“Very well,” Major Clark responded. “This is what I believe took place—”
Tommy interrupted. “A belief based on your interpretation of the evidence, correct?”
Major Clark snorted. “Yes. Exactly. May I continue?”
“Of course.”
“Well, Captain Bedford was, as everyone knows, a businessman. I contend that Lieutenant Scott saw Bedford arise from his bunk in the middle of the night in question. Bedford was clearly taking a risk going out after lights out, but he was a brave and determined man, especially when he saw a substantial reward. Moments later, using the light of a candle, Scott trailed after him, stalking him, his knife concealed beneath his coat, not knowing that he’d been spotted by others. I suppose if he’d known that, he might have changed his mind—”
“Well,” Tommy interjected, “that would be a guess on your part. Right? Not part of what the evidence tells you?”
Major Clark nodded. “Of course. You are correct, lieutenant. I shall try to restrict myself from further suppositions.”
“That would be helpfu
l. Now,” Tommy said, “he trails him outside . . .”
“Precisely, lieutenant. Scott trailed Bedford into the Abort, where they confronted each other. Because they were inside that building, no sound they made when they fought penetrated into the rooms in Huts 101 or 102.”
“That would be a wonderfully convenient absence of noise,” Tommy interjected again. He couldn’t help himself. The major’s pompous know-it-all tone of voice was too irritating to let pass. Major Clark scowled back at him.
“Lieutenant, whether it was convenient or not, I wouldn’t know. I do know that questioning of men in the adjacent huts revealed no one who heard the noise from the fight. It was late. People were asleep.”
“Yes,” Tommy said. He wanted to say “thank you.” “Please continue.”
“Using the blade he’d fashioned, Scott stabbed Captain Bedford in the throat. Then he thrust the murdered man back into the sixth stall, where the body was subsequently discovered. Then, unaware his clothes were stained with blood, he made his way back to the bunk room. End of story, lieutenant. Cut and dried, like I said.”
Major Clark smiled. “Next question,” he added.
Tommy straightened up. “Show me,” he said.
“Show you?”
“Show all of us how this fight happened, major. Take the knife. You be Scott. I’ll be Bedford.”
Major Clark rose eagerly. Captain Townsend thrust the knife toward him. The major gestured at Tommy. “Stand here,” he said. Then he took a position a few feet away, holding the knife in his hand as one would hold a sword. Then, in slow motion, he made a fake slash at Tommy’s throat. “Of course,” the major said, “you are considerably taller than Captain Bedford, and I’m not as tall as Lieutenant Scott, so . . .”
“Maybe we should reverse positions?” Tommy said.
“Fine,” Major Clark responded. He handed Tommy the knife.
“Like so?” Tommy asked, mimicking the mannerisms that the major had just displayed.
“Yes. That would be accurate,” the major said. He wore a smile as he portrayed the victim. Tommy turned toward Captain Townsend.
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