by D. W. Buffa
“In ... I believe it’s the fifth photograph—the one taken of the victim lying on her back next to the pool— would you describe the mark that is clearly visible across her throat?”
With his left arm trailing across the arm of the witness chair, Crenshaw leaned toward the juror holding the photographs.
“The mark you refer to is a gash that runs from just below her left ear all the way across her throat to just below her right ear.”
“In other words, Detective Crenshaw, her throat was slashed?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” he replied, turning his attention to her.
“With a knife?”
“With a sharp instrument of some sort; but, yes, probably a knife.”
“We’ll hear from the coroner a little later about the exact cause of death,” said Van Roten, with a brief glance toward the jury. “But so far as you could tell, is that how she died?”
It was almost choreographed, the way his eyes followed hers to the jury.
“Yes; no question about it. Her throat was slashed, her larynx severed. It was a deep wound, as deep as any I’ve ever seen. It took some strength to do that, and some leverage as well.”
“Leverage?” she asked, wheeling around as if this last remark was something of a surprise instead of something they had doubtless gone over again and again until they had it just right.
Crenshaw pointed toward the juror in the back row of the jury box who now had possession of the photographs.
“You’ll notice that a silk stocking was wrapped around her neck, just above where her throat was cut. You’ll also notice in one of the other photographs a bruise in the spinal area of her lower back. It appears that her killer held her from behind, holding onto the stocking with one hand, his knee against the small of her back, while he used his other hand—his right hand—to cut her throat.”
“His right hand? How can you be sure of that?” asked Van Roten, turning until she was standing square in front of the jury box, her dark eyes blazing.
“Because of the angle of the wound, and because of the direction in which the larynx collapsed.”
“You’ve testified that there was blood in the swimming pool. Was there blood anywhere else?”
“Yes, on the cement deck next to the pool.”
“Did that blood also belong to the victim?”
“Yes.”
“And was that the only other place in which you found traces of blood?”
“No. We found blood on some clothing as well.”
“On clothing belonging to the victim, Mary Margaret Flanders?”
“No,” replied Crenshaw, turning to the jury. “We found blood on clothing belonging to the defendant, Stanley Roth.”
“One last question, Detective Crenshaw. You knew the victim, Mary Margaret Flanders, didn’t you?”
“I was a consultant on a movie she made a couple years ago. I did not know her well; but, yes, I knew her.”
Van Roten glanced at Stanley Roth and then looked back at the witness.
“And did you know the defendant, Stanley Roth, as well?”
“Yes. It was his picture.”
I was on my feet the moment Annabelle Van Roten finished her examination of the witness, asking my first question before Judge Honigman could inquire whether I had anything I wanted to ask.
“That was it?” I asked with an incredulous grin. “A few bloodstains on the cement decking of the pool and blood on the clothing you claim belonged to the defendant?”
Richard Crenshaw rested his elbows on the arms of the witness chair and turned up his palms.
“As I testified,” he said in that well-modulated voice, “we found blood belonging to the victim on the cement next to the pool, and we found blood belonging to the victim on clothing belonging to the defendant.”
I tapped the corner of the table with the fingers of my left hand, and then, as if I had just become aware of a bad habit I was determined to break, shoved offending hand into my coat pocket and stepped away from the table.
“You’re sure? Blood next to the pool, and blood on the clothing you describe as belonging to the defendant? That is your testimony?”
Crenshaw crossed his ankle over his knee and clasped it with his hand.
“Yes,” he replied warily, wondering if he might have missed something in the question or in the way I was asking it.
“Nowhere else?”
“No.”
I lowered my eyes as I moved to the front of the counsel table. I was just a step from the jury box.
“You testified that when you first arrived, the body of the victim—Mary Margaret Flanders—was floating face down in the swimming pool.” I glanced up. “You testified—I think I remember the words exactly—that the water was like a ‘red cloud.’ That was the phrase you used, wasn’t it—a ‘red cloud’?”
“Yes, I believe that is what I said.”
“And I take it you meant that there was a great deal of blood—the victim’s blood—in the water, correct?”
He nodded grimly and waited for the next question.
“You also testified that the victim’s throat had been slashed, slashed with such force that her larynx had been cut. You testified, I believe—and I think I remember your words exactly—that this had taken not only considerable strength but leverage as well. Is that what you said?”
Crenshaw let go of his ankle, planted both feet on the floor and bent forward.
“Yes, that’s what I said,” he agreed.
“From the pictures you identified—the ones passed around the jury box,” I added with a brief grimace, “it’s a fair observation, is it not, that the victim had lost a great deal of blood?”
“I wouldn’t quarrel with that observation at all.”
“Yet the only blood you found—other of course than the blood in the pool itself—was on the deck next to the pool and on some clothing you found... . Where exactly did you find that clothing?” I asked, staring hard at him.
“In the laundry hamper in the bathroom off the master bedroom.”
I looked down at the floor, rubbing the back of my neck.
“Yes ... in the laundry hamper ... in the bathroom ... off the master bedroom.”
My hand on the railing of the jury box, I looked again at the witness.
“Well, I suppose that is in keeping with the defendant’s extraordinary attention to good housekeeping.” Lifting an eyebrow, I turned slightly to the side. “He murders his wife—slashes her throat—there’s blood everywhere, all over his clothes, and yet, somehow, he manages to get all the way from the side of the pool where he killed her, across the deck, through the house, up the stairs, down the hall, into the bedroom and then into the bathroom. And he does it all so carefully that he doesn’t allow so much as a single miniscule drop to fall from his blood-soaked clothes onto the floor, onto the carpet; not even, please notice, onto any part of the exterior of the laundry hamper in which you claim to have found them!”
“Claimed to have found them!” exclaimed Annabelle Van Roten as she jumped out of her chair. Her dark eyes flashed anger and incredulity. Shaking her head, she turned from me toward the bench. “Counsel has not established any kind of foundation to make that kind of insinuation!”
Honigman’s eyes came round to me. Before he could say anything, I asked: “Detective Crenshaw, did anyone see you find the clothing where you said you found it?”
“No. I searched the bedroom area alone. When I found the clothing with the blood on it I put it in an evidence bag myself.”
“And the reason you made this search is because, as you testified earlier, you were the first detective on the scene?”
“Yes. I did not want to wait. I didn’t know what—or who—might still be in the house; and I wanted to make sure that if there was any evidence in the house it would not be interfered with.”
“And you went to the bedroom because the victim was found naked in the pool, and you assumed for that reason that she must have undressed somewhere and
the bedroom would be the most logical place?”
“Yes, basically that’s right.”
“Would it be fair to say that you were very much on the alert as you moved through the house, checking for anything that might have some value—some evidentiary value—in helping solve the crime you were there to investigate?”
Crenshaw followed me with his eyes. “Yes, it would be fair to say so,” he replied cautiously.
“Then when you found that clothing covered with the victim’s blood you must have been completely mystified, weren’t you?”
“Mystified?”
“Yes, mystified. It is what I said before, Detective Crenshaw: all that blood, the victim’s blood, all over the clothing, and despite looking everywhere you did not find a single drop anywhere between the place where the body was found and the laundry hamper. Didn’t that mystify you, Detective Crenshaw? Didn’t you wonder how someone could get blood all over his clothing from slashing a woman’s throat and not leave a trace of it anywhere while he raced through the house, ran upstairs, took off what he was wearing and tossed it the laundry hamper where, according to your testimony, you claim you found it?”
He was shaking his head, ready to dismiss out of hand the suggestion that there was anything unusual in the absence of blood between where the murder had occurred and where the clothing had been found. I did not give him the chance. I asked a question that stopped him cold.
“At exactly what time was the clothing put in that laundry hamper?”
His face went blank. He shifted uneasily in the chair. Biting on the inside of his lip, he made a brief, failed attempt at calculation.
“She had been dead for a few hours when we got there, so... ”
“No, Detective Crenshaw,” I interjected, “not what time was the victim killed: what time was the clothing put in the place you say you found it?”
Convinced I must be confused, he tried to clarify things for me.
“The clothing was put there right after the murder,” explained Crenshaw in a patronizing voice. “The defendant killed her, ran upstairs to the bedroom, got out of his clothing and tried to clean up. That’s why there wasn’t any blood anywhere else: He went directly to the bathroom and took off his clothes.”
“You’re here to offer evidence, Detective Crenshaw, not to give us your opinion about what you think the jury’s verdict ought to be. Now, once more: What evidence—what facts—can you give us concerning the exact time the clothing you found was put in the laundry hamper? It must have been sometime after the murder, correct? They might have been put there hours after the murder, isn’t that true?”
Angry and frustrated that I was twisting things out of context, he vigorously shook his head.
“No, you’re wrong. It’s a reasonable inference from all the facts and circumstances of the case. She was murdered. He was the only one—other than the maid— in the house. Her blood was found on his clothing, and his clothing was found in the laundry hamper where I said I found it!”
“Move to strike, Your Honor!” I demanded, wheeling around until I was face to face with the judge. “The witness is here to testify about what he has observed, not the inferences he claims to have drawn from those observations.”
Honigman’s eyes darted toward Annabelle Van Roten. She rose slowly from her chair, a measured smile pasted on her mouth.
“I’m sure the witness would answer directly any question Mr. Antonelli cares to ask, if he would ever ask one.” She arched her slender neck. Her fingers grazed the edge of the table below her. “I must say, Mr. Antonelli seems at times more interested in asking rhetorical questions than in hearing what the witness might have to say.” The smile, faint and obscure, became thoughtful and almost seductive. “He has, it is true, quite the most wonderful voice I’ve ever heard; which I suppose is the reason he seems never to tire of listening to himself speak.”
In the unspoken competition for the sympathy and respect of the jury, Annabelle Van Roten had just struck a blow. I had to do something.
“Do you really like my voice?” I asked hopefully. Her face reddened, though just slightly, and her dark eyes smoldered. She looked away, trying to ignore me; but I kept staring at her, waiting with a kind of boyish eagerness, as if I had to know whether she had really meant it. She threw me a contemptuous glance, and turned to the judge.
“One last time, Detective Crenshaw. You did not yourself observe the defendant place the clothing into the laundry hamper, did you?”
Her fists clenched petulantly at her sides, Annabelle Van Roten stamped her foot.
“Your Honor!”
Honigman had turned to watch the witness.
“Yes?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.
“You haven’t ruled on my objection,” explained Van Roten.
“You didn’t make one,” said the judge as he swung round to face her. “Mr. Antonelli moved to strike. You made a response.” A formal smile, the kind a physician might use to tell a patient that there is nothing wrong, crept over his mouth. “Your response must have been persuasive: By asking the next question Mr. Antonelli has, sub silentio, withdrawn the motion.”
Honigman’s face fairly glowed. In the heat of the moment, Annabelle Van Roten had forgotten that she had not made an objection and I had forgotten that I had ever made a motion. But we were in a manner saved from our mutual mistakes by the vanity of a judge who could not wait to invoke one of those phrases the law employs because it sounds so much more impressive in Latin than it does in English.
“Sub silentio,” I repeated gravely, like someone grateful to have been understood exactly the way he meant to be understood. “Yes, precisely. Now, Detective Crenshaw,” I said, shifting my attention back to the witness, “if you would be so kind. Did you observe the defendant place the clothing in question into the laundry hamper?”
Crenshaw’s eyes were sullen, observant, engaged in a game of watchful waiting. He listened carefully, weighing each word in the hope of finding something he could use as a weapon.
“I observed the clothing; I observed the blood on the clothing.”
I stood squarely in front of the jury box, gazing down the two rows of faces flattened in my vision into a single, crowded tier. I smiled to myself.
“You didn’t observe the defendant put them there, though, did you?” I asked softly.
“No,” I heard him answer.
“You found the bloody clothing belonging to the defendant in the laundry hamper in the bathroom of the bedroom,” I said, gazing at the faces in front of me.
“Where did you find the knife, the weapon which the killer used to slash the throat of Mary Margaret Flanders? Was that also in the laundry hamper?”
“No, it was not in the laundry hamper.”
Slowly, deliberately, I peered into the eyes of first one juror, then the next.
“Then where did you find it?”
Crenshaw cleared his throat, the only sound in the silence a creaking echo as he changed position in the leather witness chair.
“The murder weapon was never found,” admitted Crenshaw, doing his best to dismiss it as a matter of little importance.
I kept looking at the jury, staring into their eyes, telling them by the way I looked at them that Crenshaw was wrong and that he knew it; that the failure to find the murder weapon was a matter of the greatest importance and that they should not forget it. I put my hand on the jury box railing and lowered my gaze, smiling again to myself like someone enjoying a private joke of his own.
“So you didn’t find the knife? You didn’t find it in the laundry hamper? You didn’t find it anywhere in the house?”
“As I said,” replied Crenshaw with an air of undisturbed confidence, “the murder weapon has not been located.”
Furrowing my brow, I shook my head like someone who has suddenly realized that what had seemed so simple and straightforward is actually complicated and even confusing. My hand still on the railing, I stood straight up and looked right at him.
“But you are convinced—as you were so eager to testify just a few minutes ago—that the defendant is the one who put the bloody clothing in the laundry hamper, where even the most cursory search of the premises would find them?”
“Yes, I am,” replied Crenshaw without hesitation, seizing on the opportunity to repeat his opinion that Stanley Roth had murdered his wife.
“It’s puzzling, isn’t it, Detective Crenshaw? If you’re right, Stanley Roth murdered his wife, tossed his bloodstained clothing just about the first place anyone would look, but then took such great care, went to such great lengths, to dispose of the murder weapon that despite all their efforts the police still haven’t found it. Don’t you find that just a little strange, Detective Crenshaw? That a man would go to such trouble to hide some of the evidence of his crime and at the same time almost go out of his way to make certain that other evidence of his crime would be found?” I asked in rapid-fire succession. “Isn’t that just about the strangest, most inexplicable conduct you’ve ever seen in all your years as a homicide detective?”
“Your Honor!” shouted Annabelle Van Roten from her chair. “How many questions does he get to ask before the witness is given a chance to answer?”
“I apologize, Your Honor,” I said before Honigman could answer. “I was going too fast.” I turned back to the witness.
“Let me try again, Detective Crenshaw. How do you explain the inconsistency: that someone would carefully hide a murder weapon but leave bloodstained clothing the first place anyone would look for it?”
By now he had had enough time to think about it. He thought he had an answer. In a smooth, fluid motion he turned his shoulders until his gaze rested on the jury.
“This was not a murder planned very far in advance, if it was planned at all. Whatever reason Mary Margaret Flanders was killed, she was killed in a hurry, and... ”
“And answer my question, Detective Crenshaw! I did not ask about your theory of the case.”
His head swung around until his eyes met mine.
“You asked me to explain how he could hide the knife and not hide the clothing. It could have happened any number of ways. Think about all the things that go through the mind of a killer just after he’s murdered someone—all the fear, all the emotion, the rush... . Yes, I know, it’s not the kind of thing we like to talk about, but it’s true. You’ve just killed someone; your heart is beating like a hammer; you can’t hear anything; you can’t see anything. The only thing you know is what you’ve done; the only thing you think about is what you have to do next.”
