Trick Question

by Tony Dunbar

  “What are you doing, Mr. Dubonnet? That issue was already disposed of pretrial.”

  “I’m just trying to protect the record, judge,” Tubby said seriously.

  “Well, there’s protecting the record and then there’s just jacking off,” Stifflemire growled.

  “Yes sir.” Tubby coughed and, conscious of the jury’s eyes on his back, nodded vigorously in agreement.

  Dismissed, both lawyers hiked back to their tables. Snedley had a big grin on his face.

  The jurors shifted around and exchanged glances. They hoped something good was coming.

  “Did you run his record through the computer?” Snedley asked the policeman.

  “I did.”

  “What did you find?”

  “The defendant has been convicted of distribution of a controlled substance. He was sentenced to three years, of which he served one year and six months at the P. G. T. Beauregard Correctional Institute in Bogalusa.”

  His back to the judge, Snedley rolled his eyes for the jury’s benefit. “Did you determine that such drugs were kept in the Moskowitz lab?”

  “Objection, leading,” Tubby piped up.

  “Sustained. Try again, Mr. Snedley.”

  “Did you search the laboratory, and if so what did you find?”

  “A large quantity of controlled substances, including phenobarbital-like substances.”

  “Oh, sure,” Tubby complained. “Now he knows what to say.”

  “I think he could figure it out for himself,” the DA said dryly.

  “Get on with it, gentlemen,” the judge said.

  “Where did you locate these phenobarbital-like substances?” Snedley asked.

  “In the freezer.”

  “That wasn’t in the police record,” Tubby whispered angrily to Cletus, who just looked back at him, in pain. “You didn’t tell me that.” Tubby kicked his client in the calf.

  “Did you determine whether Cletus Busters had ever had an altercation with Dr. Valentine?” Snedley wanted to know.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “By talking to his partner, Dr. Randolph Swincter.”

  “Objection! Pure hearsay.”

  “Mr. Snedley?” the judge inquired.

  “No problem, judge. We call Dr. Randolph Swincter to the stand.”

  “Hey.” Tubby laughed. “Don’t I get a cross-examination here?”

  The judge nodded, and Snedley sat down with a glare that said he did not like that rule.

  “Detective Porknoy,” Tubby began, slowly rising. He rested his hand on the shoulder of Cletus, who flinched. Tubby pulled his hand away quickly. “Wouldn’t you be agitated and excited if you had just discovered a dead body and saw the head go rolling around the floor?”

  “Objection, irrelevant,” Snedley cried out.

  “Sustained.”

  “Okay,” Tubby said calmly. “Detective, did you ever point-blank ask Mr. Busters whether he killed Dr. Valentine?”

  “Yes, and he denied it.”

  “He said he didn’t do it?”

  Behind Tubby’s back, Snedley was looking askance at the jury.

  “Yes,” Porknoy conceded.

  “When was the murder committed?”

  “On Friday night, near as we can tell.”

  “Did anyone claim to see Mr. Busters with Dr. Valentine that night?”

  “No.”

  “Did anyone hear a fight?”

  “Not that I could discover.”

  “Did you ever find the weapon?”

  “No.”

  “Did you find Dr. Valentine’s blood on any of the defendant’s clothing?”

  “Not the doctor’s blood, no.”

  “Someone else’s?”

  “We found some animal blood, which I figured -”

  “We don’t want to know what you figured,” Tubby interrupted quickly. “The jury does the figuring. You did not find any human blood in any way connected with this crime on the defendant or his clothing, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you investigate any other suspects in this case?”

  “None seriously. Our attention quickly focused on the defendant.”

  “You never looked elsewhere at all, did you? Not at the wife. Not -”

  “Objection,” the DA shouted.

  “Mr. Dubonnet, that’s going too far,” the judge admonished.

  “Your Honor, my point, which will become obvious when we put on our case, is that there are several others” – Tubby pivoted and took in the courtroom – “who had a motive to kill Dr. Valentine, far more of a motive than Cletus Busters had, but through shortsightedness the police did nothing to follow up on any of these obvious leads.”

  “Your Honor,” Snedley complained.

  “All well and good, when it’s your turn, Mr. Dubonnet, but you can’t get more from this witness. He already said he focused on Mr. Busters.”

  “Okay, Your Honor. Mr. Porknoy, you said the freezer compartment contained phenobarbital-like drugs.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you suggested Cletus may have killed Dr. Valentine to get the drugs.”

  “That’s right.”

  “The murder was on a Friday night?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the drugs were still there on Sunday?”

  Porknoy hesitated. “Yes…” he said, starting to look confused.

  “Well, why on earth, Detective, if taking drugs was the motive, would the defendant have stuffed the body in the freezer on Friday and waited all weekend to come back and get the drugs?”

  “Who knows what these voodoo doctors will do. Maybe he needed to go home and conjure up a spell.”

  “What?” Tubby yelled. “Objection to that answer as totally unresponsive.”

  “Sustained! Officer Porknoy, really. The jury will disregard all that.”

  “No more questions,” Tubby said, returning to the old oak chair beside Cletus.

  Porknoy heaved himself off the witness stand and threw Tubby a triumphant grin when he stalked past.

  “It’s late,” the judge announced, checking his watch to confirm that it was four fifteen. “Mr. Snedley, you can bring on your next witness when we reconvene at nine o’clock tomorrow. The jury may go back to the jury room and collect your belongings. Court is adjourned.”

  Bonk went the gavel.

  “All rise!” the bailiff bellowed.

  “Bad day for the good guys,” was the postmortem Tubby delivered while they waited for their meals. He had invited Flowers and Cherrylynn to join him for dinner at Franky and Johnny’s – a neighborhood restaurant uptown, where the air was light with garlic, cayenne, and tomato sauce – so they could go over the case together, but he didn’t really feel like talking.

  The waitress had brought the men Dixies, and a Heineken for Cherrylynn, who thought she had taste, and a platter of boiled crawfish for the table, bright red and breathing steam. At the bar a clean-up man gently applied a feather duster to the portrait of the founder. The framed jerseys of Joe Namath and Billy Martin on the wall silently reminded everybody that men who suffer big-time know how to enjoy a good meal. But for Tubby, normally at peace with the world, a positive attitude was hard to find tonight.

  “That was terrible, the way that disgusting policeman threw in that bit about voodoo,” Cherrylynn said angrily.

  “All my fault,” Tubby moaned, listlessly sucking a crawfish morsel from its moist peppery tail. He reached for his beer. “I should never have asked Porknoy a question that allowed him to say more than yes or no.”

  “He was going to say it, no matter what,” Flowers opined. “He’s that kind of a putz.”

  The waitress came with a tray and began passing around warm plates. Fried shrimp for Cherrylynn, pork chops and black-eyed peas for Flowers, and a big bowl of fragrant, rich, brown seafood gumbo and rice for Tubby, with a roast beef po-boy on the side, extra gravy.

  “I don’t see how the
y can convict him on the little bit of evidence the DA put on today,” his secretary said.

  “They can surely convict him.” Tubby tasted his gumbo and immediately felt its restorative effects. “But I’m revising my opinion. I don’t think they can give him the death penalty. The jury will have just a little nagging doubt. Our best angle is still to show that someone else had a motive.”

  “Trina, uh, Dr. Tessier and I spent a couple of hours going over Valentine’s professional writings,” Flowers said. “The man was quite a whiz where strange causes of death are concerned. He was a detective, really. But I didn’t see anything that looked the least bit relevant.”

  “What about the last project? The one he was working on at the time of his death?”

  “Not a trace. Very suspicious, huh?” Flowers said, and made his eyebrows wiggle. “Good pork chops,” he added.

  “Extremely suspicious,” Tubby said, dipping some French bread into his soup. “Let’s concentrate on that.”

  “What do you suggest?” Flowers asked. “You like these fried green pepper rings?” he asked Cherrylynn.

  She nodded, mouth full.

  “We know he had lots of notes,” Tubby said, “and probably a written report. Maybe they’ve all been destroyed, in which case we’ll never know what he was doing, but then we’re no worse off than we are now. Or else they haven’t been destroyed and you have until tomorrow morning to find them.”

  “Find them where?”

  “Detecting is your job. Keeping you out of jail is mine.”

  Cherrylynn looked from one to the other, gave it up, and took a dainty swallow of beer.

  “How’s your shrimp?” Tubby asked her.

  “Real tasty, Mr. D,” she said.

  “They got a nice peanut butter pie, too,” Tubby suggested.

  The latest family news, recorded on the answering machine at home, was that Harold had absconded with Debbie’s television, the pearls she had gotten for her high school graduation, and Christine’s jambox. “I’ll have to get her another one if she’s going to the beach this summer,” he thought angrily. No one had heard from Harold for three days.

  Some guys with shaved heads had come by Debbie’s apartment asking about Harold, but they left when they were told the truth – Harold’s whereabouts were unknown.

  Denise had to use an ice cube and a tissue to stop the flow of blood from her lower lip. With the tips of her fingers on the other hand she pushed the buttons on the telephone. Monique was on another line, so she left a message.

  She was still repairing the damage from Baxter’s visit when Monique called back.

  Instead of saying hello, Denise just cried into the phone while Monique kept demanding to know what was wrong.

  In a minute or two she calmed down enough to tell Monique the story – the theme of which was that Baxter kept confusing lovemaking with violence. Her girlfriend ran through the medical checklist and determined that the injuries were minor. Dump the son of a bitch, she ordered.

  “Yeah, I know,” Denise said. “I think I have trouble distinguishing between hitting and caring.”

  “Do you like the taste of blood?” Monique demanded, intending to be sarcastic.

  “No,” Denise replied, but she had to think about it.

  “There’s such a thing as professional help,” Monique told her.

  “Did you ever have any?”

  “No,” Monique admitted. “I left town.”

  “Well, I don’t want to do that.”

  “You shouldn’t have to. Just break it off. If he messes with you, get Mr. Dubonnet to put a peace bond on him.”

  “I guess,” Denise said, her voice distant.

  “I guess, I guess,” Monique muttered. She was so mad she wanted to strangle the girl.

  CHAPTER 29

  It was not hard to disconnect the regulator on the large propane tank that fueled the gas burners and the specimen crematorium in Laboratory 3. A hundred rats twitched their whiskers and watched the shadowy figure move quickly and carefully around the room, opening the gas jets that released the noxious smell. There came a sudden frightening illumination when the human lit a match and left a candle burning on one of the stainless steel countertops before swiftly opening the freezer closet and exiting through the sliding door.

  Flowers walked across the front lobby of the medical center unaccosted. The information desk had been abandoned for the night, and Flowers had watched the security guard take a stroll outside to smoke a cigarette. The place smelled like lemon disinfectant. The detective made it past the elevators, where a tired nurse was leaning against the buttons with her eyes closed. He took a right at a sign that said HOSPITAL PERSONNEL ONLY. A page for “Dr. Smith… Dr. Merrick, you are wanted…” echoed down the empty hall.

  The security desk at the approach to Moskowitz lab was vacant, but a cardboard cup of vending machine coffee steamed beside a sign-in log.

  Cautiously, Flowers peered around the corner. He could see the security guard at the far end of the hallway. It was not Joe Malouf. The guard was looking with curiosity at the door of Lab 3. He put his hand on the plate that made it open.

  With a roar like a cannon discharging, the door of Lab 3 blew out. A ball of green and yellow flame raced down the hall in Flowers’s direction. He was thrown back against the wall, and his head cracked hard on the tile floor. Pumping adrenaline, he scrambled back onto his feet. A quick look told him that the guard had disappeared beneath a pile of rubble and the dust and smoke that filled the hall. Flowers could feel the rain of the overhead sprinkler system but he could not hear the alarms, since his ears were not functioning. He stumbled toward a red Emergency Exit sign.

  At that moment Tubby was standing on a cracked sidewalk, trying to decide which one of a block-long row of shotgun houses he was supposed to go into. The one directly in front of him seemed to be the right decision, so he climbed up the steps and pulled open one of the green-shuttered doors.

  Now the question was what room to pick. The living room was empty but for a television set loudly advertising a medicine for colds. The dining room beyond contained a table set for four. The main course sizzled on each plate, but Tubby couldn’t recognize the dish. No, he gagged, it was grilled rat!

  He ran into the bedroom and into the arms of two doctors, stethoscopes swinging like live things from around their necks. They tried to wrestle him to the floor.

  “Orderlies! Need help!” one cried out.

  Tubby broke free and careened back through the house to the street. He jumped into the getaway car and zoomed away. Happily, he realized that it was being driven by Nicole Normande, an old flame. With a smile that had always grabbed his heart, she asked, “Want to come inside for a beer? You need to rest.”

  The telephone woke him up. Breathing hard, Tubby picked up the handset.

  “Hello,” he grunted.

  “This is Flowers. Moskowitz lab just blew up.”

  “Say it again,” Tubby demanded, struggling for consciousness.

  “It blew up. I was close by. I think at least one man got seriously injured – most likely killed.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m at a pay phone on Claiborne Avenue. I got out of the area quick. I figured with so many doctors around, there was no need for one not very straight private investigator. Nobody saw me there.”

  “Any idea what caused it?”

  “Looked like a gas explosion. There was a big fireball. My eyebrows are gone.”

  “Christ, what about all the animals?”

  “They might just be out of their misery.”

  “I guess we’ll learn more on the morning news. Can you stay out of trouble till then?”

  “I’ll sure try. You know where Grits Bar is?”

  “Of course,” Tubby said.

  “If you need me, I’m on my way over there to get a beer and clean up. And establish an alibi.”

  “Okay,” Tubby said, “but I’m going back to sleep.”

 
He did, but only after tossing around for an hour trying to turn off his brain.

  CHAPTER 30

  Day two of State versus Busters began just like day one except, alert to Judge Stifflemire’s timetable, no one showed up until nine-thirty. Also, it had clouded up overnight and rain was coming down in torrents. Tubby didn’t feel like parking the Lincoln and wading through puddles, so he took a cab to the courthouse. Cherrylynn remained at the office to return yesterday’s calls and explain that Mr. Dubonnet was in trial. After that she could come to court and watch.

  The news media, excited by the explosion at Moskowitz lab, and titillated by the connection to the headless man, were out in force. Tubby brushed past them. For once he had nothing to say. There was a crowd of spectators outside the courtroom, too. A tall man he couldn’t place smiled and said hello to him. There was something familiar about the guy, maybe the overpowering cologne he was wearing, but Tubby had big problems on his mind, and he breezed by.

  He was just peeling off his overcoat when the judge took the bench with a swirl of his bombazine robe.

  The district attorney must have made impressive threats to Dr. Swincter about what could happen if you ignored a subpoena, because despite the turmoil at Moskowitz lab, he popped right up when Clayton Snedley called his name.

  Cletus was in a somber funk and barely reacted to Tubby’s good morning and words of comradeship. He even turned his head away when Swincter walked by. Tubby whispered that he should sit up straight for the jury, but Cletus ignored him. Bad sign.

  Swincter promised to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help him God, and then gave an exposition of his very impressive credentials.

  He had known Dr. Valentine for three years, and they had worked together on many important research projects that had expanded the boundaries of medical science. Dr. Valentine had been a useful and innovative scientist, and his loss would be felt deeply by the entire medical community.

  “Did Dr. Valentine and Cletus Busters get along?” Snedley inquired.

  “No, they didn’t. Whitney, uh, Dr. Valentine, caught Busters letting research animals out of their cages on one occasion. An experiment was prejudiced thereby. They had quite an argument about it, and I believe Whitney tried to have Cletus fired for it.”