Sing a Worried Song
Page 4
Horowitz gave Pomeroy the nod, and he rose, shaking his head with disbelief even before asking a question. “Tell me, Mr. Gillies, do you keep an ear to the neighbour’s wall the whole day long?” That got laughter from the public, smiles from the jury.
“As I been explaining, it’s hard not to hear through them walls.”
“Even with your ear to the wall, you can’t hear low conversation, can you?”
“Maybe not.”
“Did you hear anyone enter Suite B earlier that morning or during the night?”
“Not really. I guess I must’ve been sleeping.”
“How old are you, Mr. Gillies?”
“Going on seventy-eight.”
Pomeroy strolled away from him, toward the jury. “You’ll agree your hearing isn’t as sharp as when you were in the prime of youth?”
“When I was where?”
Louder: “I’m suggesting you’ve lost a little hearing over the years. It happens, it’s normal.”
“Maybe so.”
“And yet at the trial in December you claimed you heard a … let’s see.” Pomeroy quoted from a transcript. “‘A gurgle, and a gutty sound like a death rattle.’ Now be honest with us, Mr. Gillies, you didn’t hear that at all — you just imagined that, didn’t you?”
“It was some time ago, so … maybe I thought I heard that.”
“That’s what it sounds like on TV police shows. Right?”
“Maybe, I guess.”
“You didn’t hear any screams?”
“No, sir.”
“If a man was being stabbed, you’d think he’d be screaming his head off.”
“Maybe.” Gillies looked deflated already.
Boynton whispered, “How do you think this is going?”
Was he deaf? “Like the RMS Titanic.”
“How’s your vision, Mr. Gillies?” Pomeroy asked.
“Well, as you see I wear specs, and it’s pretty good with the specs.”
“When did you last have your eyes checked?”
“Just three months ago, January, yep.”
“Get a new prescription?”
“I couldn’t afford it right then. I figured these will do.”
Pomeroy didn’t spoil that admission by trying to exploit it — the jury was uncomfortable enough, feeling sorry for the old fellow. Skyler seemed to appreciate his counsel’s work, nodding or smiling whenever he scored a point.
Pomeroy went on to exploit the holes in Gillies’s identification. He couldn’t remember seeing any blood on the man walking from the house. He’d attended a six-man lineup after Skyler’s arrest but had been undecided between two of them, though he inclined toward Skyler. A lineup photo showed the other four had dark hair.
“And you’ve studied that lineup photo many times, haven’t you, Mr. Gillies, and so it’s not much wonder you picked out the same man in court, a man who just happens to be the only person sitting in the dock.”
“I object,” Arthur said. “That’s not a question, it’s a dissertation.”
“I withdraw the dissertation.”
The jurors loved this, and they were loving Pomeroy. Handsome Brian with his hot sidekick. In the opposite corner was a jumpy junkie on withdrawal supported by a fusspot. Boynton kept nudging him, offering sotto voce concerns about the prosecution’s fast-vanishing chances.
“At the first trial, Mr. Gillies, you told me Chumpy had visitors from time to time, and one was a regular, a big man.” Pomeroy read from the transcript of Gillies’s previous testimony: “heavy, swarthy, six feet tall, late thirties, usually wore a windbreaker and toque.”
“Well, yep, I guess I seen that feller a few times.”
Arthur had no idea who he might be, other than one of Pomeroy’s red herrings.
“I understand you went out for a walk on that Sunday.”
“About noon, yep.”
“So someone could have slipped out of Suite B after the noon hour, and left the building, and you wouldn’t have known he’d been in there.”
“He’d have to be awful quiet while he was there.”
“You’d expect him to be quiet, wouldn’t you, if he’d just murdered poor Chumpy.”
Gillies couldn’t argue with that. Pomeroy sat, and Horowitz ordered a ten-minute recess. Boynton tugged Arthur’s gown. “Holy Toledo, what do we do now?”
Arthur scrambled to find his copy of the autopsy report, Exhibit One. There was no mention of the time of death. “Call the morgue, get Dr. Wu down here.”
Pomeroy heard that. “Hey, we admitted the pathologist’s report.”
“Nice try, Brian.”
§
Dr. Wu was dissecting a cadaver when the summons got to him, so the trial was slow to resume. Twenty precious, added-on minutes.
Arthur used the time to confer with the Ungers, letting them know he was stumped by their son’s sudden, stubborn defiance. They could offer no reasons for it — Manfred rarely talked about the case. But lately he’d seemed, Florence said, “very stressed, very moody.” She added, “He’s a good Christian boy.”
“We’re taking him for dinner,” Edmund said, still wincing. “We’ll tell him to grow up.”
After the pathologist finally trotted in and court was recalled, Arthur went directly to the bedevilling issue of time of death.
“We deduced from the rate of fall of body temperature,” Dr. Wu said, “that loss of life would likely have occurred between eight-thirty and ten a.m. that day.”
“Your witness, Mr. Pomeroy.”
“Doctor, you’ll agree, I take it, that estimating time of death through temperature loss is pretty rough science.”
“There are many variables.”
“Could have been a few hours either way?”
“I would find that hard to say.”
“Thank you.”
There was just enough time to get the fingerprint evidence in, and that task went to Boynton, who went about it more adeptly than Arthur had expected. The print examiner had studied the empties scattered about the suite and determined that all had been wiped clean of prints. The number of bottles examined was eleven, not the dozen that a young member of the ID squad had mistakenly counted, and the analyst had notes to verify that.
The twelfth bottle had been found behind a window curtain, and proof of it was a photograph that hadn’t been developed for the first trial: another slip-up by the ID team. That bottle had not been wiped, and blowups of the partial print of Skyler’s right thumb provided nine points of identification, sufficient for the examiner to state an unequivocal opinion that the print matched.
A meticulous repair job. Arthur had underestimated his junior — he’d kept the attention of the jurors, whose shrugs and forgiving smiles showed their sympathy for the math-impaired ID officer.
Skyler wore a puzzled look for the occasion — though when Arthur caught his eye, he saw something tighter, something vaguely menacing. Skyler was not shy about these visual exchanges. It was as if he was challenging Arthur.
Pomeroy could do little to resurrect his damaged fingerprint defence, and ultimately lost enthusiasm trying to trip up the combat-readied witnesses. He sat, and Horowitz adjourned until Friday.
“Surprisingly good job, Jack,” Pomeroy called.
Mandy followed that up with an air kiss. Boynton beamed. “I do believe, Arthur, something is happening here.”
Arthur told him not to harbour any immediate expectations beyond a long evening in the Tragger, Inglis library. He was to get there ASAP, order in some Chinese food, and ask wise old Riley, the research gnome, to work overtime. Boynton’s hurt look told Arthur he’d been officious and ungenerous. “Excellent work, by the way. You left no hole unplugged.”
Mollified, Boynton sped off, and Arthur slung off his robe and strolled out with Mandy and Pome
roy, who lamented: “I was losing the jury — no one likes a bully.” He didn’t seem that unhappy. Arthur assumed he was aware there was trouble with the Crown’s principal witness.
Arthur turned to Mandy. “And when do you take on your starring role, my dear?” Arthur had a sense that sounded patronizing, but he’d lost track over the last decade of what people — particularly the oldfangled — were allowed to say.
“I hope you don’t think I’m just window-dressing.”
“I’m quite sure that’s not your primary role, though you’ve performed it admirably.”
He couldn’t help it, he was old school, he’d practically been born that way, of conservative, over-intellectual academics.
But Mandy took the compliment like, he supposed, a lady, and playfully put an arm around his waist as they made for the stairs. “Day Twenty coming up, Arthur. You’re doing great. You’re my hero.”
§
In the locker room, Arthur mentioned Boynton’s amorous fantasies to Pomeroy.
“Mandy thinks he’s creepy. It’s you she’s after, Arthur. She likes the married ones. They’re more challenging, but also, she feels, more rewarding.”
Arthur hurried into his street clothes and returned to the fifth-floor witness room. Both case officers were waiting for him outside the door.
“Manfred is antsy to split,” Harrison said. “We’ll keep a tail on him, same with Skyler.”
“I need to find some common ground with this fellow, and it won’t be intercollegiate rugby. Other interests? Movies, books, games of chance?”
“Detective novels,” Nordquist said. “He’s reading one now. He was into another one back in August.”
Harrison frowned. “You got a photogenic memory, Bones?”
“It registered because I’d read it. Book called For the Fun of It.”
“Odd title for a mystery,” Arthur said, then opened the door.
Unger bent the page of a paperback and slid it into his pack. “I presume I can go now.”
“Soon. What are you reading?”
“A crime thriller, sir. The First Deadly Sin.”
“Lust. Number one on that ancient list. But it had a different sense two millennia ago: luxus, luxuria, with its element of debauched living. These days, we admire the lusty if not the lustful. Lusty lads like yourself. I understand you fellows met some girls on the Expo grounds back in August.”
“If you’re asking if we got laid, sorry to disappoint. I would not have done that to Janet, Mr. Beauchamp. They were merely a couple of girls we hung with for a few hours.”
“Of course, pardon me. Anyway, there’s a kind of lust that was accepted in Roman times but that we have trouble with in this century — it involves attraction that many consider atypical. Homosexuality …”
“You can stop right there, sir. I’m not interested.”
“Meaning you’re not particularly fond of gays?”
Unger seemed to measure his words. “I have nothing against them. I don’t approve of their lifestyle. I feel it’s … profane.”
“Unchristian.”
“Maybe so. I believe in the Word.”
“I understand Randolph has some forceful views on the subject of homosexuality.”
Silence. Finally, Unger stood. “I’m not playing this game. I’m out of here!”
He grabbed his pack and strode out, past the startled detectives, down the steps.
THURSDAY EVENING
Arthur had kept his mind off drink with work, but the longing came back as soon as he set foot into his house at half past ten. Only a hall light on, Deborah abed, a note from Annabelle: “Last-minute revamp of stage left. Not sure when.”
Arthur hoped Hubbell Meyerson wasn’t out gallivanting, given his family was away. Arthur suspected the old roué had an affair going somewhere. It took several rings before he picked up.
“This trial has gotten a little messy,” Arthur said, “so I could be socked in on Tuesday.” The party to celebrate their elevation to the forty-third floor, the partners’ floor. “You may have to say a few words on my behalf.”
“Bummer, as my youngest might put it. I’ll tell them you are trapped behind enemy lines. Setback?”
“A witness gone bad. I thought you’d be out tearing up the town.”
“I am in the throes of self-denial, a monk. Pity me as you make love to Annabelle tonight.”
Arthur felt troubled as he disconnected. He’d not been blind to the flirting between them, the touches, the eye messages exchanged that they thought he was too distracted to notice. But each knew the other was off-limits, the risks disastrously high.
He readied himself for bed, but he couldn’t stop pacing. He tried to ignore the empty liquor cabinet. Not sure when. That could mean anything. But late nights were common during the frenzy of rehearsals. He took the phone to the back door and sat on the steps, his hand shaking as he lit his Peterson bent.
He finally settled down enough to ring the Hyatt and ask to be put through to Colonel Unger, to whom he apologized for the lateness of the hour. Though they were still on Eastern Time, the Ungers hadn’t been able to sleep. “Our dinner with Manfred was … very difficult,” Edmund said. “He walked out and left his plate untouched.” A groan. “I may have handled it badly.”
Arthur expressed his regrets, and dialled Bill Webb.
“How’s it going, Arthur?”
“I think I need a little morale boost.”
FRIDAY MORNING
Arthur slept poorly and was slow getting to court. In the elevator he fuelled himself from a Thermos of coffee. Harrison and Nordquist were waiting for him on the fifth floor.
Honcho was gruff. “You gonna take another go at him or not?”
“Not. Until he takes the stand.” Arthur had given up catering to Unger — he was not the misguided young man’s grovelling supplicant. He had no choice but to have him declared hostile, and to whale away in cross-examination.
“Okay, good luck, but Bones and me are of the indisputable view that Skyler has got some kind of hold over that obstinate fuck, and somehow they cooked up a bullshit story for the jury.”
“Only one problem,” Nordquist said. “We can’t figure out how or where they conspired.”
He handed Arthur a two-page report. Nordquist had painstakingly traced Unger’s movements since the December trial. His only trip away from Ontario was to Gagetown, N.B. — Christmas with the family. Skyler, of course, remained in Vancouver, reporting twice weekly to 312 Main Street.
Arthur wondered what other means of communication might have been used. Her Majesty’s mail? The telephone?
Court 53 was filling up. Arthur finished his coffee. Withdrawal pain was severe this morning. “What about last night?”
“Zilch,” Harrison said. “Randy foots it home to his apartment, on West Tenth. At a little before eighteen hours, he orders in a pizza. He watches the tail end of a hockey game: Leafs win big, seven–two. Then lights out. Also around nineteen hours, we have Manfred exploding in the Hyatt restaurant, telling his loving parents to get out of his effing face.”
“Effing?” says Arthur.
“His word, effing. He’s a good boy, he don’t swear. So then he marches off just as the waitress is bringing his medium rare ribs. Straight up to his room. Watches the same hockey game. They’re Leaf fans, them cheesy pricks. After the game, Manfred starts wishing he hadn’t abandoned his ribs, and goes out and gets himself a burger and a side, which he consumes in his room, watching First Blood.”
§
The gallery was full, and Arthur felt the heavy air of anticipation. It was Manfred Unger day, but not until the afternoon. Meanwhile, Jack Boynton would try to clean up the witness list.
“Calling Susan Unger,” said Boynton. Manfred’s sister nervously looked about on taking the stand, then dropped her eyes.
“And what else?”
“We smoked a little marijuana. Not much.” Averting her eyes from her parents. They were back in their reserved seats, looking confused and fretful. Arthur reminded himself to thank them for trying and to tell them they did their best.
Pot was apparently not on pious Manfred Unger’s list of immoral pastimes. It loosened his tongue, and he confided to Susan that his buddy had claimed that morning to have murdered a tramp. However, she was not permitted by law to relate that hearsay to the jury.
Pomeroy looked ready to spring up should the rule against hearsay be offended, but Boynton forestalled him. “You can’t tell us what he said, but how did this conversation end?”
“Well, I told him he’d better call the police.”
Unger slept on that suggestion, while staying at his sister’s overnight.
Boynton then called Inspector Harrison, who, remembering his training, carried on in careful police-speak.
“Mr. Unger attended at police headquarters at nine-fifteen hours on Monday, August fourth, and voluntarily signed a statement which is …”
“Hearsay,” Brian said, not rising.
Harrison looked annoyed — he knew the rules. “At ten-thirty-five, myself and Detective Nordquist attended at Room 308 of the Holiday Inn. We knocked, and the accused, who I identify sitting there in the dock, opened the door wearing a pair of jeans and pulling on a sweatshirt. This was a standard room with twin beds. One was mussed, the other made up. Some clothes strewn here and there. Some Expo souvenirs. We proceeded to have a conversation with the accused.”
After excusing the jury for a voir dire, Horowitz had little trouble declaring that conversation admissible. A proper caution had been given, no threats or favours advanced, and though the accused had been asleep when the detectives showed up, he seemed alert and responsive and was polite throughout.