Medicine Wheel

by Ron Schwab

  He waited until they turned the corner, and, casting his eyes about the hallway, assured himself it was empty, the observers and officials having vacated to search out lunch or an outhouse, whichever they found most urgent. There would never be a better opportunity. He slowly and softly walked the course his prey had taken down the hall.

  When he turned the corner he noted that he had entered a stub hallway that accessed only two rooms and had a door that likely opened to the back of the building and the privies at the rear of the lot. Perfect for a quick escape. He could do this. Deputy Dagenhart leaned against the wall adjacent to one door, rolling a cigarette. The Nemesis approached casually.

  “Hello, Gid, can I get to the outhouse through that door at the end of the hall?”

  “Yep. Like to take a piss myself, but the sheriff put me on watch for the Brannon bitch.”

  The Nemesis edged closer. “You don’t like her?”

  “Smart mouth. Bossy. I’d say Max is better off where he’s at than livin’ with her.”

  Dagenhart bent over and struck a small Lucifer on his boot heel and then straightened up and puffed deeply on his cigarette. The smoke didn’t have time to reach his lungs before the Nemesis slipped behind him and yanked back his head and the straight-edge blade drug into his throat. The Nemesis eased the limp body to the floor as blood soaked the front of the deputy’s shirt.

  51

  KIRSTEN AND SERENA sat across from each other at the conference table, silently eating the shredded beef sandwiches and drinking the coffee that had been delivered by the Chuck Wagon delivery boy. The warm bread reminded Kirsten of the fresh-from-the-oven sourdough delights the old trail cook used to serve up on her father’s Missouri ranch, and she was struck by a wave of nostalgia for the times she shared with her father, Ben Cavelle, the one person who had been a rock in her life. He had always been on her side, even when she was foolish or made terrible mistakes. Everybody needed such a person in their lives. It made the road far less lonely. She wondered what her father would have thought about the mess she was in now. It wouldn’t have mattered; he would have stood with her.

  Kirsten was pulled abruptly back to the present by Serena’s whispered voice. “Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “There were voices in the hall. Then it sounded like something fell on the floor.” Serena quietly slid her chair back and grabbed her bag and moved to the far end of the table. She remained standing, her eyes fastened on the door.

  Kirsten remained in place, but she was stricken with the same uneasiness that something was not quite the way it should be, and her senses leaped alive. The conference room door inched slowly open, and a man with a gun in his hand stepped in, his glazed-over eyes fixed first on Kirsten and then moved to Serena and back again. He pushed the door shut behind him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Serena’s hand inch into her bag. Surely not?

  She recognized the man, who was staring at her now. The banker. What was he doing here? And why the gun? This made no sense whatsoever.

  Finally, the banker spoke, “I’m your Nemesis, bitch. Max was my friend, and you were his disobedient, obstinate wife. You made his life miserable, and then you took it. Today you pay.”

  He cast another look at Serena, as he moved deliberately toward the table, stopping directly across from Kirsten. “And you, nigger wench, you’re going to make payback double.”

  Serena said nothing, but Kirsten could see the silent determination in her eyes. Kirsten’s hands slipped under the tabletop and pulled sharply upwards, tipping the table over. It struck the man’s legs and sent him stumbling backwards.

  Two quick thunderclaps roared in the room, and the invader’s legs collapsed, as twin bursts of scarlet appeared on his chest. He went down, still clutching his weapon and trying to aim it at Serena, but Kirsten had clambered over the fallen table and was on him now, both hands latched like vises on his wrist. Her teeth sank into his forearm, and the pistol clattered to the floor. Kirsten held on until she could feel the strength ebbing from his body.

  Suddenly, the door flew open, and Sheriff Mallery appeared in the doorway. Cam Locke crowded in behind. She looked over at Serena who had not moved but stood there, seemingly calm, with the gun hanging loosely in her hand.

  Mallery stepped in. “What in the hell happened here?”

  Kirsten scrambled up. “He came here to kill me, Sheriff . . . and Serena.”

  “Dagenhart’s dead. He took him out with a straight-edge, it looks like.” The sheriff knelt and looked at the dead man. “This here’s Corbett Avery from the Manhattan Bank. Why in the hell would he try to kill you?”

  “I don’t know. He said he was a friend of Max’s. Something about being a nemesis. First, Nigel Baker’s testimony, and now this . . . I guess I’m not real popular at the bank.”

  Cam stepped up beside the sheriff. “Somebody was following Kirsten before her arrest . . . the snake at the jail. It’s a pretty damn good guess, Sam, that this is your guy.”

  “It just don’t add up.”

  “I think you’ll want to track this guy back a ways. I’d bet this isn’t his first time.” Cam turned to Serena, “Good shooting. Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay.” She spoke to the sheriff. “Here’s my gun, Sheriff, if you need it. I’d like it back, though.”

  “No need. I’ll talk to the county attorney. This’ll be wrapped up fast.”

  Kirsten could hear the excited noise of a crowd gathering outside the room.

  Cam said, “You ladies have had a busy lunch recess. Shall I ask the judge for a continuance for a day or two?”

  Kirsten’s eyes locked with Serena’s. “What does my lawyer say?”

  “I didn’t get to finish my sandwich. I’d like another before I call my next witness.”

  Kirsten smiled. “Me, too. And a fresh pot of coffee.”

  Cam whirled and brushed by the sheriff. “Two sandwiches and a pot of coffee coming up.”

  52

  SERENA’S CLIENT LOOKED only a little disheveled after the recess altercation. The blood had been wiped off and did not show much on the black dress. Certainly, there was nothing in Kirsten’s cool demeanor to reveal that she had not had a restful lunch break. They had faced death together and probably saved each other’s lives. They had acknowledged as much while they ate and regrouped, and Serena knew they had established a fast bond from shared combat both in and out of the courtroom.

  Examination of the other early witnesses had gone quickly. Serena had decided to set forth the narrative in sequence. She had only briefly called Chet Grisham for the purpose of verifying Kirsten’s physical condition when he first encountered her and the fact she had never stated she killed Max, only that he had “died.”

  Pilar Locke had been a helpful witness, describing Kirsten’s condition in nearly every gory detail, including the breast mutilation, which Serena had skirted during Chet’s testimony. She, again, confirmed the defendant’s strange reference to her husband’s death. Fuller had found efforts to trip up Pilar during cross-examination futile.

  Dr. Hiram Robinson, as the only other physician to examine Kirsten’s injuries, had been called to give his evaluation and opinion of the extent and likely cause. He expressed his shock at the damage inflicted. “I’ve never seen a person, man or woman, that beat up who lived to tell about it,” he had testified. Serena suspected his words might have been a bit of an overstatement, but she did not discourage the thought. Cam had exercised astute judgment in having his poker-playing friend take a look at Kirsten soon after injuries.

  Thad was Serena’s only remaining witness, and he would be switching hats from physician to photographer during his testimony. This would have to be finessed with some care. He was insightful, though, and she was confident in his effectiveness as a witness. They had rehearsed most of her examination several times, and their rhythms of poignant pauses and appropriate nods and phrasing were excellent. Fortunately, she was adept at compartmentalizing, and she
had been mostly able to set their common past and the unpleasant conversation that faced them out of her mind.

  “Miss Belmont, did you hear me? I said you may call your next witness.” It was Judge Whitmore’s voice.

  “I apologize, Judge, I was distracted for a moment. The defense calls Dr. Thaddeus Locke.”

  As Thad sat down in the witness chair, Serena observed that he appeared somewhat tense, but not excessively so. This was not particularly a problem. Her stomach still churned before the commencement of every trial, and she had come to recognize the feeling as her friend. Even now, she was a bit anxious but knew the feeling would disappear after the first question. She commenced. “Would you state your name for the judge and jury please?”

  “Thaddeus Jacob Locke.”

  Serena led him through the questions relating to his medical qualifications, taking particular care to elicit the fact that he had graduated from an elite and respected medical school, and that, although he was a veterinary surgeon by choice, he occasionally treated human patients. Furthermore, he kept abreast of human medical developments, because medicines and techniques often equally applied to others in the animal kingdom. She also questioned him about his interest and background in photography, carefully laying the foundation for introduction of the tintypes into evidence.

  “Dr. Locke. How did you come to be at Mrs. Brannon’s home the night of Max Brannon’s death?”

  “My brother Cameron’s son showed up at my home and said his dad wanted me over at the C Bar C right away and that I was to bring my photographic equipment with me. Myles . . . that’s my nephew . . . indicated something terrible had happened to Kirsten.”

  “By ‘Kirsten,’ you mean Mrs. Brannon?”

  “Yes, I didn’t actually call her by her first name at that time. I had only met her on a few occasions when I was at the ranch performing veterinary services.”

  “So, you proceeded to gather your things and went to the ranch?”

  “Yes, I have a habit of responding promptly to my brother’s requests. He can be unpleasant when he’s ignored.”

  Serena noticed understanding smiles on the faces of some of the jurors, a few of whom probably had older brothers. She began to pick up the pace, reviewing the events of that night, which had already been largely established by Pilar’s testimony. He responded in kind with quick and brief answers.

  Then she asked, “Doctor, did Mrs. Brannon ever say anything to you about her husband?”

  “Beyond identifying him as the source of her injuries, she only said he had died and was in the bedroom. At some point I entered the room and confirmed this to be the case.”

  “Did you determine cause of death?”

  “It appeared he had a bullet wound in his head, but I didn’t make a thorough examination. There was nothing I could do for the man, and I had been told that Cam had sent for the sheriff.”

  “Mrs. Brannon said nothing about how her husband died?”

  “No, she did not.”

  “Did you find that strange?”

  “Yes, but she had suffered severe head injuries, and anything she said would not have been too surprising.”

  “Tell me, is it medically possible for a person who has witnessed a horrific event to not recall the incident?”

  “This does happen. I listened to several medical school lectures on the subject. The most documented cause is brain trauma, resulting from physical damage to the head. The term that is beginning to be used to identify this phenomenon is ‘amnesia.’ With this condition, a man may lose all memory of his past . . . even his name. Or only a brief span or moment in time may be blocked from memory. Some doctors working in the new field of psychology suggest the same symptoms may result from emotional shock. I would be the first to say I am not competent to render an opinion on that possibility.”

  “You heard Pilar Locke’s testimony . . . and that of Dr. Robinson . . . regarding the injuries incurred by Kirsten Brannon?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you find their description of Mrs. Brannon’s injuries substantially accurate?”

  “I did.”

  “And do you have any documentation that might tend to support those descriptions?”

  “Yes, I have a number of tintypes I took of the injuries.”

  “Just to clarify, Doctor, is it your practice to photograph all of your patients’ injuries?”

  “No, of course not. I have never done this with human patients before or since. I occasionally photograph injuries and conditions of animal patients for a book I am working on.”

  “So, why did you make an exception in this case?”

  “My brother’s request and Mrs. Brannon’s consent.”

  “Did this request bother you?”

  “Only because of my concern for Mrs. Brannon’s dignity. Some of the tintypes are very personal.”

  Serena returned to the counsel table where Cam placed a stack of tintypes in her outstretched hands. She, in turn, delivered the photographs to the judge’s bench. “Your Honor, we have taken the liberty of numbering each of these tintypes. With your permission I would like to deposit these with you and then remove them one at a time for identification by Dr. Locke prior to passing them among the jurors.”

  The Judge looked at the prosecutor. “Counselor, take a look at these and get your objection out of the way.”

  Fuller joined Serena at the judge’s bench and began shuffling through the tintypes. “I object, Your Honor. These are inflammatory and prejudicial.”

  “To who?” the Judge asked.

  “To the prosecution, of course.”

  “Well, Mr. Fuller, it’s usually the defendant we give the leeway to on such things.”

  Fuller stammered, “Well, irrelevant then. This has nothing to do with the defendant’s innocence or guilt.”

  “Overruled. Proceed, Miss Belmont.”

  After Fuller was seated, Serena showed Thad the first exhibit, and he verified he had taken the photo and then described the facial and head wounds displayed. After a tintype was handed to Thad and described by him, it was passed to the jurors for inspection. The jurors examined the tintypes with somber looks on their faces. Several grimaced, and the young storekeeper gave a look of horror. Finally, they came to the photographs of the mangled breast, and Serena asked Thad, “Doctor, please explain this tintype, Exhibit 8.”

  “It’s a tintype of Mrs. Brannon’s breast wounds. She testified her husband bit her breasts. You can see from the picture that this is an understatement. It looks like she was attacked by a wildcat. The lacerations were deep and ragged, extremely difficult to suture.”

  “And Exhibit 8 was taken after the surgery. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, at least an hour later.”

  Serena delivered the exhibit to the jurors, and as they passed them from man to man, there was a shaking of heads and several grunts. One elderly gentleman turned pale and broke out in a sweat. When the tintypes reached the storekeeper, he stared at the object in his hands for a moment and then vomited.

  As the bailiff cleaned up the vomit, Serena continued. “Doctor, I have just a few other questions. Did Mrs. Brannon have any injuries not shown in the photographs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “She was badly bruised between her thighs and about her labia area?”

  “For clarification, you are speaking of a woman’s private parts?” She doubted some of her jurors would know what a “labia” was.

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “No other questions.”

  “The judge looked at the county attorney. “Your witness, Mr. Fuller.”

  “One moment, Your Honor.” Fuller turned to his deputy, and they engaged in an animated, whispered conversation for several minutes. Finally, the prosecutor turned to the judge and stood. “No questions of this witness.”

  The judge pulled out the pocket watch from his vest pocket. “It’s almost five-thirty. Would it be alright if we sta
rted with your next witness tomorrow morning.”

  “Not necessary, Judge,” she replied. “The defense rests.”

  Judge Whitmore returned a big smile. “Very well, then. We’ll start with closing statements in the morning and then toss this case to the jury.”

  53

  CAM SLUMPED IN the oak arm-chair in front of his father’s desk. It was late morning, and the energy had been suddenly sapped from his body. Post-trial downslide, Pilar called it.

  “The case has gone to the jury?” Myles asked.

  “Yeah, about half an hour ago.”

  “How long do you think they’ll be out?”

  “God knows. Two hours or two days. Anything can happen with a jury.”

  “I know. That’s why long ago I decided to stay away from them.”

  “But some of us can’t help ourselves.”

  Myles chuckled. “I understand. How’d closing go?”

  “Serena asked to give the closing, and I deferred. She’s quite brilliant you know.”

  “Yes, I’ve come to see that.”

  “She didn’t give up on the possibility someone else might have killed Max while Kirsten was unconscious . . . reasonable doubt, you know, but a pretty big stretch. Then she pointed out that justifiable homicide is a defense, even if it she did shoot him. Of course, the statutes say ‘justifiable’ means self-defense or something akin to it. Serena seemed to subtly add ‘killing a mean son-of-a-bitch’ to that category. She pretty much convinced me. At least she gave the jurors plenty to latch onto if they’re looking for excuses to acquit.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “She’s not going to hang. First degree requires willful, deliberate and premeditated killing. Frank didn’t come close to proving that. I think he risked blowing his entire case by overcharging. Logic says she gets convicted of second degree. The sentence is a ten-year minimum, and the sky’s the limit. Whitmore likely gives her the minimum.”