Murder One

by William Bernhardt

  Kirk was distracted by the sound of footsteps at the other end of the alley. Clicking footsteps, light and even.

  Stiletto heels, as it turned out.

  “Jeez Lou-ise. You really are a mess.”

  Kirk peered upward through hooded lids. She was a black woman decked out in a tight white dress cut practically down to the nipple, blowsy hair, and the legs of a sixteen-year-old. Not that she was much older than that.

  A prostitute. Had to be.

  “So anyway,” the woman continued, “my girlfriend, she says, ‘Girlfriend, don’t you be goin’ over to see that boy. He a mess.’ And I says, ‘Well, I don’t see much goin’ on out here.’ And she says, ‘Girlfriend, I don’t care how slow things are on The Stroll. That boy be trouble.’ ”

  “What do you want?” Kirk’s voice was harsh and raspy.

  She smiled, a broad smile that might have been called toothy but for the fact that so many of her teeth were missing. “Why, honey, ain’t you figured that out yet? I got the cure for what ails you.”

  He lowered his head. “Go away.”

  “Forgive me for bein’ crass, but I am a little concerned about the money thing. See, my girlfriend, she says, ‘Girlfriend, he don’t look like he got two pennies to rub together.’ But I say to her, I say, ‘Girlfriend, don’t you be jumpin’ to no conclusions there. The boy’s down in the dumps, sure. He’s had some bad knocks. But that don’t mean he’s poor.’ ” She took a baby step closer. “Does it?”

  Kirk reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a big wad of money, including several hundreds. “Now will you leave me alone?”

  Far from causing her to leave him alone, the display of wealth had precisely the opposite effect “Why lookee there. Boy, you got all kinds of money on you!” She gave him a sideways leering grin. “I think we can do business, handsome.”

  “I want you to leave me alone.”

  “Now don’t you go all unsociable on me. I got the cure, remember? I’m eager and willin’ to please. And I’m very flexible. If you know what I mean.”

  “You can’t help me.”

  “Now you don’t know that till you’ve given me a try.”

  “Look—”

  “Maybe I should properly introduce myself. My name’s Chantelle. I’m a professional, know what I mean? Very experienced.” She ran a long black nail slowly down the curve of her hip. “And I think I could do you a world of good.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Look, baby, I ain’t no priest—”

  “Lucky for you.”

  “—but I can see you got troubles. Somebody done you wrong, right? I don’t know exactly who it was. Maybe yo’ mama done you wrong. Maybe it was your wife, your girlfriend. Your mistress. Your fiancée, even. I don’t know. But I know this. Whoever it was, I can make it better.”

  “No one can make it better. Not even God.”

  “Well, I got to be honest with you. I don’t know much about God. But it’s just possible I’ve got a few tricks in my bag He don’t have.”

  Kirk turned his head up, teeth clenched. “Leave me alone!”

  When she saw his face, Chantelle’s eyes went wide. “Honey! What happened to you?” She bent down and cradled his head in her hands. “You look like someone done you but good.”

  Kirk almost laughed. “Wait’ll you see my chest.”

  “Honey, you need someone to be good to you. Someone to make the hurt stop hurtin’.” She pulled him closer and pressed his head against her breasts. “I’ll take good care of you, sweet thing. Promise I will.”

  The heat of her body warmed him. He felt the chain reaction it sent cascading through his body. And he panicked.

  “Get away from me, you filthy whore!” He rocked her backward, sending her rolling across the alley. “I’m not like that. I’m not!”

  Chantelle held up her hands defensively. “All right, boy, stay calm. Just stay calm.”

  “I’m not like that!” he bellowed again. “Just because I—it doesn’t mean—” He broke down. He jammed his face against his fists, bending over, thrashing from side to side.

  Chantelle pushed herself to her feet. “My friend, you are in sorry shape. Truly sorry shape.” She walked to the end of the alley. “I’m prob’ly crazy to do this, but here I go anyway. Most nights you can find me right here, on The Stroll. But I’ve also got a place, a little room just above that pawn shop on the corner of Lewis. Room 12. Anytime you decide you want to see Chantelle, you just come on up there.”

  She gave him a long look, shook her head a few more times, then clickety-clacked out of the alleyway.

  Kirk wanted to tear his eyes out. As his fingers pressed hard against his eyeballs, he gave it serious thought. Why couldn’t he make anyone understand? It only happened once. He wasn’t like that!

  Or maybe he was. Maybe that was what really bothered him. The knowledge that he was the sinner who did that horrible thing. And what’s worse, that he did it because he wanted to. Because he enjoyed it.

  He flung himself down on the pavement, pummeling himself against the concrete. His head clanged against the Dumpster, then against the brick wall, then back again and again and again, beating his head into a bloody pulp.

  God, God, God, he cried, sobbing silently. Why couldn’t he make this torment end? Why couldn’t he finish it, once and for all?

  35

  AS PROMISED, D.A. LaBelle started the next day of trial with the state medical examiner, Bob Barkley. Barkley was relatively new and this was the first time Ben had seen him in court. His predecessor, Dr. Koregai, had passed away from a heart attack several months before.

  Barkley was young, energetic, buoyant—a complete contrast to Koregai. Koregai had always been serious and dignified, had always treated his job with enormous gravity. To Barkley, it was more like an all-night party. His infectious enthusiasm suggested that he thought being a coroner was, well, a good time. He seemed to adore rattling on about body parts and blood splatters.

  It was quite a change. Koregai had always been so intelligent and commanding that jurors treated his opinions with respect, even if his testimony tended to induce premature napping. Barkley was much better at keeping them awake. The question was how much respect the jury would give the opinions of a coroner who came off more like a surfer dude.

  After the preliminary elicitation of Barkley’s background and credentials, LaBelle brought him to the case at hand.

  “Did you perform a forensic examination on the remains of Joe McNaughton?”

  “I sure did,” Barkley answered, sort of like, Gee whiz, Mom, I remembered to take out the trash.

  “And did you reach any conclusions regarding the cause of death?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Would you describe those conclusions to the jury?”

  “Of course.” Taking the cue, Barkley shifted himself slightly so he could make eye contact with the jurors. “The cause of death was the twenty to thirty stab wounds inflicted by a knife, perhaps an inch to an inch and a fourth, with a serrated blade. It’s a common configuration; a kitchen knife would fit. The blows landed all over the victim’s body—torso, arms, legs, neck, face—even one eye.”

  Ben saw two of the jurors wince.

  “The wounds punctured several critical arteries and caused excessive bleeding, which resulted in the victim’s eventual death.”

  “Would this have been a quick death, Dr. Barkley?”

  “Probably not. There were no fatal blows to vital organs, although, of course, the penis was severed. Neither the jugular vein nor the carotid artery were slashed. The process of bleeding to death could have taken anywhere from half an hour to two hours.”

  “And would the victim have been conscious while bleeding to death?”

  “For most of it, yes. Conscious, and in extraordinary pain.”

  This portion of the testimony was totally irrelevant to the question of who murdered McNaughton, but it was keenly relevant to LaBelle’s desire to whip the ju
ry into such a frenzy that they would convict anyone he told them to convict.

  “Is there any way of … quantifying the pain McNaughton would’ve experienced? Before his death?”

  Barkley pondered a moment. “Have you ever cut your finger?” he asked, to the jury, not LaBelle. “Maybe the knife slipped while you were chopping vegetables? Maybe even just a paper cut. It hurts like heck, doesn’t it? For a brief moment, the pain is so intense you can’t think of anything else. But with those minor injuries, the pain passes, because the body’s healing agents take over. Seratonin is released; the wound reseals; the blood coagulates. But with Joe McNaughton, with injuries of such extraordinary number and degree, there was no hope of healing before his body had drained itself dry. That intense, unbearable pain stayed with him till the moment he died.”

  The courtroom fell quiet for a moment, as all present contemplated something that was, in fact, too horrible to contemplate.

  When he was ready to proceed again, LaBelle held up a knife in a plastic evidence bag. During Matthews’s turn on the stand, it had been admitted and labeled Exhibit Fourteen.

  “I’m holding an exhibit that has been previously identified as a knife found in the file cabinet of an attorney working for the defendant, Keri Dalcanton. Have you seen this knife before?”

  “I have.”

  “And have you had an opportunity to examine this knife in conjunction with your autopsy of Joe McNaughton?”

  “I didn’t have the knife when I performed my autopsy. But when I did receive the knife, I compared it to the notes I had made previously regarding the cause and instrumentality of death.”

  “And did you reach any conclusions regarding the knife?” LaBelle was being more than usually careful not to lead the witness, Ben noticed. Presumably he thought he was on a roll and didn’t want it interrupted by objections from the defense.

  “I did.”

  “Dr. Barkley, in your expert opinion, is this knife consistent with the wounds you examined on Joe McNaughton?”

  “It is.”

  “And by that, do you mean that this knife could have been the weapon that caused McNaughton’s death?”

  “I do,” Barkley said eagerly, “but I can go even further than that. Given the blood splatters on the knife and their shape, and the fact that the blood type is the same as McNaughton’s, and the matches between the serration pattern on the knife and striation pattern in me wounds, I think it is highly likely that this is the murder weapon. To a medical certainty, in fact.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Barkley. I appreciate your candor.”

  Was that candor? Ben wondered. Seemed more like blatant sucking up to him.

  “Were there any other wounds on the body, other than those that led to death?”

  “Oh yes. And many of them were gruesome in their own right, even if nonfatal.”

  “Could you describe those injuries, please?”

  “Well, I’ve already mentioned the penectomy. And there were horrendous scrapes and abrasions all over the body.”

  “Would these abrasions be consistent with the body being dragged over a concrete or gravel surface?”

  “Precisely so. I don’t think there’s any doubt but that’s what happened. And remember, the body had been stripped naked, so the effect of being dragged was profound.”

  “Were there any other injuries?”

  “Yes. The victim had suffered a severe contusion to the head, discoloring the left side of his face.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. There were several broken bones. When the body was chained to the fountain, both arms and one of the legs were stretched in unnatural, painful positions. One of the arms snapped, either when chained up or when removed.”

  More than one juror shook his or her head.

  “Would it be fair to say, Doctor, that the killer did not treat the victim with much care?”

  Barkley frowned “I think it would be fair to say that the killer treated the body with intentional disrespect and cruelty.”

  “Let me ask you another question, sir. There’s been a considerable discussion of physical strength in this trial. And in particular, whether the defendant, a small young woman—although one who exercised regularly and was in particularly good shape—could have accomplished the murder. Do you have an opinion on this subject?”

  Ben gave Christina a nudge.

  “Objection,” Christina said, springing to her feet. “Outside the scope of the witness’s expertise.”

  “Not so,” LaBelle replied. “Who can speak more expertly on this subject than the doctor? He knows the precise weight of the deceased’s body. He knows exactly what rigors the body was put through. He knows what the human body is capable of doing. I believe this falls squarely within his field of specialty.”

  “Well, it’s a little on the fringe,” Cable said, grudgingly acknowledging that Christina’s objection had some merit, “but I can’t say that it’s totally outside. I’ll allow it.”

  Christina sat down, frowning. “Should I have argued more?”

  “No,” Ben whispered. “Save your egregious conduct for when it really matters.”

  “You may answer the question,” LaBelle told his witness obligingly.

  “Thank you.” Barkley turned back toward the jury. “My opinion is that there was nothing involved in this murder that could not have been accomplished by any adult person of reasonable strength.”

  “Even moving the body?”

  “Yes. Remember, the body was dragged, not carried. A dead body is heavy, but dragging it isn’t that hard, particularly if you don’t care what happens to it along the way.”

  “What about chaining the body to the fountain?” LaBelle was asking the hard questions himself, rather than leaving it to the defense. A smart strategy, especially since he and Barkley had undoubtedly already prepared answers.

  “Admittedly, that would’ve been harder, but I still don’t believe it was outside the abilities of the average adult. The chains could have been used for leverage; that is, once they were tied to the body and wrapped around the fountain, a sort of rudimentary pulley system could’ve made it possible to get the body in place. And bearing in mind what the killer did to the body, I think it’s fair to assume there was some major adrenaline pumping, which always increases strength. Almost anyone could’ve done it, really.”

  “Even a five-foot-three female weighing a hundred and three pounds?”

  “Yes. Even her.” For the first time, Barkley glanced toward Keri. “Especially given her overall fitness and the undoubted rage she felt at the time.”

  “Objection!” Christina said. This time she didn’t need nudging. “Definitely outside the scope.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Cable replied calmly. “The jury will disregard.”

  But as Ben and Christina both well knew, the damage was already done. The jury had heard it, and all the instructions in the world would not make them forget it.

  “Dr. Barkley,” LaBelle continued, “were there any other indications you uncovered during your autopsy regarding the identity of the killer?”

  “Yes. I discovered tiny yet discernible traces of skin under the victim’s fingernails.”

  “Skin under the fingernails,” LaBelle repeated. “Tell me, Doctor, is there any way to determine conclusively whose skin it was?”

  “There is now. DNA analysis.”

  “And was any DNA testing done?”

  “Yes. Fortunately, I discovered a sufficient quantity to be testable. My work was checked by an independent agency—CellTech, in Dallas.” He quickly added: “There is no doubt about the results: The DNA matches exemplars taken after arrest from the defendant, Keri Dalcanton.”

  The good doctor had rushed ahead, Ben realized, because he and LaBelle both knew the question would draw an objection. If Barkley didn’t do the testing himself, he had no business announcing the results.

  “Should I?” Christina whispered.

  “Don’t bother. The
word is out. And they would only call their CellTech rep to the stand to say the same thing. It’s getting in, one way or the other.”

  LaBelle followed up equally quickly. “Is there any possibility of error on these DNA tests, Doctor?”

  “Virtually none. The results were checked and double-checked, both by me and CellTech. There’s no doubt about it. Keri Dalcanton’s skin was under his fingernails. There was probably a struggle while she was stabbing him—”

  “Objection!” Christina said.

  “Sustained,” Judge Cable said. “The witness will refrain from speculating.”

  “Let me ask it this way,” LaBelle said. “Was the location of the skin consistent with what you would expect when a man was trying to protect himself from a killer?”

  “Of course. Perfectly.”

  LaBelle nodded toward the defense table. “Your witness.”

  Christina tried to act as if she wasn’t nervous about this, but she knew she wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all herself. Not that she hadn’t spoken out in court before, but cross-exing a major witness in a capital trial was a different matter altogether. She kept humming “I am strong, I am invincible” under her breath, but it wasn’t making much difference. She was terrified.

  “Dr. Barkley, you’re the coroner, right?” It was a safe question, surely. How could he disagree?

  “Actually no.”

  Christina did a double take.

  “My title is state medical examiner. That’s the terminology we use in Oklahoma, don’t ask me why. So to call me a coroner is technically incorrect.”

  “But the descriptions are the same.”

  “More or less, yes.”

  Great start, Christina thought to herself. Maybe next I could get his name wrong or something. “As the medical examiner, do you perform autopsies on a regular basis?”

  “Of course.”

  “How often?”

  He shrugged. “On average? Maybe a dozen a week.”

  “And when you’re doing your dozen a week, do you normally speculate on how much pain the victim suffered? Is that a standard part of the medical examiner’s work-up?”

  “Well … no.”

  “Then why did you do it in this case?”