Anatomy of a Murder

by Robert Traver

  The Lieutenant’s eyes gleamed and bored into mine. “Who—what do you see?” he said. It was becoming increasingly clear that this soldier was no dummy.

  “Nothing,” I lied glibly. “Not a thing.” The student was getting ahead of the lecturer and that would never do. And wherever my idea might drop into the ultimate defense picture, I sensed that now was not the time to try to fit it. “I was just thinking,” I concluded.

  “Yes,” Lieutenant Manion said. “You were just thinking.” He smiled faintly. “Go on, then; what are some of the other legal justifications or excuses?”

  “Then there’s the tricky and dubious defense of intoxication. Personally I’ve never seen it succeed. But since you were not drunk when you shot Quill we shall mercifully not dwell on that. Or were you?”

  “I was cold sober. Please go on.”

  “Then finally there’s the defense of insanity.” I paused and spoke abruptly, airily: “Well, that just about winds it up.” I arose as though making ready to leave.

  “Tell me more.”

  “There is no more.” I slowly paced up and down the room.

  “I mean about this insanity.”

  “Oh, insanity,” I said, elaborately surprised. It was like luring a trained seal with a herring. “Well, insanity, where proven, is a complete defense to murder. It does not legally justify the killing, like self-defense, say, but rather excuses it.” The lecturer was hitting his stride. He was also on the home stretch. “Our law requires that a punishable killing—in fact, any crime must be committed by a sapient human being, one capable, as the law insists, of distinguishing between right and wrong. If a man is insane, legally insane, the act of homicide may still be murder but the law excuses the perpetrator.”

  Lieutenant Manion was sitting erect now, very still and erect. “I see—and this—this perpetrator, what happens to him if he should—should be excused?”

  “Under Michigan law—like that of many other states—if he is acquitted of murder on the grounds of insanity it is provided that he must be sent to a hospital for the criminally insane until he is pronounced sane.” I drummed my fingers on the Sheriff’s desk and glanced at my watch, the picture of a man eager to be gone.

  My man was baying along the scent now. “How long does it take to get him out of there?”

  “Out of where?” I asked innocently.

  “Out of this insane hospital!”

  “Oh, you mean where a man claims he was insane at the time of the offense but is sane at the time of the trial and his possible acquittal?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, stroking my chin. “Months, maybe a year. It really takes a bit of doing. Being D.A. so long I’ve never really had to study that phase of it. I got them in there; it was somebody else’s problem to spring them. And I didn’t dream this defense might come up in your case.”

  My naïvete was somewhat excessive; it had been obvious to me from merely reading the newspaper the night before that insanity was the best, if not the only, legal defense the man had. And here I’d just slammed shut every other escape hatch and told him this was the last. Only a cretin could have missed it, and I was rapidly learning that Lieutenant Manion was no cretin.

  “Tell me more,” Lieutenant Manion said quietly.

  “I may add that the law that requires persons acquitted on the grounds of insanity to be sent away is designed to discourage phony pleas of insanity in criminal cases.”

  “Yes?”

  “So the man who successfully invokes the defense of insanity is taking a calculated risk, like the time you took the chance that the old German lieutenant was alone behind his ruined chimney.”

  I paused and knocked out my pipe. The Lecture was about over. The rest was up to the student. The Lieutenant looked out the window. He studied his Ming holder. I sat very still. Then he looked at me. “Maybe,” he said, “maybe I was insane.”

  Very casually: “Maybe you were insane when?” I said. “When you shot the German lieutenant?”

  “You know what I mean. When I shot Barney Quill.”

  Thoughtfully: “Hm … . Why do you say that?”

  “Well, I can’t really say,” he went on slowly. “I—I guess I blacked out. I can’t remember a thing after I saw him standing behind the bar that night until I got back to my trailer.”

  “You mean—you mean you don’t remember shooting him?” I shook my head in wonderment.

  “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  “You don’t even remember driving home?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t even remember threatening Barney’s bartender when he followed you outside after the shooting—as the newspaper says you did?” I paused and held my breath. “You don’t remember telling him, ‘Do you want some, too, Buster?’?”

  The smoldering dark eyes flickered ever so little. “No, not a thing.”

  “My, my,” I said, blinking my eyes, contemplating the wonder of it all. “Maybe you’ve got something there.”

  The Lecture was over; I had told my man the law; and now he had told me things that might possibly invoke the defense of insanity. It had all been done with mirrors. Or rather with padded hammers. There remained only the loose ends to gather in. I’d try to make it short.

  I turned and looked out the sooty window. “Let me think a minute,” I said. Then I turned and studied the impaled cockroach. All right, I thought—maybe my man was insane when he shot Barney Quill. Maybe he was nuttier than a fruit cake and maybe he had blacked out and didn’t remember a thing. So far so good. But there was one flaw, one small thorn in this insanity business, and one that had to be faced, and fast. And wasn’t it far better to face it now, before I got committed in the case, than later on in the harsh glow of the courtroom? I turned back to my man.

  “Look, Lieutenant. Hold your hat. I’m about to pitch you a fast ball … . Maybe you were insane. Maybe you didn’t remember a thing. But you and the newspaper agree on one thing. Both of you tell me that right after you returned to the trailer park, after shooting Barney Quill, you woke up the deputized caretaker and told him: ‘I just shot Barney Quill.’ Now is that correct?” Again I held my breath.

  I rather think he saw what was coming, but he replied steadily enough. “That is right,” he answered because he had to, there was no other answer, no escape; he was already committed on that one far past the point of no return.

  Slowly, easily: “All right, then, Lieutenant. Now tell me, how come you could tell the caretaker you had just shot Barney Quill if you had really blacked out and didn’t remember a thing? Who told you?”

  “Well,” he began. Then he stopped cold and closed his eyes. He was stalled. It was the first time I’d seen him really grope. The silence continued. Was I, I wondered, developing into one of those incurable ex-D.A.’s, the unreconstructed kind who can always find more reasons for convicting their clients than acquitting them?

  “Come, come, Lieutenant,” I said. “Think!”

  Impatiently, the lower lip still projected: “I am thinking! I’m trying to remember, damn it.”

  I was thankful a jury wasn’t watching him during the process. It also occurred to me that he must have been a charming child. “Come, now, man,” I pressed, “what could possibly have led you to tell the caretaker you’d just shot Barney if it is true that you didn’t remember it?”

  He spoke rapidly, jerkily. “All right … It’s coming back … . Barney Quill was the last man I saw before I blacked out … . In fact his was the only face I saw in the whole damned place … . My gun … . I knew when I entered the barroom the clip of my lüger was loaded. When I got back to my trailer I saw it was empty. There’s a thing that pops up … .” He threw out his hands. “Don’t you see? I figured I must have shot him, that’s all. So I went and told the caretaker I had.” He paused and looked up at me like a child who’d just recited his Christmas poem. Had he done all right?

  It was the only plausible explanation he could have m
ade. “I see,” I said thoughtfully. “So that’s the way it is?” But, old fire horse that I was, I yearned to be D.A. and be faced with such an answer. It would have been a pleasure to rip and dig at this man. “I see,” I repeated. So far, I felt, this was the biggest flaw, the highest hurdle, to a successful plea of insanity. It, too, would take some pondering.

  I glanced at my watch and arose. After all I hadn’t fished for two whole days. “That’s enough for today,” I said. “Class is dismissed. I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

  “Are you taking my case?”

  “I don’t know yet. Among other things, Lieutenant, there’s still the little matter of my fee.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  I was at the sheriff’s door. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

  “Just one more question,” the Lieutenant said.

  “I am your slave—but only for one minute,” I said. “Shoot.”

  “How are we doin’?”

  “No more now, Lieutenant,” I said, smiling. “We’ve both had a busy day. I’ll venture this: I think maybe we’re finding a way to save somebody some face. You see, saving face is one of the most important and least spoken of ‘defenses’ known to criminal law.”

  “What I said to the caretaker won’t spoil things, will it?”

  “I don’t know. We can’t have everything, chum. I’ll add only this: if the jury really wants to find you insane, wants to let you go, all hell won’t stop ’em. Now so long. I’ve got work to do.” I turned to leave.

  “Good night, Mr. Biegler,” the Lieutenant said. “Hope you have good fishing.”

  I wheeled around. “How in hell did you know that?”

  Smiling: “Saw your rod case and gear in your car—from my cell window. I don’t think you would have left them bake all day in the sun unless you were going fishing directly from here.”

  This poor man was crazy; crazy like a fox. “Thanks,” I said, smiling sheepishly. The Lecture was over. My smart lieutenant had passed with flying colors. I also suspected that at times my nimble fox might have been several jumps ahead of me.

  chapter 7

  That night I slept poorly. A lawyer caught in the toils of a murder case is like a man newly fallen in love: his involvement is total. All he can think about, talk about, brood about, dream about, is his case, his lovely lousy goddam case. Whether fishing, shaving, even lying up with a dame, it is always there, the pulsing eternal insistent thump thump of his case. Alas, it is true: the lover in love and the lawyer in murder share equally one of the most exquisite, baffling, delightful, frustrating, exhilarating, fatiguing, intriguing experiences known to man. And it looked like I was rapidly falling in “love.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Clerk,” I said to Sulo. “Is there a Lieutenant Manion still registered here? Or has he checked out?” I had been using the same old gambit on Sulo for ten years and it never failed to convulse him. It didn’t fail now. For Sulo was of the old school; old jokes to him were like old cheese: their very mustiness seemed to make him relish them all the more. In fact I had him in stitches; we two were bad enough to be on TV; Sulo was the perfect straight man.

  “Dat’s a good one, Polly,” Sulo gasped, when he had partly recovered. Still convulsed, he reached for his big brass key. “Ho, ho, ho … . I—I go get your soldier man. He, he … . You can use Sheriff’s office you like. He be out road patrol.”

  It was reassuring to learn that the relentless bloodhound of a sheriff was already abroad stamping out crime. It also gave me a chance to have a quiet chat with Sulo. “Sit down a minute, Sulo,” I said. “We haven’t had a little visit for a long time.” I felt like an insurance solicitor coddling a hot prospect. “Tell me, how’s your lumbago?”

  “Sure, sure, sure,” Sulo said, gratefully sitting down under the portrait of the man coveted by the F.B.I.

  “Say, Sulo,” I said, before he could launch on the saga of his lumbago, “I don’t suppose you were on duty the night they brought Lieutenant Manion in? You’re still always on days, aren’t you?”

  “Sure, you bet, Polly, always on days. Too old now dis night business.”

  “Hm … . Lieutenant Manion wants to hire me for his lawyer Sulo. But I don’t know, I don’t know.” I pondered the problem with my old friend. “Say, what kind of a woman is his wife?”

  Sulo brightened visibly. “Oh, nice lady, nice nice lady.” He shook his head appreciatively. “Good looker, too—even with dose black eyes.” Sulo winked and brought both arms out and down across his chest in an abrupt half-moon. “Good bumps, too. Boy, oh boy, like dat what-you-call, Maryland Monroe … .”

  “Why, Sulo, you old goat,” I reproved him. “And don’t be carried away. Remember what happened to Barney Quill.”

  I’d lost Sulo, he was off again, drunk with laughter, and while I waited for him to collect himself I reflected what a nice thoughtful democratic guy I was to be passing the time of day with my old former fellow officer. And busy as I was, too. The thought gave me a warm glow. It also occurred to me what a shabby trick it was for me to be sitting there trying to pump this affably innocent old jailer. How crafty and double-crossing could a man get? And all to save the skin of a man who, for simple honor and dignity and the plain virtues, probably wasn’t fit to shine Sulo’s shoes. But was I doing any of it for Lieutenant Manion? Wasn’t it really all for Polly Biegler? In any case the very least I could do was to be frank with my old friend.

  Sulo had recovered and was feeling the small of his back, a sure prelude to a blow-by-blow account of his lumbago. “Look, Sulo,” I said, heading him off, “I’ve got to ask you a question, one simple question. If you don’t know the answer I wish you’d tell me. If you do know and don’t want to tell me, that’s all right, too. Is that fair enough?”

  “Shoot, Polly,” Sulo said soberly.

  “Do you know whether Barney Quill raped Laura Manion?”

  Sulo surveyed me steadily with his faded blue eyes. He glanced away and back again. “You ask me, Polly?” he said, shrugging evasively. “How can I know—I was home in bed. Vy don’t you ask dat lady? She was dere.”

  We sat silently. Sulo now clearly knew I was pumping him, but at least I had leveled with him. I unwrapped a cigar and chewed the end but did not light it. I had to level still more. “Don’t tell me if you don’t want to, Sulo,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to hurt or involve you for the world. But I’ve got to decide whether I’m taking this case—I’ve got to know today, this morning, in a few minutes. And if I take it I want to win it, it’s damned important to me as well as to the Lieutenant. And if I can really know that Barney raped this woman I think maybe I can win it.” I paused. “That’s the straight dope, Sulo.”

  Sulo glanced furtively around the room. “I tink maybe he did rape her,” he said quietly. The way he said it made the word sound like “rap,” which, upon reflection, still did not make me quibble.

  “How do you know?”

  “Dat lie ‘tector test say she tell da trut’,” Sulo said.

  “Are you sure, I mean about the lie-detector results, Sulo?” I pressed. “I’ve got to be sure.”

  “State police he tell Sheriff; Sheriff he tell me,” Sulo said simply. “Dat’s true, Polly. I vould not tell you lie about it.”

  “Thanks, Sulo,” I said, briefly taking his hand. “That’s all I want to know. I feel better already, much better. I guess you can fetch down the Lieutenant now.”

  “Sure, sure, sure,” Sulo said, opening and clanking shut his iron door and locking himself in. He paused on the other side and regarded me thoughtfully through the bars. He smiled faintly. “T‘ank you, Polly,” he said dryly. “My lumbago, t’anks, she’s to be much better, much much better.” He turned and shuffled away upstairs, chuckling to himself. Good old Sulo, good old lumbago.

  Just as a lawyer needn’t love his client to adequately represent him, so he doesn’t necessarily have to believe in his moral or legal innocence. But sometimes it helps, and it was helping now,
and I felt greatly relieved to have had my little chat with Sulo. So the lie-detector test showed she was telling the truth, had it? Was the prosecution going to sit on the results? If they were, how was I going to get them before the jury? Especially since the results of these tests were in any case inadmissible in court? Well, I’d have to face that headache later on … .

  Sulo had told me more than he realized, much more. This was, in fact, the first big break in the case. For now I not only had confirmation that the lady had been “rapped,” important as that was, but also that her entire story was substantially true. I knew from experience that during the polygraph test the thorough state police would have covered every detail of the case with her: the events before the rape, the rape itself, and the scene later at the trailer park gate where Barney had allegedly beaten her up. And that last part would absolve my man from any lingering suspicion that he had himself beaten her up in a fit of jealous rage. It further tended to buttress the truth of Lieutenant Manion’s story of his movements after his wife had reached the trailer. Now I not only knew these things were true but I knew that the prosecution also knew them. While all this still did not afford Lieutenant Manion an open-and-shut legal defense, I now knew what the People knew and, perhaps equally important, I further knew that they didn’t know I knew. It was all a little complicated and I wasn’t sure yet where it led. Perhaps I could lure the prosecution into trying to hide the results … . I heard the clank and creak of the iron door.

  “Good morning, Mister Biegler,” the familiar mocking voice said.

  “Oh, it’s you, Lieutenant. Good morning.”

  “You seem buried in thought this morning.”

  I sniffed the air like a beagle. “Merely incipient coma induced by partial asphyxia.” I arose and held my hand toward the sheriff’s door. “Shall we retire to the lilac room and carry on? I’ll rally shortly.”