Anatomy of a Murder

by Robert Traver

  Mitch got up following the recess and addressed the court. “Your Honor, we have now obtained the three photographs of Mrs. Manion taken shortly after the shooting, and we tender them to the defense.” He walked over and handed me the three missing photographs. The Lieutenant and Laura and I studied them; Parnell’s little old caretaker had described Laura as a “mess,” and these pictures richly bore him out; her hair was streaming in her eyes; her face was streaked with dirt and tears; and she possessed two of the loveliest shiners west of Rocky Marciano’s former training quarters.

  “Thank you, Mr. Prosecutor,” I said. “The lost sheep have are-turned. But I don’t want these pictures for my scrapbook: I want them in evidence in this court. Your photographer took them, not mine. I can’t get them in. Don’t you propose to introduce them in evidence as you have all the others? It will not be necessary to recall the photographer—I’ll gladly stipulate.”

  I had put Mitch on the spot, and he glanced at Claude Dancer for succor, and the little man was shrewd enough to see the red light ahead. He nodded the signal and Mitch murmured “O.K.” and the missing pictures were swiftly marked by the reporter and received in evidence as People’s exhibits.

  I arose by my chair. “Your Honor,” I said sweetly, “the defense requests the court’s permission to have the jury look at these latest exhibits at this time—that is, if the People raise no objection.”

  Mitch’s hot spots were coming in bunches and he again sought a cue from his assistant and again got the nod—all of which little pantomime the intent jurors carefully absorbed, I noted without dismay. “No objection, Your Honor,” he said.

  “Very well, Mr. Biegler, the People’s photographs of the defendant’s wife may be shown to the jury at this time,” the Judge said.

  I lolled back in my chair, much like a languid tourist with a hamper of beer plunking for bass from a public pier. “I thought maybe Prosecutor Lodwick would graciously hand them to the jury,” I said. “He now has them, he’s so much closer and so much younger, alas—and he’s lately enjoyed such a good rest, too.”

  Mitch flushed and shot me a dark look, and wordlessly shoved the pictures at the nearest juror. The juror stared at the pictures intently while the others curiously leaned over and craned to see.

  “The People will call Dr. Adelord Dompierre,” Claude Dancer quickly announced. His strategy was transparent—to get another witness going to distract the jurors from looking at the pictures of the ravished Laura and her elegant black eyes. This became even more clear when he gestured and nodded at Mitch to start examining the witness, who had now reached the stand.

  “Your name, please?” Mitch obediently began.

  “Your Honor,” I said, “may I suggest that the examination of this new witness be held up briefly until the jurors have completed examining the exhibits—that’s if Mr. Dancer should not feel compelled to object to an examination of his own exhibits.” The withering look the little man shot at me made Mitch’s a lingering caress by comparison.

  “Of course not, Counselor,” Claude Dancer purred suavely, and I grinned back my appreciation of his control and gameness under adverse fire.

  The jurors examined the pictures with loving care and finally handed them back to the first juror, who handed them to Mitch, who moved over and dropped them on the mounting pile of People’s exhibits as though they were bubbling hot pizzas fresh from the oven.

  “The examination may proceed,” the Judge said dryly.

  Mitch fought his way through the preliminaries—name, address and all—and brought out the doctor’s qualifications and then led up to his taking of the slides from Laura the night of the shooting. For this was the county jail physician, an amiable and moderately distracted little man who pattered along in a state of semi-retirement, occupying his time by occasionally delivering a new baby, but mostly in delivering Max’s more regular jail tenants from the screaming meanies.

  “Did you make a test on the person of Mrs. Laura Manion for the presence of sperm?” Mitch went on.

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  Consulting a notebook: “I was called to the jail about five A.M. on August sixteenth.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Do?” The witness spread his hands. “I take one vaginal slide and I take another deep vaginal slide and I have them tested for sperm.”

  “What were the results of your test?”

  “They were negative, yes.”

  “Your witness.”

  I arose and advanced to the People’s exhibits and picked up the pictures of Laura and silently handed them to the doctor. “Doctor,” I said, “did you notice any bruises or marks on the person of Mrs. Manion when you examined her?” It was like asking a dripping Eskimo in a freshly tipped kayak if the water was cold.

  “Oh, sure, sure—she was pretty bad, especially on the face and neck, like it shows.”

  “Were you instructed to look for and note her welts and bruises?”

  “No, no.”

  “So your remarks about what you observed about her bruises and contusions was merely incidental to the main business of taking your slides?” I said, relieving the witness of the pictures.

  “Yes. A man couldn’t help but notice.”

  “And did you ever tell the prosecuting officers about your findings concerning any bruises and the like?”

  “No.”

  “And were you ever asked by them about them?”

  “No.”

  “Regarding the smear, how did you take it?”

  “Well, I had the woman lie down and I took the smears with an applicator.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “A long slender stick with a swab of cotton on the end, so.”

  “Did you dilate the vaginal orifice?”

  “I didn’t have to—there was no difficulty, no.”

  “Did you know when you came to the jail to take the smears that there was some question whether a woman had been raped?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Did you know her age—whether she was a mature woman or a virgin of fifteen?”

  “No.”

  “So you took a chance that you might not have to dilate with a speculum?”

  “Well, yes.” He spread his hands. “I have no speculum.”

  “But isn’t that standard good practice, Doctor, to use a speculum or expander when taking a vaginal slide?”

  “Not necessarily. Anyway I had none.”

  “But aren’t there situations where a doctor might have to use a speculum to properly take a vaginal slide?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Wouldn’t it be fair to say, Doctor, that the taking of vaginal slides is not and has never been one of your specialties?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “During the last ten years how many vaginal slides have you taken at the county jail?”

  The doctor shrugged. “Oh, maybe four-five. I don’t keep track.”

  “And most of those were for gonorrhea?”

  “All of them—except this.”

  “So that during the last ten years you’ve taken one set of slides to determine the presence of sperm?—this one?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “And what did you do with these slides?”

  “I took them to the laboratory at St. Margaret’s Hospital.”

  “And who worked them up?”

  “A technician.”

  “What kind of technician?”

  “Oh, X-ray, like that.”

  “Is he a doctor or a pathologist or an expert in the field of working up slides to detect the presence of sperm?”

  “He is a technician.”

  “I see—and how old is this technician?”

  “Young fellow—thirty or so.”

  “His main job is to take X-ray pictures of people with broken legs and the like?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doctor, would not the normal or at least the safest procedure have been to take the s
lides to an expert?”

  Shrugging: “Well, the police were in a big hurry and I knew this young fellow came on at seven.”

  “It was swifter to have the X-ray boy do it if not safer, is that it?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose.”

  “But it would have been safer to bring it to an expert if not so swift?”

  “Yes.”

  “And especially wouldn’t this be true, Doctor, if a possible question of rape hung on the results?”

  The doctor was getting a little despondent. “Yes,” he said.

  “Now the local newspaper for the evening of August sixteenth states that you reported you found no sign of rape. Is that a correct report of your findings?”

  “No, I didn’t say anything like that.”

  “And you don’t know, then, whether or not this woman had been raped?”

  “No. It is impossible to tell that on a mature woman.”

  “And on any question of rape, Doctor, are you for your part willing to accept the word of those who may be in a better position to know?”

  Relieved: “Gladly.”

  “No further questions,” I said.

  “Back to you, Mr. Prosecutor,” the Judge said.

  Mitch didn’t need a cue from his assistant on this one. “No ques-. tions,” he hurriedly said.

  “Call your next witness.”

  “Your Honor,” Mitch said, “Lieutenant Webley, who accompanied and assisted Detective Sergeant Durgo in the investigation of this case has been stricken with a virus infection since the start of this trial. He is presently in the hospital under a doctor’s care. We can produce his doctor if … .” Mitch paused and looked over at me.

  I arose and addressed the court. I certainly did not want to insist upon another witness coming in and repeating the story of the Lieutenant’s damaging admissions on the night of the shooting (during recess the Lieutenant had told me he had no recollection of making them) and I further felt that nobody could have improved on the good things Julian Durgo had had to say.

  “The doctor is not necessary, Your Honor,” I said. “I have heard of Lieutenant Webley’s unfortunate illness and we are satisfied that his testimony is largely cumulative and the defense waives his production here as a witness.”

  “Very well,” Judge Weaver said, “the witness may be excused. Call your next.”

  “A moment please, Your Honor,” Claude Dancer said, and the Judge nodded and Mitch and his assistant fell into a prolonged whispered huddle from which Mitch finally emerged to arise and announce, “Your Honor, the People rest.”

  A milestone in the trial had been reached—but had it? “Your Honor,” I said, “I believe the People inadvertently forgot some unfinished business. I had not completed my cross-examination of the People’s witness, Alphonse Paquette, the bartender at the Thunder Bay Inn. I rather think the time is now ripe.”

  “I believe your point is well taken, Mr. Biegler,” the Judge said, looking at Mitch’s table. “Gentlemen?”

  Claude Dancer half rose from his chair and snapped: “The People recall the witness Paquette.”

  I carefully watched the sleek little bartender detach himself from the body of the courtroom and hasten to the stand, holding up his hand for the oath.

  “You are already sworn,” the Judge said kindly. “One oath to a customer. Please be seated.”

  “The People tender the witness,” Claude Dancer said.

  “Your witness, Mr. Biegler,” the Judge said, and I got up and moved slowly before the witness, who sat facing me tense and very still. It was like approaching a strange beach full of hidden land mines. What would be my opening gambit, my trial balloon? But why beat around the bush?—the little man was either with us or against us.

  chapter 16

  “The subject, Mr. Paquette, is pistols,” I said. “Was Barney Quill an expert pistol shot?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” spouted Mr. Dancer, like the Old Faithful geyser in my fifth-grade reader. “The court has already ruled on that. Irrelevant and immaterial. Absolutely beside the point.”

  “But the People’s own witness, Detective Sergeant Durgo, has now made the deceased an expert pistol shot,” I said. “We seek only to develop that interesting subject.”

  The Judge stared out at the clock. “Strictly speaking you may have a point, Mr. Dancer,” he said. “But the subject is now in the case, and this witness is now on the stand. Moreover he has been in attendance here at public expense since the start of the trial. And I presume that he, like most of us, has occasionally to work for a living. The witness may answer.”

  I held my breath for the answer.

  “I would say he was an expert, sir,” the witness answered.

  “Objection, objection. Witness not shown to be qualified to pass expert opinion.”

  “I’ll get to that, Your Honor,” I said, “—Mr. Dancer please kindly permitting.”

  “Proceed, proceed. I’ll reserve my ruling,” the Judge said.

  “Upon what do you base your conclusion, Mr. Paquette, that Barney was an expert pistol shot?” I asked.

  This witness was a sensitive soul, I discovered; he was now getting a little annoyed with Claude Dancer, too. “Because I’ve seen him shoot against the best and beat ’em,” he said. “He’s won dozens and scores of first prizes at shoots all over the Peninsula. The man was deadly.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I’ve seen Barney bring down partridge on the wing with a pistol—in fact it’s the only way he hunted them.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Barney and I used to go out to the garbage dump with an accumulation of empty bottles from the bar. My job was to toss them up in the air. Barney’d shoot them as fast as I threw them and holler for more. He rarely missed.”

  “And was Barney’s prowess with pistols generally known around Thunder Bay?”

  “It was.” The witness paused. “Mr. Quill was never one to hide his light under a bushel. He kept his medals on the back-bar.”

  I looked over at Claude Dancer. “Do the People still press their objection?”

  “Ruling, Your Honor,” Claude Dancer said, fighting gamely to the end.

  “I’m afraid the People’s objection is overruled,” the Judge said dryly.

  I thought I detected a slight smile flit across the face of the witness. “Passing now to any pistols possessed by Mr. Quill,” I said. “Did he own any?”

  “He has owned many pistols—sometimes as high as fifteen or twenty at a time. I suppose he could have been called an amateur collector. He kept buying and selling and trading them. At the time of the”—the witness paused—“during this past summer he was down to six of his favorites.”

  “The witness is coming, the witness is coming,” I thought. “And where did he keep these pistols?” I pressed exultantly.

  The witness hesitated for a moment. “He kept two in his quarters upstairs in the hotel,” he said.

  “And the other four?” I said, asking the inevitable question.

  The witness grew silent and looked up at the skylight. About then I would have given my best fly rod to have been able to peek into his darting mind. The courtroom grew hushed; even the whispering women now seemed to sense that this was a pregnant occasion.

  “He kept them down in the barroom,” the witness answered in a low voice.

  “Loaded?”

  “Invariably.”

  I glanced quickly at Parnell, who sat stoic as a Buddha; then I was back at the witness. “And where in the barroom?” I said.

  “Behind the bar.”

  “And where behind the bar?” I dug away.

  “He kept two on a little shelf he’d built in the middle—and one each at either end.”

  “Were they visible to persons standing in front?”

  “They were not.”

  “And what was the purpose of these pistols?”

  The eyes of the witness flickered ever so little and I was afraid I had pressed him too f
ar. “Protection,” he said. “Protection against trouble.”

  “Trouble?” I said.

  “Holdups.”

  This opened up sylvan vistas but I did not follow them; I could not risk drying up this witness now. There was irony here: I had once promised faithfully to clobber this little man; now I sought only ways not to ruffle him. “And were these four pistols behind the bar the night of the shooting?” I asked, trying to keep the glee out of my voice.

  “They were not,” the witness replied. My heart sank. Was all this a clever trap the witness and Dancer had worked out? And why, oh why, had I asked that one fatal question too much? But if I hadn’t Dancer surely would have … .

  “Where were they?”

  “I had locked them up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of Mr. Quill’s drinking and general behavior.”

  Up, down; up, down … . “Did Mr. Quill consent to this?”

  “He did not.”

  I hated to ask the next question, but I had to. If I didn’t … “Was it these four bar pistols you locked up or all of them?” I asked, and held my breath.

  “Only the four. Mr. Quill wouldn’t give up the others. We didn’t press the point after he promised to keep them up in his rooms.”

  “We?”

  “After he promised Miss Mary Pilant and me. She was the hostess upstairs.”

  We were getting on delicate territory, and I veered away. I felt like a man walking barefoot on broken glass—with the ghostly Barney on hand shooting up more empty bottles. “Was the fact that you’d locked up these four guns general knowledge?”

  “It was known only to Mr. Quill and Miss Pilant and me.”

  “And can you tell us more about why you felt obliged to lock up the four bar guns?” I said, cautiously feeding out more rope, reluctantly forsaking the role of the probing cross-examiner. I sensed I now had to allow this man room for retreat if I inadvertently pressed too far upon sensitive territory. The position was unique; I’d never before confronted it in a courtroom.

  The witness grew thoughtful. “Well,” he said slowly, “about two weeks before the shooting Mr. Quill began drinking more than usual. He grew irritable and quarrelsome and dimcult—and we decided it was best to remove the guns from the bar.”