Anatomy of a Murder

by Robert Traver

  chapter 21

  The next morning, Saturday, the cars were parked solidly for blocks around the courthouse and I was glad that the thoughtful Sheriff had reserved parking space between the courthouse and jail. The line of people waiting to get in the courtroom, mostly women, stretched clean down the marble stairs and along the entire main downstairs corridor and through the door and down the cement stairs and out upon the leaf-strewn sidewalk. I recalled a picture I had once seen of a long straggling file of Alaskan gold-rushers toiling and plodding their way over Chilkoot Pass. These dedicated native pilgrims seemed to sense that this was the big day and most of them had paper bags and lunch boxes so that they would not lose their places, such was their passion as students of homicide, as Judge Weaver had wryly observed.

  When I had fought my way upstairs the jurors and the Manions were already in their respective places; I nodded at Dr. Smith, who sat in one of the lawyers’ chairs behind Laura; Parnell sat gravely by his door; and the Sheriff’s men were just admitting the clacking advance guard of the thundering lunch-laden horde. A whole flock of city reporters was huddled earnestly around the press table talking with Bob Birkey, the local Gazette man; it seemed reinforcements had arrived on the night train. Rover and his flashlight had triumphed over all … . Laura leaned over and whispered to me, nodding toward Parnell. “That old man sitting over there just left this envelope on the table for you—the same nice old man who handed me Rover when I testified yesterday. Who is he, anyway?”

  “He’s my chief veterinarian, Laura, in charge of kennels and flashlight batteries in all my murder cases,” I said, smiling and tearing the envelope open.

  “Polly,” Parnell’s note read, “call the hotel desk clerk as your first witness. His name is Clarence Furlong. Credit Maida with a touchdown on this one. The rest of us clean forgot. Don’t forget the money. Good luck. Parn.”

  I glanced anxiously over at Parnell and he winked and looked away like an innocent choirboy. What a man, what a man … .

  The door to the Judge’s chambers sighed open and the Judge came swishing out with long purposeful strides, followed by Claude Dancer and Mitch, like two altar boys in the wake of a priest. When the Judge had mounted to his place Max hammered us to our feet, bawling for his lost dogies, and the courtroom was finally seated. At length a bated silence fell over the courtroom, a sort of rustling uneasy hush, like a shower of autumn leaves. The Judge’s nod at my table abruptly lit the wick of combat.

  “The defense will call Clarence Furlong,” I said, praying silently that Parnell knew what he was about.

  Mary Pilant’s little desk clerk padded his way to the stand, taking short dancing-master steps, not unlike the dog Rover, and it would not have surprised me had he held a lighted flashlight in his mouth as he turned timidly after the oath to face me from the witness chair. It was a curious sensation to be about to examine a witness one had never properly interviewed. I took a deep breath and plunged ahead on the assumption that we two had been raised on the same neighborhood sand lot.

  “Your name please?” I asked.

  “Clarence Furlong,” the witness answered.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Thunder Bay, Michigan.”

  “Occupation?”

  “Desk clerk at the Thunder Bay Inn.”

  “How long have you been so engaged?”

  “Nearly four years.”

  “And were you so engaged on the night of the shooting in this case, that is, on the night of August fifteenth and the early morning hours of August sixteenth?”

  “I was.”

  “And where in the hotel were you working?”

  “At the desk in the main lobby.”

  “And I ask you whether or not your desk commanded a view of the main entrance?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And also the stairway to the bar?”

  “It did.”

  “In other words you could see any one who entered or left the lobby by either route?”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “Now I ask you, Mr. Furlong,” I said, “if you saw your late ein-ployer Barney Quill in the lobby the night of the shooting?”

  Quietly: “I did.”

  “When?”

  “He came into and passed through the lobby at approximately midnight—possibly five minutes before.”

  “Using what entrance?”

  “The main entrance.”

  “Was there anyone else in the lobby?”

  “There was not. I was alone.”

  I paused and took the plunge. “Will you now please describe the general appearance of Mr. Quill when you saw him?”

  Mr. Dancer was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. The appearance of the deceased would have no bearing on the issues of this case. Irrelevant, immaterial.”

  “Mr. Biegler?” the Judge inquired. “Why do you offer this testimony?”

  I arose by my table. “Both the defense and certain of the People’s witnesses have now clearly injected the issue of possible rape into this case. If there is anything to this, Your Honor, the deceased must have come fresh from his attack.” I paused. “It occurred to me that the jury might be mildly interested in learning about the appearance of Mr. Quill. I shall of course abide by the court’s ruling.” I sat down.

  I now felt that it did not make much difference which way the court ruled: if the Judge kept the clerk’s story out, the jury would undoubtedly resentfully imagine it; if he let it in, well, then it was in. Perhaps it was even better to let it out, or at least safer. The Judge resolved the dilemma. “I am going to permit the answer,” he ruled.

  “Mr. Quill was disheveled and panting as though he had been running,” the witness replied. “His hair was mussed and his trousers and white shirt were soiled as though he had fallen.”

  “Did he pause or speak to you?”

  “No, he hurried through the lobby and up the stairs without a word.”

  “Did you see him later that evening—in the lobby, I mean?” I asked.

  “Yes, in about ten minutes or so he came downstairs and, after pausing at my desk a moment, proceeded down to the bar. I never saw the man alive after that.”

  “What was his appearance then?”

  “He appeared to have changed his clothes and washed and tidied himself up.”

  “How about his hair?”

  “It was combed.”

  “How about his breathing? Was he still panting?”

  “He seemed very calm and composed—almost icily so.”

  I paused and felt my way: “You have mentioned his pausing at your desk. Did any words pass between you?”

  The clerk grew thoughtful. “No,” he said. “Not any words.”

  The witness had stressed “words” and I still felt my way along. “Did anything pass between you?” Pamell had cryptically mentioned money.

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Money. He handed—rather slid me—a twenty-dollar bill.”

  Ah, so Parnell had scored again. There was a rustle and stir in the courtroom and I paused to ponder the situation. The obvious thing was to press on and ask the witness why money had passed, but since no words had passed I sensed he could not very well testify to that but could only guess, which would only give Mr. Dancer a free pounce with another successful objection. Perhaps it was better to let it rest right there and let Mr. Dancer dig it out himself if he dared. There was one final question.

  “Mr. Furlong,” I said, “had Mr. Quill ever done anything like that before—silently given you twenty-dollar bills or any amount?”

  “No, sir,” the witness answered.

  “Your witness, Mr. Dancer,” I said.

  Claude Dancer and Mitch were engaged in a whispered huddle while all of the jurors sat watching them with interest. I glanced at Parnell who sat staring pensively at the jury.

  Mitch arose to his feet. “No questions,” he said.

  “Next witness,” the Judge said.


  I arose to my feet. “Lieutenant Frederic Manion,” I said.

  I had to admit that the Lieutenant made an imposing figure as he marched to the stand, erect and military looking in his fresh uniform, with all the colorful campaign ribbons and battle stripes; and the female contingent among the students of homicide evidently agreed, as their heavy sighs indicated. The Judge scowled and tentatively fondled his gavel as the Lieutenant was sworn and sat down and faced me. I felt like a tired old horse on a muddy track heading into the home stretch. “Don’t falter now, Biegler,” I thought. “Run, dammit, run.”

  “Will you please state your name?” I said.

  “Frederic Manion,” he replied.

  “What is your business or profession?”

  “Professional soldier.”

  “What is your rank?”

  “First lieutenant in the United States Army.”

  “How long have you been a soldier?”

  “Nearly sixteen years.”

  “Now, Lieutenant, where were you when your wife left the trailer for the hotel bar the night of the shooting?”

  The Lieutenant went on in a calm low voice and told of his napping after supper; how Laura had awakened him to ask him if he wanted to go to the hotel bar; how he had told her to go along and he would join her later; and how he had then again fallen asleep.

  “When did you next wake up?” I said, plunging into the midst of it.

  “When I thought I heard the sound of screaming.”

  “Go on, tell us what happened,” I said.

  “Well, I got off the bed and went to the door and then Laura—my wife—fell into my arms.”

  “Please describe what you saw.”

  “She was hysterical; her face was swollen; her skirt was tom; her hair was in her eyes; she was crying and couldn’t speak.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I got her in on the day bed and got some cold cloths and tried to quiet her down and find out what happened.”

  “Did you finally find out?”

  Quietly: “I did.”

  “Now, without going into details now, will you tell us what your wife told you had happened to her?”

  “Yes. She told me she had been beaten and raped by”—the Lieutenant paused as though he hated to say the words, and indeed he fairly spat them when he spoke—“by Barney Quill.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I stayed and tried to comfort her and quiet her down. Then I tried to get her out of her clothes—she was helpless and still half-hysterical—and then I—I saw the evidence on her legs.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I wiped it off and burned it in our incinerator.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I went to a little stand and took my pistol out of the drawer and put it in my pocket and left.”

  “Did you tell your wife you were leaving or to your knowledge did she see you take the pistol?”

  “No, I said nothing and I don’t think she knew I was leaving. She has already testified she did not.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I stepped outside the trailer and stood in the dark for a few minutes to adjust my eyes. I also wanted to make sure that—that the deceased wasn’t lurking around out there. Then I went to the tavern.”

  “Walk or ride?”

  “I rode in my automobile.”

  “Do you remember opening the gate?”

  “I do not.”

  “Or remember driving to the tavem?”

  “I do not.”

  I paused. I was coming to one of the crucial parts of our case and I wanted to get it right and make sure the jury heard it. “Lieutenant,” I said, “what was your purpose in going to the hotel bar?”

  The Lieutenant flushed darkly as he spoke. “I was going to grab that individual, so help me.”

  “What were you going to do with him?”

  The Lieutenant spoke rapidly. “I’m not quite sure. Grab him and hold him. A man like that could not be at large.”

  “I ask you whether or not you had any intention of killing or harming him?”

  The Lieutenant breathed deeply before he spoke. “I had no intention of killing or harming him but if that man had made one false move I would have killed him.”

  I paused. Well, it was in now; for better or worse our man had now declared that he had gone to the bar to “grab” Barney Quill, an assertion which I hoped gave us sufficient evidence to warrant an instruction from the court on the right of arrest. If so, it would help answer many perplexing defense questions.

  “Well, when you got to the tavern with your car what did you do?”

  “I remember I got out of the car and walked into the tavern. It seemed almost as though he was expecting me. I wasn’t even in the tavern when I saw him watching me through his rear bar window. I watched him. And he kept watching me. As I approached the bar he whirled around on me.”

  “What happened after that?”

  Again the sighing deep breathing. “I can’t—from there on it is a jumble. My next recollection is back in the trailer. My next coherent recollection is back in the trailer.”

  “Can you illustrate for us, Lieutenant, what position the deceased assumed when he turned around?”

  The Lieutenant’s words came in breathless spurts. “As I say, he turned … To the best of my recollection he turned to his right … his left hand on the bar … I cannot recall seeing his right arm.”

  “You say his left hand on the bar or arm and hand?”

  “His left forearm. He kind of leaned.”

  “State whether or not you remember driving back to the trailer.”

  “No, sir; I don’t.”

  “What happened when you got back to the trailer?”

  “I guess I came to.”

  “What were you doing when you came to?” I pushed on.

  “I was standing with the empty pistol in my hand.”

  “How do you know it was empty? Before you answer I would like to show you People’s Exhibit Number Eleven, and I ask you if this is your pistol.”

  “It is mine, sir.”

  “Now how did you know it was empty?”

  “This is a semi-automatic pistol—it is recoil operated. This gadget sticks up on the top of the magazine when the last round goes off—and there is not another shell. The piece here holds it back—you can’t aim it and you can’t release this.”

  “In other words by looking at it you could tell it was empty?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is that substantially as Detective Sergeant Durgo explained it the other day?”

  “It was near it. I think he probably knows more about side arms than I do.”

  At this point I purposely did not get into how the Lieutenant had got the lüger; I had a little trap set out myself for this one, and if the clever Mr. Dancer evaded it I could still bring it out on re-direct.

  “How many people did you see in the bar that night?”

  “Only one—the deceased.”

  “There has been testimony here that a number of people were in the tavern and at the bar, and that some of them greeted you. Did you observe any of them or were you aware of their greetings?”

  “I saw and heard nothing.”

  “Now you of course saw and heard these eyewitnesses testify here in court earlier this week?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And did you know prior to that night some of those who claimed to have greeted you?”

  “Yes, mostly by sight, but I had spoken to them on previous occasions. The people up there were very friendly.”

  “Did you speak to anyone at the bar that night?”

  “No, sir.”

  “To your best recollection did any one speak to you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Including the deceased.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Do you remember leaving the tavern?”

  “I do not.”

  “O
r talking to the bartender or anyone outside?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you remember returning to the trailer?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What is the first thing you recollect?”

  “I first recall sitting in the trailer with my wife and telling her I guessed I had shot someone, probably the deceased. Then I went over and told Mr. Lemon what I believed I had done.”

  “That is the deputized caretaker of the trailer park?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why did you go to him?”

  “Well, he was the only one who seemed to be in charge, either there or in the village for that matter.”

  “Did you go to him because he was a deputy sheriff?”

  “I may have. At any rate I went to him.”

  Claude Dancer was scribbling furiously and I knew he would pounce on all this deputy business. “Did you think of Mr. Lemon being a deputy before you went to the bar that night?”

  “I did not. I did not think of Mr. Lemon or his being a deputy or about anything but grabbing that man.”

  I paused and I pitched a fast ball, as much for Mr. Dancer as anyone. “If you had thought of Mr. Lemon and remembered he was a deputy would you have gone to him?”

  “No, sir, I would not have, any more than I’d have got my old father out of bed to go gather in this—this man.”

  “Do you recollect what you told Mr. Lemon?”

  “Not exactly. I assume I told him what he has testified to here.”

  After that I quickly took the Lieutenant over his knowledge of Barney’s prowess with pistols; his medals; the fact that it was common knowledge that he possessed pistols and sometimes carried them; his experience at Judo; and, finally, that the Lieutenant possessed this knowledge the night when he went to the bar to “grab” Barney. I purposely avoided his war record, feeling Mr. Dancer would glean more enjoyment rooting for it himself. I then brought out, over the Dancer’s strenuous objection, that the Lieutenant had been obliged to retain an Army psychiatrist for financial reasons. Then:

  “Lieutenant Manion,” I asked, “on the night of this shooting did you love your wife?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “Do you still love her?”

  He frowned and breathed deeply, clasping the arms of his chair until his knuckles showed white. “Very much, sir.”

  I turned to Claude Dancer. “Your witness,” I said and retired to my table.