by Ron Levitsky
Next, the prosecutor called Tom Cross Dog. While the police chief recounted his discovery of the body—all of which was included in the police report, Rosen again looked over his shoulder. Andi still wasn’t in court. He had assumed she would drive him into Deadwood for the hearing, but she hadn’t come for him or answered her phone. Finally he’d called Grace for a ride. Maybe Andi had been sent on another assignment by Jack Keeshin, who sat beside Grace taking notes.
Stevie Jenkins was another matter. Of course, the boy would be in school—that is, if he hadn’t run away again. Rosen was certain Stevie knew something about the murder, something he refused to tell. Why?
“Does the defense have any questions?”
Rosen rubbed his eyes. “Yes, Your Honor. Chief Cross Dog, where did you discover Mr. True Sky?”
“He was in a ditch, what’s called a vision pit, a few feet from the victim.”
“If Mr. True Sky did kill Albert Gates, isn’t it odd that he would remain at the scene of the crime for the police to find him?”
“Once again, I object,” Reedy said, popping up and shaking his head in disbelief. “Counsel is asking the witness for a conclusion.”
“I don’t mind answering,” Cross Dog said. “Saul True Sky’s full of crazy ideas. Don’t forget, he’s been drunk and killed once before.”
The judge rapped his gavel. “The objection’s well stated. Chief Cross Dog, you know better than to proceed before my ruling.”
Rosen asked the witness, “Did you test Saul True Sky to see if he’d been drinking?”
“No.”
“Did you find any evidence of liquor on the premises—liquor bottles, the smell of whiskey on his breath or clothing?”
Cross Dog shook his head.
Reading through the policeman’s report, Rosen continued, “You found something clutched in the victim’s fist.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what it was?”
“No. Some dirt and an old piece of metal. Just something he grabbed from the ground while dying, I guess.”
“Has it been tested to determine its identity?”
Taking a ball-point pen from his shirt pocket, the policeman clicked it nervously. “We . . . uh . . . couldn’t test it.”
Rosen leaned forward, suddenly alert.
“Why not?”
Cross Dog’s big shoulders shrugged. “We misplaced it. But it couldn’t be anything important.”
“Misplaced? You mean, you’ve lost this important piece of evidence?”
Reedy’s face grew flush. “Your Honor, it’s unfortunate that this piece of evidence has been misplaced—we’re sure only temporarily. It really has no bearing on the case.”
For the first time that morning, Judge Whistler almost smiled. “How can you be certain of that without first examining the evidence?”
“Indeed,” Rosen said. “Even if it’s found, one can certainly question the chain of evidence. And if the prosecution has been so sloppy with one piece of evidence, might we not suspect how the murder weapon—the stone—has been safeguarded?”
Once again Reedy stood. “As Dr. Gustafson will testify, there are absolutely no improprieties regarding our handling of the stone. I resent the defense counsel’s attempts to indicate otherwise.”
Rosen shook his head sadly. “And I resent the prosecutor popping up every few minutes like a jack-in-the-box to object to legitimate lines of questioning.”
Blushing more violently, Reedy sunk into his chair.
Judge Whistler rapped his gavel. “That’s enough, Mr. Rosen. I suggest that Mr. Reedy and Chief Cross Dog do everything in their power to locate the missing evidence. Any other questions?”
“No, Your Honor.”
The prosecution’s final witness was the medical examiner, Dr. Iver Gustafson, a hatchet-faced Swede who answered every question a little too loudly, as if his comments needed translating for the hearing-impaired. Gustafson confirmed the time of death at about ten o’clock, “give or take a half hour,” and that the blood found both on the stone used as the murder weapon and on True Sky’s sleeve was the same type as the victim’s.
Rosen said, “Chief Cross Dog has admitted ‘misplacing’ whatever was in the victim’s hand. Did you examine the hand and take any scrapings from it for analysis?”
“No. I examined the wound that killed him, and that was on the back of his skull, not his hand.”
“I see. Have you examined other murder victims before?”
“Thirteen. This makes fourteen. If you’re questioning my competency—”
“No, quite the contrary. As the prosecution has already stipulated, I believe fourteen murder examinations does indeed make you an expert. As an expert, how would you characterize this particular crime?”
The medical examiner shifted in his seat. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Would you say that this murder was premeditated or perhaps occurred spur-of-the-moment?”
“No way to say for sure.”
“Did you examine Albert Gates for any marks or wounds, besides those that killed him?”
“Sure did. Didn’t find any.”
“No signs of a struggle?”
“No.”
“As if the murderer snuck up behind Albert Gates and struck him.”
“Sure could’ve happened that way.”
“In your experience, did you ever know a man who, in such a calculated manner, murdered someone and then waited, with the victim’s blood on his sleeve and the murder weapon nearby, for the police to arrive?”
Reedy began to rise, then returned to his chair. His voice was softer, more tentative. “Objection. This calls for a conclusion.”
Rosen said, “Mr. Reedy has already stipulated this witness as an expert. All I’m doing is asking his expert opinion.”
“Sure would seem stupid for True Sky to hang around,” the doctor agreed.
Judge Whistler thumped his gavel. “Objection sustained.”
“I have one more question for the witness. Dr. Gustafson, I ask you again, and please think carefully. Did you find any other wounds on the deceased?”
“No . . . least ways, not connected to the murder.”
“There was something else.”
“Well, Gates had a bandaged cut on his right hand, just above the knuckles.”
“Could you determine what made the wound?”
The doctor stroked his chin. “I suppose any type of thin blade. A razor or penknife, for example. To tell the truth, I didn’t really pay much attention to the cut, because it obviously happened another time.”
“But recently . . . the same day perhaps?”
“Umm . . . maybe.”
“Thank you. No further questions.”
Rosen scratched the bandage on his left hand, where Stevie had cut him the night before.
After the doctor left the witness stand, Reedy shuffled through his notes. “Your Honor, the prosecution believes not only that a murder has occurred, but that there’s probable cause to bind over the accused, Saul True Sky, for the crime.”
Whistler turned to Rosen. “Your response, Counselor?”
“The defense has shown how unlikely it would’ve been for Saul True Sky to have committed the crime. In addition, at least part of the evidence has been tainted—we feel irreparably.”
The judge nodded. “Since this is a preliminary hearing, the court feels that the prosecution has established sufficient evidence to bind the defendant over. Let’s schedule—” he flipped a page in his calendar, “—next Wednesday for the arraignment. Your client can make his formal plea then, Mr. Rosen. If there’s nothing further from either of you gentlemen, court is adjourned.”
Above the din of the courtroom behind him, Rosen heard Judge Whistler calling his name. They met at the witness stand.
“A moment of your time, Counselor.”
Whistler’s jaw tightened, and, for the second time that morning, his pallid cheeks blushed. A judge always looked different
once he stepped down from the bench, more common and occasionally even coarse. However, remarkably thin and delicate, Whistler displayed a gentility that reminded Rosen of a flower pressed-between the pages of an old book.
“I wanted to talk to you, not about the case—that would be improper—but about the young assistant district attorney.”
“Reedy?”
“Yes, Blake Reedy. I understand you’re from back East. New York?”
“Washington.”
“Just as bad, I suppose. I’m talking about manners, what folks around here call common decency.”
“I don’t understand.”
Gripping the witness stand, Judge Whistler rose to his full height, almost as tall as Rosen. “You have the right to use every legitimate means to defend your client, especially when faced with a murder charge. But don’t kill the messenger because of the message.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Blake Reedy is an inexperienced trial lawyer who’s never argued anything of this importance. The district attorney, Ted Benton, has pneumonia, and his staff’s shorthanded at the moment. You were rough on the boy, rougher than you had to be.”
“I didn’t know.”
The judge nodded curtly. “I’ll accept that. If your client pleads not guilty at Wednesday’s arraignment, I’m setting the trial date for January. That will allow both sides sufficient time to develop their cases, as well as let Ted Benton recuperate before taking over from the young Mr. Reedy. Now, if anything I’ve said makes you want to move for my recusal, I’ll grant the motion.”
The two men stared at each other. Rosen had felt the weight of many judges’ eyes; most were cold as gunmetal. Whistler was different. It was difficult to guess his age—somewhere in his fifties or sixties. But his eyes, bright and innocent, belonged to a young man.
Rosen found himself shaking his head. “No, Your Honor, the defense is satisfied trying the case in your court.”
For a moment Whistler’s eyes widened. Then, looking away, he coughed softly.
“Cal?”
Rosen turned to see Pearl Whistler standing behind him. She wore a royal-blue dress with sheer blue stockings, which made her red hair even more striking.
“Cal, dear, is there anything wrong?”
“Not at all. Mr. Rosen and I were just discussing a point of law. We’re finished.”
“Well, then, come along. We do have that luncheon engagement in fifteen minutes.”
“Of course.” He reached for her hand. “Such soft white skin, like a dove resting in the branch of a gnarled oak.”
Laughing, she gently tugged his arm, and he followed her into chambers.
Rosen inhaled a fragrance that somehow seemed familiar. As he took his briefcase from the defense table, he felt a hand upon his shoulder.
“Well done,” Keeshin said with a broad smile.
Grace stood beside him. “Jack said there wasn’t any hope of winning the preliminary hearing, but you were real good.”
Keeshin continued, “The prosecutor looked like a boy scout out to win a merit badge. Andi certainly picked the right man for the job.”
Rosen scanned the courtroom. “Where is Andi?”
“I thought she’d be here, not just to cover the story, but as Grace’s friend. Perhaps she assumed that I’d write the article—she couldn’t take any photographs in the courtroom anyway. You were expecting her?”
Rosen shrugged.
“Don’t worry about Andi. I’ve found that she’s the proverbial free spirit. If you need a lift, I’d be happy to oblige. I do have a few errands to run here in Deadwood first.”
Glancing at Keeshin, Grace said, “I’ll be busy for awhile too. But if you’re willing to wait . . .”
“Thanks,” Rosen said, “but I’ve already asked Ike if he could take me back along with Saul.”
“Ike?” Keeshin laughed. “You’ll be traveling in the lap of luxury, all right. Maybe you’d better wait for me. I can spot Ike twenty minutes and still beat him home.”
“Thanks anyway.” To Grace, “Are you still planning to ride tomorrow morning?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good. I’ve never seen a reining competition before. See you then.”
Rosen walked from the courthouse and met the two Indians by Ike’s old van.
Ike slid the side door open. “Sit in back. You’ve got the longest legs, and I don’t want Saul getting his best suit dirty.”
The van was filled with long wooden boxes of carpentry tools, as well as pipes and plumbing fixtures. Leaning against the back of Saul’s seat, Rosen stretched between an old kitchen sink and a large wooden box of assorted nails.
“Here.” Ike handed him a Diet Pepsi. “I’ve sworn off the sauce. Saul says the spirits will help me find the good Indian path. He looks sharp wearing that tie, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“You did a good job in there. I liked the way you handled the prosecutor. It reminded me of ‘Perry Mason.’ I really like the detective Paul Drake more, because he does all the work, while Perry sits on his fat ass and shows off. But you do your, own legwork—that’s what they say on TV—so I guess you’re okay.”
Shifting his weight to the back of the seat, Rosen knocked against the wooden box of nails. He idly ran his hand through them, then took out a single iron nail, long and black and tapered to a point. There was something about its shape. Turning halfway, he handed the nail to Ike.
“That’s pretty odd-looking.”
“It’s an old one—the kind the blacksmith made before there were store-bought ones. He’d break off a piece from a thin iron bar, put it through a hole in his forge and hammer the end.”
“That’s why the head’s so thick.”
“Yeah. Folks used to call them Jesus nails, because they looked like what people thought was used to crucify Christ. A blacksmith named Carl Elton used to make them. He settled here around the time that mare of Little White Man gave birth to two foals at once, around 1910. He rented a room in Owen Manderson’s house, where Saul lives, and set up his forge on the ridge. We’re always finding his nails and other odd pieces of iron up there.” Ike returned the nail to Rosen. “You take it. White man’s metal don’t do us spiritual Indians no good.”
Rosen held the nailhead between his thumb and index finger. “Does Andi live right in Bear Coat?”
“On the edge of town, just off Main Street.”
“Drop me there.”
Settling back, Rosen closed his eyes. The next thing he felt was someone jostling his shoulder.
Ike leaned in from the van’s open door. “Wake up—we’re here. Andi lives in her father’s house, at the end of the block. I thought you could use the walk.”
Putting the nail in his shirt pocket, Rosen crawled from the van and stretched his legs. He reached for his briefcase.
“Thanks for the lift. See you later.”
The street was lined with two-story frame houses, old but well kept, with front-porch swings and potted plants decorating the steps. At the last house on the right, Andi’s Mercury stretched like an old tomcat across the driveway. Her home, white with green trim, was as neat as the others. Red roses bloomed in a series of flower boxes on the porch railing.
Climbing the stairs, Rosen paused to look at the flowers. His mother had loved roses. They were always his birthday present to her and, after she’d died, what he’d laid on her grave. Not quite seventeen, he’d been away two years by then, living with his uncle, and could see her only in snatches of time, when she was shopping or walking to a friend’s. Never at home; his father wouldn’t allow it. Rosen hadn’t even known she was seriously ill, and not being able to say goodbye . . . another reason not to forgive his father. But he saw her smile in every rose, like these.
Swallowing hard, he knocked on the door. No answer, but the door was unlocked. Stepping inside, he called Andi’s name. Again there was no answer, no sound at all.
He stepped into the living room, filled
with old furniture and a dozen framed photographs—more of Andi’s work. Returning to the hallway, past the stairs, he paused at a darkened corridor. To his left, something long and thin stuck out from a doorway. His stomach tightened. Flicking on the hall light, he saw Andi’s naked leg.
Clad only in a T-shirt and panties, she lay sprawled across the bathroom floor. Kneeling he checked her pulse, which was normal. He felt a bump on the back of her head.
Turning on the light, he saw that the wall to the next room had been removed to create a large darkroom. He ran some cold water over a towel, then dabbed her face. “Andi?”
She stirred slightly, and her eyes blinked open.
“Don’t move. I’m calling the paramedics.”
As he started to rise, her hand stopped him. “I’m all right.” She sat up slowly. “Ooh, my head. There, that’s better. What happened?”
“Don’t you know?”
She glanced at his watch. “Is that one in the afternoon? I’ve missed the hearing?”
“Andi, tell me what happened.”
“Yeah, well . . . I was up early this morning, working in the darkroom. It must’ve been around six. I heard a noise, stepped into the hall and was hit from behind. That’s all I remember.”
“You didn’t see who did it?”
“No.”
Andi drew her long legs into the lotus position. They were beautiful, her legs, and he could see her nipples through the T-shirt.
“Whoever hit you didn’t . . . hurt you?”
She rubbed the back of her head. “What do you think . . . oh, Jesus. No, I don’t think so. Say, you didn’t take advantage of me, did you?”
“I think that knock on the head scrambled your brains.”
“Maybe I should be offended—here I am lying half-naked, and the thought never crossed your mind.”
She grinned, and Rosen realized how much he liked the firm line of her jaw. She put a hand on his shoulder, drawing him close, and they kissed. He put his arms around her.