by Ed McBain
His desk on that Monday morning three weeks before the trial was a clutter of disorder. Slips of paper covered its top, each held in place with a metal paperweight. Large lined pads were filled with scribbled notes. Folders of testimony taken by civil-service stenographers were stacked at one corner of the desk. A folder containing the psychological report rested near his telephone. And his memo pad held jottings of things yet to do:
Call Police lab! Where the hell is report on knives?
See Johnny Di Pace?
Leader of Thunderbirds—Big Dom?
Jennie’s birthday, August 26
In the midst of the disorder, there was an order known only to Hank. It disturbed him that the police laboratory had not yet presented its report on the murder weapons. On his tentative mind graph of the trial’s chronological progression, he could visualize the presentation of the weapons as one of the highest peaks on the steadily rising dramatic line. He intended to start with witnesses who would testify to the events leading up to the killing, intended to reconstruct that July night in the courtroom as if it were happening before the jury’s eyes. He could almost hear his words now—“The boys put these knives into their pockets, these knives. They are not penknives. They are not knives used for mumblety-peg. They are weapons.” And then he would press the stud on one of the knives and allow the blade to snap open. He knew the device would be effective. Props were always effective and knives automatically generated excitement. There was something inherently menacing about a knife, any knife. A switch blade held the added element of surprise, the long blade snapping from the handle with sudden viciousness. And he knew, too, that most people would rather face the snout of an automatic pistol than stare at the tempered steel length of a blade. In the mind of the ordinary citizen, a shooting was something which happened in the movies. But every ordinary citizen had cut himself accidentally at one time or another, had seen the flow of blood, had known what a knife or a razor blade or a seemingly harmless kitchen utensil can do to flesh.
Hank would use the knives well, playing on the natural fear of blades and coupling this with the direct testimony of the killers themselves, whom he intended to call to the witness chair last. He knew, of course, that the boys could not be forced to testify against themselves, and that if they refused to take the stand, Judge Samalson would immediately inform the jury that this was in no way to be construed as an admission of guilt. But he felt certain that Aposto would be allowed to testify, if only to establish his low mentality. And the jury’s unconscious adverse reaction to anyone who refused to take the stand would be doubled against Reardon and Di Pace if one boy were allowed to speak and the others restrained. Besides, with a plea of self-defense the one chance the boys had, it did not seem likely that their attorneys would advise them against testifying. So he felt fairly certain he could get them into the witness chair, and once there he would pry from their own mouths the story of what had happened that night. But first he would present the knives.
So where the hell was the report?
Annoyed, he dialed the police laboratory at headquarters on Centre Street and was connected with a man named Alex Hardy.
“This is Mr. Bell of the Homicide Bureau,” he said. “I’m prosecuting the Rafael Morrez case, which comes to trial three weeks from today. I’ve been expecting a report on the murder weapons, but I haven’t received one as yet. I’m preparing my case now, and I’d like to use whatever you can give me on those knives.”
“Morrez, Morrez, oh, yes,” Hardy said. “That Puerto Rican kid. Yes, we have the knives, all right.”
“I know you have them. How about the report?”
“Well, that’s another thing again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Dennis is on vacation, you see.”
“Who’s Dennis?”
“Dennis Bennel. He’s head of the lab.”
“So?”
“So he didn’t leave any instructions concerning those knives.”
“Well, who’s second in command there? Does your whole shop fall to pieces when one man goes on vacation?”
“Not at all, not at all. And there’s really no need to get snotty, Mr. Bell. We’re only doing our job here.”
“Your job was to run some tests on those knives. When will I have that report?”
“I’m just a working stiff, Mr. Bell. You’re wasting your time getting sore with me.”
“Whom do you suggest I get sore with?”
“I’ll connect you with Lieutenant Canotti. Maybe he can help you.”
Hardy covered the mouthpiece. Hank impatiently tapped a letter opener on the desk. A brusque voice came onto the line.
“Canotti here.”
“This is Assistant District Attorney Bell of the Homicide Bureau. I asked for a report on the murder weapons in the Rafael Morrez case. I still haven’t received it. Your man just told me Mr. Bennel …”
“Lieutenant Bennel. Yes?”
“… is out of the office on vacation. Now how do I go about getting that report?”
“Just ask,” Canotti said.
“I’m asking.”
“Okay. What’s all the heat about?”
“I’m trying the case in three weeks, that’s what all the heat is about. Listen, what is this? Some sort of a comic routine?”
“I’ll put somebody to work on the knives as soon as possible, Mr. Bell.”
“Thanks a lot. When will I have the report?”
“As soon as it’s ready.”
“And when will that be?”
“We’re a little understaffed at the moment. Half our men are on vacation, and there are murders being committed every day in this fair city, Mr. Bell. Now I’m sure you feel that the prosecution of a case is more important than the solving of another case, but our police department feels differently. We can’t satisfy everybody, Mr. Bell. We plod along and try to do our level best. But then, I’m sure you’re not interested in our internal problems.”
“Nor in your irony, Lieutenant. Can I have that report by the beginning of next week?”
“Certainly. If it’s ready.”
“Lieutenant Canotti, I’d hate like hell to have to go into the D.A.’s office on this.”
“I’d hate that to happen, too, Mr. Bell. Especially since we are now engaged on a project dumped into our laps by one of the Mayor’s committees. Do you understand, Mr. Bell?”
“I do. If I haven’t got that report by next Monday morning, you’ll be hearing from me.”
“Nice talking to you,” Canotti said, and he hung up.
Hank slammed down the receiver. How the hell was he supposed to get to the bottom of this without co-operation? How could he show the beginning, the middle, and the end of a murder without …
Until mankind can decide where the act of murder begins, there will be no justice.
The judge’s words. Strange words for a man sitting on the bench.
Well, he could not concern himself with the intricate problems of mankind. No. No matter what the judge said, Hank’s duty was clear. To prosecute a case according to the grand jury indictment. First degree murder. That was it, and that was all. Was he supposed to indict the entire city of New York? Of did it end there? Where did it go? The state? The nation? The world? You could extend responsibility to the outer reaches of time and come up with the conflicting opinion that everyone and no one was responsible. In which case, the murderers would roam the streets and havoc would replace civilization.
No.
He knew what he had to do. Present his case. Show the facts. Convict the three killers.
Purposefully, he picked up the folder containing the psychological report on Anthony Aposto. The letter from Bellevue Hospital was addressed to Judge Abraham Louis Samalson, from whom the court order remanding Aposto to Bellevue had been obtained. It read:
DEPARTMENT OF HOSPITALS
Bellevue Hospital, Psychiatric Division
CONFIDENTIAL—
THIS IS A PRI
VILEGED COMMUNICATION
To: Judge Abraham Louis Samalson, Court of General Sessions, Part III.
In response to your remand of Anthony Aposto on July 25th, 1958, we beg to submit the following report of his psychological examination administered on July 28th, 1958, by Charles Addison, M.A., staff psychologist assigned Ward PQ-5:
Tests Administered:
1. Wexler-Bellevue Intelligence Scale
2. Rorschach Test
3. Machover Figure Drawing Test
4. Bender Visual-Motor Gestalt Test
Wexler–Bellevue:
Yields three scores, verbal I. Q., performance I. Q., and full scale I. Q.;
Verbal Scale (Information, vocabulary, arithmeic, abstract reasoning, social reasoning and memory)
Verbal I. Q.: 59
Performance Scale (Picture arrangement, picture completion, object assembly, block design, digit symbol)
Performance I. Q.: 82
Full Scale (Approximate average of verbal and performance scales, corrected for age)
Full Scale I. Q.: 67
Rorschach:
Patient gave very few responses, most of which were simple popular responses. Seemed to expend little effort and had many F-minus responses indicative of poor sense of reality and poor judgment. Emotional control very poor, with a preponderance of pure color responses.
Machover:
Figure drawings typically those of a much younger child, perhaps a ten-year-old, and were pathognomic for mental deficiency. Drawings also indicated poor impulse control.
Bender:
Drawings were negative for organic involvement. Strongly suggestive, however, of mental deficiency.
SUMMARY and CONCLUSIONS:
All techniques administered are indicative of mental deficiency. The Wexler-Bellevue subtest patterning indicates that this youngster is presently functioning at or close to his endowment level, which falls high in the mental-deficiency category. His Rorschach is typical. Poor contact with reality, poor judgment and extremely poor emotional control are indicated. The Machover Test—a projective test similar to the Rorschach wherein the patient through his drawings of the human body projects aspects of his own personality—supports these findings. The Bender Test, from which we may obtain indications of organicity such as brain tumors, etc., indicates that there is no organic central nervous system condition here. Diagnosis offered: Mental deficiency in an emotionally immature, poorly developed personality.
Respectfully submitted,
Walter J. Deregeaux, M.D.,
Assistant Director, Psychiatric Division
Bellevue Hospital
Hank put the report back into its folder.
If there had been any doubt before about the defense for Batman Aposto, there was none now. And, in the face of the report—a copy of which had undoubtedly been furnished to the defense attorneys, too—Hank knew he didn’t stand a chance of convicting Aposto. Nor, truly, did he feel there would be any real justice in such a conviction.
Real justice is nonexistent.
The judge’s words again. And certainly, would it not be just for Aposto to pay for a crime he’d committed, no matter what his mental state? An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Where did the person Aposto end, and the personality Aposto begin? What divided the killer from the mental deficient? Were they not one and the same person? Admittedly they were. And yet you could not send a boy with the mental age of a ten-year-old to the electric chair. This would not be justice. This would simply be blind animal reaction.
Blind.
Rafael Morrez was blind. And was not his deficiency as great as the low mentality of Anthony Aposto? Yes, but his blindness did not save him from Aposto’s quick sentence. And yet Aposto’s mentality would save him from the sentence of the state. And that, Hank thought, is the difference between animals and men.
Justice, he thought.
Justice.
On Wednesday evening of that week, he was not thinking of justice. He was instead filled with an all-consuming rage at the injustice of what was happening to him.
He had worked late at the office, preparing an outline for the questioning of Louisa Ortega. He had decided to use the fact that the girl was a prostitute, rather than try to hide it from the jury. The defense would only shatter her testimony later if he concealed her occupation, and so he tried to fashion the questions he would ask her so that she would emerge as a victim of circumstance, a girl forced into the oldest profession because of poverty and hunger. He did not think it wise to reveal the fact that the girl had had relations with Morrez on at least one known occasion. His jury-image of Morrez was that of the defenseless blind boy, the victim of three cold-blooded murderers. He did not wish to destroy this ideal image by offering the jury a glimpse at something they might consider sordid.
He would, of course, be very careful in the selection of jury members. He was allowed an unlimited number of challenges for cause, and he was allowed to peremptorily challenge a total of thirty-six prospective jurors. He could, for example, excuse a man simply because he did not like the color of his eyes. Ideally, he’d have wanted at least three Puerto Ricans on the jury. He knew this would be impossible, and he’d consider himself lucky if the defense permitted him to empanel even one. He debated in his own mind whether or not he preferred men or women on the jury and decided that it didn’t make much difference either way. Whereas men would more readily accept the testimony of Louisa Ortega, they might unconsciously identify with the virility of the three killers. And whereas a woman’s maternal instinct might cause her to embrace the image of Morrez protectively, she would certainly rebel against anything a prostitute said under oath.
As it almost always did, it would break down to a sense of feel. He would know instantly when questioning a prospective juror whether this man or woman would be impartial. He knew lawyers who maintained that the best way to select a jury was to accept immediately the first twelve men or women and let it go at that. He did not agree with them. He felt that there was more to winning a case than pure chance, and he tried to establish during the questioning period whether or not the jury member would like him personally. He was, after all, an actor in a show—one of the stars—and unless the jury empathized with him his case would indeed be a difficult one.
His own personal gauge was a prospective juror’s eyes. He always stood very close to the man or woman he was questioning, and he liked to believe that he could read intelligence or lack of intelligence, fairness or prejudice, empathy or antagonism in that person’s eyes. Perhaps his gauge was fallacious. He had certainly empaneled jurors in open-and-shut cases only to have the verdict go finally against him. But if the eyes were not the windows of the soul (and he had forgotten who made that original observation) he did not know which part of the body was a more accurate measure of what went on inside a man.
He called Karin at six to say that he would not be home for dinner.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said. “That means I’ll be eating alone.”
“Isn’t Jennie home?”
“No, she’s gone out.”
“Where in the name of God does that girl go all the time?”
“There’s a new Brando picture at Radio City. She went with some of the girls.”
“Neighborhood girls?” he asked pointedly.
“No. The neighborhood girls seem to be avoiding our daughter. She called some friends from school.”
“What the devil,” Hank muttered. “Can’t they even leave her alone? What time will she be back, Karin?”
“Not too late. Don’t worry about it. There are two detectives prowling the house like sentries. One of them is very good-looking. I may invite him in for dinner.”
“Ja, ja, you do that.”
“Would it make you jealous?”
“Not in the slightest,” he said. “But it may lead to a homicide in Inwood. Honey, I may be home very late. Don’t wait up for me if you don’t feel like it.”
“I’ll wait
up. Hank, if you get lonely, call me again, will you?”
“I will.”
“All right, darling. Goodbye.”
He hung up, smiling, and went back to work.
At 7:10 P.M. his telephone rang. Absent-mindedly he lifted it from the receiver and said, “Hello?”
“Mr. Bell?” a voice asked.
“Yes,” he said.
There was no answer.
“Yes, this is Mr. Bell.”
He waited. There was still no answer.
“Hello?” he said.
The silence on the phone was unpunctuated, unbroken. He waited with the receiver in his fist, saying nothing, listening, waiting for the sound of the phone being hung up on the other end. The sound did not come. In the stillness of his office, the silence on the phone seemed magnified. He was aware all at once that his hand was sweating on the black plastic of the receiver.
“Who is this?” he said.
He thought he could hear breathing on the other end of the line. He tried to remember what the voice which had said “Mr. Bell?” sounded like, but he could not.
“If you have something to say, say it,” he said to the empty phone.
He wet his lips. His heart was pounding, and he resented the foolish staccato beat in his chest.
“I’m hanging up,” he said, not expecting the words to find voice, surprised when they did. His statement had no effect on the party at the other end. The silence persisted, broken intermittently by staticlike sounds, the minute impulses of electricity on any telephone wire.
He slammed the receiver back onto its cradle.
When he picked up the outline on Louisa Ortega, his hands were trembling.
He left the office at nine that night.
Fanny, her white-thatched head drooping slightly, opened the doors of the one elevator which was still running.
“Hello, Hank,” she said. “Burning the midnight?”
“Got to wrap up this Morrez case,” he told her.
“Yeah,” she said. She closed the doors. “Well, what’re you going to do? That’s life.”