The Last Man: A Novel

by D. W. Buffa

  “Objection!” shouted Harlowe at the top of his voice. “Calls for a conclusion, and that is just the beginning. There has been no evidence concerning motive, none. And -”

  With a slight, but decisive shake of his head that mirrored perfectly his quick and emphatic ruling, Bannister cut him off.

  “Sustained.”

  It stopped the question, but it did not stop Hector Alfonso. His eyes glistened with cheerful defiance.

  “We know she was murdered, and we know that she wasn’t murdered by some stranger, some intruder, some -” He shot a glance upward at the bench where he met the watchful gaze of Walter Bannister just long enough to flash a false apology. “Sorry, your Honor. I’m getting a little ahead of myself.” And just like that, his eyes were back on the witness. “This business about a stranger, an intruder: were there any signs of a break-in: windows broken, doors kicked in – anything like that?”

  “No; nothing to indicate a forcible entry.”

  “No one broke in; which means…?”

  “She must have known him; she must have let him in.”

  “She must have known him,” repeated Alfonso in a low, thoughtful voice, nodding to underscore the importance of what the jury had just been told. “She must have let him in.”

  He stood there, drawing every eye toward him, enjoying every minute of it, fairly glowing with the sense of having accomplished with this witness everything he wanted. Then, suddenly, turning on his heel, he walked briskly to the counsel table.

  “No further questions.”

  Harlowe was on his way to the jury box before Alfonso had reached his chair. Smiling at the detective, he scratched his head.

  “Or her, you mean?”

  Patterson had no idea what he was talking about.

  “You said she must have known him – or her, correct?”

  This was to split a hair that had already been divided.

  “Sure, whatever,” sighed Patterson.

  “Sure, whatever? Oh, I see – you know the murderer must be man and not a woman because you know the defendant is guilty and the trial, so far as you’re concerned, is just a waste of time!”

  “Your Honor!” protested Alfonso.

  “Ask a question, Mr. Harlowe,” instructed Bannister in his quiet, commanding voice.

  Harlowe pushed his gray suit coat back and placed both hands on his hips. He stared hard at the witness and then, unaccountably, began to laugh.

  “‘She must have known him; she must have let him in,’” he mocked. “Tell me – tell the jury – Detective Patterson: what do you do, if you’re sitting at home and someone rings your doorbell. Do you peek out the window; do you hide in a corner and hope they go away? No, don’t answer. Let me guess. You go to the door, like everyone else, and you open it. Am I right?”

  “Yes, I answer the door.”

  “Very good. But that means, doesn’t it, that you don’t really know – you don’t have any evidence one way or the other – whether she knew the person who did this?”

  Patterson tried to limit the damage.

  “We know who she was expecting; we know -”

  “That wasn’t my question! You testified that she must have known him because there were no signs of forced entry. But the one thing doesn’t necessarily follow from the other, does it?”

  “Not in that sense, no.”

  “Not in any sense, detective. But that isn’t the only thing you overlooked. The district attorney asked you – well, he didn’t really ask you; he told you – that the murder weapon, the knife, came from the kitchen; that the killer didn’t bring it, but got it there. But, again, you don’t know that, do you?”

  The look of disdain on Harlowe’s face produced its own reaction. Patterson dug his fingers into the arms of the witness chair and glared back.

  “Don’t know that? She was killed with a knife and the knife missing from the kitchen is a perfect match!”

  Harlowe appeared to relent, to draw back and change his mind, to become unsure whether there was still truth in the accusation he had made.

  “You mean because it seems to have been the same size, the same kind of knife?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” said Patterson with some heat.

  “The same size, the same kind of blade?” asked Harlowe, just to be sure.

  “The same size, the same kind of blade: it was the same -”

  “Unless the knife in the kitchen had a serrated blade, or unless the blade had been chipped or broken. Because all you really know is that there was an empty place, an opening, where a knife of that size would fit. You testified you never found the murder weapon, didn’t you?”

  “We haven’t found it.”

  “So, again, based on the evidence – not on what you or anyone else thinks the evidence means – the knife that was used to murder Gloria Baker was never found, and no one knows what happened to the knife that might once have been part of a set kept in her kitchen. Does that about sum it up, detective?”

  Patterson mumbled a response. Harlowe turned on him with a vengeance.

  “You spoke loud enough when the district attorney was asking questions. What did you -? Never mind. You didn’t find the murder weapon; that was your testimony, wasn’t it?

  “No, we didn’t find it.”

  His arms folded across his chest, Harlowe stood a few feet from the witness stand facing the jury box. He looked sideways at Patterson.

  “When you answer the district attorney’s questions you look at the jury; you never do that when you answer mine. Is that part of what they teach you in witness school?”

  Alfonso was on his feet, but Harlowe waved him off.

  “Never mind, that’s one question you don’t have to answer. Back to business. You testified that you – by that I mean the police altogether – made a thorough search inside and outside the house. Is that true?”

  “We searched everywhere.”

  “But without success. You didn’t find it?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Harlowe looked down at his shoes. He could feel the eyes of the jury. He looked up and with a bashful grin admitted the obvious. “I forgot to shine them.” And then, as if this had been a simple aside spoken among friends, immediately went back on the attack.

  “Yes, I remember how the district attorney asked you about that search. He seemed especially eager to make certain we all understood how thorough it had been.”

  “It was thorough,” insisted Patterson. “We searched everywhere.”

  “Even more places than you described, if I’m not mistaken. But the district attorney didn’t ask you about that, did he?”

  The question elicited only a blank expression, but Harlowe knew from the way Patterson suddenly blinked his eyes that the detective knew where this was going.

  “You didn’t just search the home of Gloria Baker; you also searched the home of the defendant, Driscoll Rose. Isn’t that true?”

  “We executed a search warrant at the home of the defendant, that’s correct.”

  “The district attorney knew that – you didn’t keep it a secret, did you?”

  “No, the district attorney knew. He -”

  “He requested that search warrant, didn’t he? Yes, well, never mind. And I take it that after conducting that search – by the way, was it the same kind of thorough search you made of the home of the victim, Gloria Baker?”

  “It was a thorough search,” replied the detective, watching Harlowe through narrowed, chastened eyes.

  “You were looking for what, exactly? We have a copy of the search warrant, if you need to refresh your memory.”

  “Evidence in the murder of Gloria Baker.”

  Harlowe eyes shot wide open in a mockery of surprise.

  “The murder weapon – the knife that may or may not have come from Ms. Baker’s kitchen! Did you find it?”

  “No.”

  “We heard testimony, we’ve seen the gruesome photos; all that blood – what kind of bl
oody clothing, what other evidence linking the defendant to the murder did you find in his home as a result of this thorough search you made?”

  “We didn’t find any bloody clothing.”

  “No murder weapon, no bloody clothing. You didn’t find any evidence, did you, Detective Patterson – nothing linking Driscoll Rose to the murder of Gloria Baker. Nothing, not one piece of evidence – isn’t that correct, Detective Patterson?”

  “We didn’t find any physical evidence at his home.”

  “In fact, there is no physical evidence of any kind that connects the defendant to the murder, is there, Detective Patterson?”

  Patterson bent forward, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. He spread his fingers and pressed them together. A tight smile of eager hostility creased the corners of his lips.

  “Physical evidence – the murder weapon, blood-spattered clothes – no, we don’t; but, as I’m sure you know, counselor, that isn’t the only kind of evidence there is.”

  Harlowe had not made up his mind whether he would call Driscoll Rose as a witness; it would depend on what the prosecution had been able to prove. It was all instinct, a word that covers, rather than explains, our ignorance of why we do one thing instead of another; but suddenly, everything seemed right, and he heard himself saying what, if he had time to think about it, would have been the last thing he would have done. Later, when he had time to think about it, he would compare it to walking down a street, heading in one direction, and then, for no reason at all, suddenly turning at a corner and going off in another one, as certain as he had ever been of anything that it was what he had wanted to do from the beginning.

  “Physical evidence, other kinds of evidence?” He looked at the witness as if he was not quite certain what he meant. Then it dawned on him. “Yes, I see what you mean now: The other evidence the district attorney will be introducing, the evidence you started to give yourself before he stopped you; what the prosecution’s next witness, Yolanda Ross, is going to say: that Gloria Baker was expecting someone that night; that she told Ms. Ross that Driscoll Rose was coming over. But of course that doesn’t prove that Mr. Rose actually went there, does it? Someone has an appointment; that doesn’t prove they kept it. Or perhaps you’re referring to the other evidence the district attorney will be offering: the testimony of a friend of his, Mr. Rose’s agent, who is going to testify that he and Mr. Rose had dinner that night and that when he left, Mr. Rose said he was going out to Malibu to see Gloria Baker about a movie project. But, again, that doesn’t prove Mr. Rose didn’t change his mind and go somewhere else instead, does it?”

  Bannister looked at Hector Alfonso, expecting an objection; but Alfonso was more than content to let the defense attorney give a preview of the testimony he was about to introduce, proof that Rose had an appointment with Gloria Baker that night and that he had told the last person he saw that he was on his way.

  Harlowe turned away from the witness and with his hand on the jury box railing looked directly at the district attorney.

  “Save yourself the trouble. Driscoll Rose was there that night. He’s the one who first found the body.”

  Hector Alfonso could not believe what he had heard. The courtroom was full of noise, everyone trying to understand what it meant. Bannister rapped his gavel and the shouted confusion died a slow but easy death. Alfonso kept staring at Harlowe, wondering if the defense attorney had lost his mind. The hardest part of his case had been putting Driscoll Rose at the scene, and now Harlowe had done it for him. Better yet, Rose was going to testify. He had to, there was no choice; his lawyer had made the admission. Rose had been there; Rose would have to explain what had happened and why, if she was already dead, he had run away instead of calling the police. It was what Alfonso had dreamed about, a chance at a cross-examination that would rivet the attention, not just of the courtroom, but, because of the coverage the trial was getting, the whole country. Hector Alfonso versus the murderer Driscoll Rose. Nothing could stop him after that. The only thing that bothered him was why Harlowe had done it. What did he know that Alfonso did not? He would have been more than surprised, astonished, had he known that Harlowe was not sure himself.

  “Sometimes you just do things,” he said, as he fell back in his chair and grabbed the scotch and soda waiting on his desk.

  Driscoll Rose thought he understood.

  “You have a reason, but you can’t explain it to anyone. Yeah, I know what that’s like.”

  Harlowe took a long drink. The burning heat of it against the back of his throat began to ease the tension he had not realized he had. He had been wound tight as the proverbial drum, listening intently, careful not to miss a word when the district attorney was examining the witness; and then, when it was his turn, asking questions, ready with the next one before the witness was halfway finished with his answer. Now, for the first time all day, he could indulge himself a little, remember and reflect on what had happened.

  “It may have been a mistake,” he mused, moving the glass around to listen to the ice. There was something restful in the sound, an echo of evening at the end of the day when there was nothing left to do but think about tomorrow and what might happen then. “And then again, it may have been the only sensible thing to do, get it out there, let everyone know you were there, and that way remove all the drama when the other witnesses for the prosecution start testifying.”

  Rose did not seem concerned. He unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. He looked at the glass of ginger ale he held in his hand and shook his head in disgust.

  “Christ, I’m on trial for murder and all I get to drink is this?”

  Harlowe gave him a warning look, meant to remind him of a promise.

  “This is tough enough without you getting arrested for drunk driving, or getting into a fight in some bar. We talked about this.”

  “Yeah, I know; but just one drink, what harm would that do? You’re not the only one who needs to relax. All I do is sit there, and try to look like a choir boy; not show any emotion when a guy like that jerk detective practically tells everyone he knows I’m guilty. You kind of ruined his day though, with that business about the search.”

  “Ruined his day? I doubt it,” said Harlowe, staring into his glass with a rueful expression. “They didn’t find the knife, the murder weapon, at your place. It would have been easy to get rid of it – bury it, drop it in a river, drop it in the ocean. They didn’t find it at your place. What kind of fool would murder someone and then keep the murder weapon in the first place anyone would look for it? That’s what Alfonso is going to say.”

  Harlowe took another drink, but before he finished swallowing he glanced at Rose. He put down the glass and bent forward on his elbows.

  “When I finish this, I’m going to have another; then I’m going to have a cup of coffee and order in a sandwich. I’ll be here until sometime after midnight, getting ready for tomorrow. If you had two drinks, you’d have a third, and another one after that, and you would not stop. But even worse than the fact that you’re an alcoholic, the more you drink the meaner you get. You were drunk the night you damn near beat her to death and you’d been drinking the night she was murdered. That’s all going to come out. When your agent testifies – don’t think Alfonso will let him get away with saying you just had a drink or two; they’ve got the waiter on their witness list. You go to that bar and restaurant all the time. You have a reputation, Driscoll, and it isn’t the kind that helps. That’s why I told you, the first time you came here to my office, that you either agreed you wouldn’t touch a drop while the trial was going on or I wouldn’t take the case. Remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” said Rose, his voice heavy with resentment. “And I don’t give a damn what they say, I wasn’t drunk that night, the night Gloria was murdered. We had work to do and – ask anyone – I never have too much to drink when I’m working. You’re probably right – I’m an alcoholic, I’m an addict, I’m – a lot of things I shouldn’t be – but I didn’t k
ill her. She was dead when I got there.”

  Harlowe finished the drink and then walked across to a cabinet where he kept his liquor and, just as he said he would, made himself a second scotch and soda. He brought Rose a new glass filled with ginger ale and ice.

  “Thanks,” said Rose, laughing quietly at his own vanishing disappointment.

  “Tell me again what you remember; what Patterson said today, when Alfonso asked him where he saw blood: on the body, on the floor near the body, on the wall a few feet away and on the carpet below it. Is that what you remember? Do you remember seeing blood anywhere else?”

  Rose tried to remember exactly what he had seen, but finally had to admit that he had been too upset, too scared, to notice much of anything.

  “There was blood all over her, but other places? – I don’t know. I guess there was blood on the wall, on the rug, the way he said; but – she was lying there; I’d never seen anyone dead before. It isn’t like the movies, it’s…it’s like there’s nothing there, nothing like what she was. So, no, I don’t remember much of anything, except that vacant stare on her face. Why, what difference does it make if there was blood on the wall or anywhere else?”

  “It isn’t where it was that interests me,” said Harlow, as he picked up his pen and jotted down a note. “It’s where it wasn’t that might be important.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Roger Stanton picked at his salad with his fork and then pushed the plate away. He turned to his sister, sitting on his left, and listened a moment longer as she babbled with bright inconsequence about something he did not at first understand. Forcing a brief, nervous smile, he tried to remember what she was talking about, and then, giving up, threw down his napkin and stared in baffled wonder at his brother-in-law at the other end of the table.

  “Why the hell did you let him out? That’s what I don’t understand. You practically told the world you think he’s innocent! He should have been in jail the whole time, instead of walking around like he doesn’t have anything to worry about. It’s a murder trial, and he’s still free?”