There had been a mad struggle for seats the moment the doors opened. But one spectator who had not attended any of the previous sessions had managed to obtain a front-row seat in the prosecution group with no difficulty.
Joel Tilley.
Tilley sat quietly beside Laurie Morgan until Dan McCandless entered the courtroom. He rose, then, crossing the courtroom to the bench where the defenders sat.
For a moment the two men confronted each other—the short, bearded Tilley, the towering McCandless.
Tilley said gently, throttling his big voice down to a purr, “Dan, I want to talk to you.”
“No one’s stopping you, Tilley.”
Tilley smiled frigidly. “Dan, I’ve got men with big ears close to the governor. I happen to know the substance of your chat with him.”
McCandless felt a cold hand on his heart. “Your men ought to be congratulated, Tilley. Do they hide in privies, too?”
Tilley said smoothly, “Dan, if you were as smart as you used to be, you’d forget all about this notion of a pardon for your boy.”
“He’s my son. I aim to save him.”
“You’ve told Tellegen you’ll testify against me.”
“Did I?”
Tilley’s cheek muscles were throbbing. “There’s no turning back now. Whether or not Harry is found guilty, Tellegen will arrest me. And what will you do?”
“Testify. Regardless. I’ve had this thing on my conscience for twenty years, and it’s killing me.”
“It’ll kill you if you get it off your conscience, too.”
McCandless nodded slowly. “I’d rather die clean than die dirty. I’ll testify. And nothing you can do will stop Tellegen from arresting you. I gave him a full statement already.”
“I have friends, Dan. They’ll take care of you for this.”
There was a smile of relaxed resignment on McCandless’ face. “I’ll be waiting, Tilley.”
With a black look, Tilley returned to his seat. Judge Hazledine had appeared, and was about to convene the court. Dan McCandless took his place at the table.
20.
THE DOOR swung open, and every head swiveled as Carlotta McCandless and Dr. Arthur Vance entered the courtroom. During their slow procession toward the front, Kilgore leaned on the defense table to support himself. He felt feverish, and every time a bit of cold air found its way through the courthouse windows he shivered. His face was beaded with sweat.
He waited. The audience discussed the new development busily. Dr. Vance took the stand and was sworn in. Carlotta sat beside Clem; Dan McCandless leaned forward, perplexed, while Pete Beaudoin nibbled a pencil, Mike Duer peered sullenly at the floor, Joel Tilley waited with folded arms.
Dr. Vance was a man of about sixty, solidly built and neat of appearance. His thick brown mustache was fastidiously trimmed, his suit crisp, his eyes clear, though he had had virtually no sleep at all. He waited on the stand, calm, perfectly sure of himself.
The courtroom was strangely silent. Kilgore eyed the jury a moment, then faced the witness.
“Where do you live, Dr. Vance?”
“In Denver.”
“And what is your profession?”
“I’m a pathologist.”
“Would you explain just what that is?”
Vance nodded. “A pathologist is a doctor of medicine whose specialty is the causes and nature of diseases, and of abnormal bodily affections and conditions.”
“Might I ask where you took your degree?”
“Bachelor of science at Princeton, 1854. Subsequent studies at the University of Vienna and at the Sorbonne. Took my medical degree at Vienna in 1860. Three years in the General Hospital of Vienna, division of internal medicine. Appointed as Privatdozent in 1864. This is a teaching position of some prestige value. In 1866 I resigned to do hospital work in Paris, and I returned to this country in 1870. I practiced in New York for a number of years. Ten years ago I decided to move west, and have been practicing in Colorado ever since.”
“And to which medical societies do you belong?”
“The American Medical Association, in this country, and I’m a corresponding member of the Reading Pathological Society of England.”
Kilgore nodded. “I think we have established sufficiently your medical qualifications, Dr. Vance. Let me ask you now: have you conducted an autopsy upon the body of the late Honey Morgan?”
“Yes, I have.”
“When?”
“Between the hours of midnight and four this morning.”
“You found the body to be in adequate condition for meaningful observations, Dr. Vance?”
“Yes, sir. The unusually cold weather had kept the body in a fine state of preservation.”
“Would you tell us some of your findings, Dr. Vance?”
The pathologist moistened his lips. “I first made examination of the deceased’s heart, to determine whether or not the condition of enlargement might have been a factor in her death. I did this at your request, since you suspected she might have died of a heart attack. It was my observation that her heart condition was not serious and did not play a role in her death.”
“Yes. This destroyed my hypothesis,” Kilgore commented. “But what did you do next?”
“I next examined the skull of the deceased. I observed that the skull had been fractured and hematoma—blood clots—were present.”
“Thus confirming the finding of Dr. Hewlitt?”
“Yes. Precisely.”
“It was reasonable to conclude, then, that the girl’s death was caused by a blow on the head which ruptured the dura mater,” Kilgore said.
The pathologist nodded. “Yes. That would be a reasonable conclusion.”
Beaudoin broke in. “Your Honor, if this new witness is merely going to confirm Dr. Hewlitt’s findings, I don’t understand how this constitutes proper rebuttal.”
Kilgore replied, “New findings will be presented.”
“You may continue with your examination, Mr. Kilgore,” Hazledine said.
Kilgore turned back to the witness. “You say, Dr. Vance, that it would be reasonable to draw the conclusions Dr. Hewlitt drew?”
“Yes. Any general practitioner would be likely to arrive at the same conclusion. However, certain aspects of the body interested me, and I proceeded to delve somewhat deeper.”
“Tell us of your findings,” Kilgore prompted formally.
The doctor paused. “I looked beneath the extensive flooding of blood which had left the large hematoma, and I found the original cause of the outpouring of blood. This cause was an aneurism, a so-called subarachnoid hemorrhage.”
“Would you put that in laymen’s terms?”
“Certainly,” Dr. Vance said. “It’s a condition of spontaneous origin similar to a stroke.”
Beaudoin was on his feet—but he was saying nothing, nothing at all!
Kilgore pressed on. “Of spontaneous origin, Doctor?”
“That’s correct. It might have happened by reason of strong passion, or during exertion, or shouting. Or it might simply have been the finger of God touching the girl. There is no doubt that the aneurism was the cause of death. It killed her instantly. She must have dropped head-first, striking her head against a bedpost or table, causing the fracture and hematoma and other cranial injuries. There would have been considerable bleeding from the nose also.”
“You would say, then, that the cause of death was natural, Dr. Vance?”
“Absolutely.”
For a moment the courtroom remained hushed. Then, like a tidal wave rushing in over an unshielded island, a whisper began, rising to an outcry of disbelief. Death natural! Not caused by a blow on the head?
Beaudoin was shouting incoherently. Mike Duer looked poleaxed. Dan McCandless stared in dazed bewilderment.
“I object!” Beaudoin said strongly. “I demand that this testimony be stricken! How does he know that this aneurism, or whatever, didn’t occur after Harry McCandless smashed her skull?”
Hazledine pounded for order. Kilgore said, “Let me put to you, Doctor, the attorney general’s question: Could the aneurism not have occurred after death?”
“A dead person cannot have a stroke, Mr. Kilgore. There is no alternative possibility. The aneurism came first. The girl was dead before she struck the floor.”
There was pandemonium in the court. Somehow, Kilgore made himself heard, asking if Beaudoin cared to cross-examine. The prosecutor shook his head. “Maybe later,” he said. “I’d have to figure this out.” Kilgore had struck like a thunderbolt of Zeus.
Kilgore said, “I ask that Dr. Spencer Hewlitt be recalled to the stand for further cross-examination.”
It was an unhappy Dr. Hewlitt who blinked in the place vacated by the pathologist. Kilgore’s questions were brief.
“Dr. Hewlitt, are you familiar with the reputation of the previous witness?”
“Of course. Everyone in the West knows of him.”
“You’d be willing, then, to grant that his qualifications are superior to your own?”
The doctor gazed morosely about the courtroom and came back to the grim lawyer whose head was lowered with menace. “Guess so,” he faltered. “But only as a pathologist. When it comes to general practice, I guess I might show him a few things we country doctors have got to contend with.”
Kilgore growled with satisfaction and thrust out a weighty finger. “If he says that the deceased died as the result of an aneurism, are you prepared to accept his opinion as competent testimony?”
“He’s competent, all right,” Hewlitt muttered.
“Did you look for an aneurism?”
Hewlitt shook his head miserably. “Nope. Can’t say that I did. I saw the fracture and the blood clots—the hematoma—and the signs of rape. I just naturally concluded somebody had walloped the poor little girl with a bat. It was pretty cold in that barn when I was working. Of course I should have looked further—”
“Not having looked further, would you care for an opportunity?” Kilgore asked hoarsely, wondering at the unreality of his own voice. “The body has been kept perfectly in this cold—”
“Might be a good idea,” Hewlitt said with embarrassment. “Pathology is tricky, Kilgore. Anybody can make a mistake.”
“How much time would you need?”
“Five minutes!”
Kilgore addressed the court out of the midst of blinding pain. “I ask for an hour’s recess while Dr. Vance has a chance to confer with Dr. Hewlitt to investigate the true nature of the lesion that caused the poor girl’s death,” he said. “If it wasn’t murder, let’s find it out now.”
One hour later Hewlitt resumed the stand, embarrassed and perspiring. He turned to the bench apologetically. “You know, Judge? I kind of wondered about a stroke myself, but I wasn’t sure. Now I am sure. Dr. Vance put his finger on the exact cause of death.” He paused to tug at a trembling mouth. “Guess I sort of made a mistake, Your Honor.”
“I guess you sort of did, Doctor!” Kilgore said with savage contempt. “Your witness, Mr. Beaudoin!”
Beaudoin arose with burning eyes, pointed a finger, faltered and muttered. “No questions!” he said bitterly. “My big mistake was to depend on this drunken quack in the first place.”
“Jesus, Pete—”
The doctor’s whining protests were cut short by a rap from the bench. Judge Hazledine stared grimly at the press of faces—conscious of two areas of silence in the general mutter of anger and relief: the group about Dan McCandless, Spanish and Anglos in whom could be seen the dawn of hope; the grim bunch of hard-faced men who surrounded Joel Tilley. “I’ll entertain a motion,” the judge said harshly.
Kilgore faced the bench and stared through gathering darkness. He felt the steadying hand of Clem Erskine on his arm.
“Your Honor, I’ll make it simple. All the medical evidence taken together shows that the Territory has failed to establish that the poor child’s death was caused by any criminal agency. There has been an utter failure of proof of any corpus delicti as required by the laws and statutes of the Territory. Under the circumstances, I move”—he paused to glance at the white and unbelieving mask of anguish of Laurie Morgan—“I move that this tragic proceeding be resolved and that the jury be directed to enter a verdict of not guilty.”
“No!” cried Laurie in a strangled voice. “My little girl! Oh, my little girl!”
Judge Hazledine waited for the sound of a woman’s sobbing to subside before he turned to the prosecution side of the courtroom. “Mr. Beaudoin? Any objection to this motion?”
A moment of silence passed, and then Beaudoin arose and walked forward to the bench. “Why, yes!” he said grimly. “I think there’s enough here to go to the jury.” He raised a hand to interrupt an outburst from Kilgore. “No motion has yet been made—or can be made—to strike out Dr. Hewlitt’s earlier testimony, which showed a fractured skull and a criminal cause of death. And as for his retraction? I guess he’s just been bulldozed by Dr. Vance—”
Judge Hazledine frowned. “Bulldozed or not, Mr. Beaudoin, he’s your witness, and he’s all you’ve got. Unless you’re prepared to call for further medical evidence—”
“But is it all we’ve got?” Beaudoin stalked across the well of the courtroom to confront the white-faced defendant, who had received the turn of events with nervously darting eyes.
“Is it all we’ve got?” Beaudoin’s voice rose to a pitch. “Harry McCandless has lied up and down since the day this case began. He’s lied under oath. He’s shown every sign of guilt a man could show. I say the jury should pass on this case! Not the court! I’m against a directed verdict.
“Once the jury has given its verdict,” he concluded strongly, staring at the McCandless party, “and once it’s pronounced judgment—I don’t care what the court will do!” He returned to his chair and sat with folded arms, staring at the ceiling.
Mike Duer’s grunt of approval broke the silence.
Judge Hazledine considered the matter, stroking his stiff Vandyke thoughtfully. “I’m afraid, Mr. Kilgore, there are aspects of this case that trouble me. There is an element that I fail to comprehend. If death was due to natural causes, if the deceased girl was felled by a stroke, why did someone remove the body so deviously into the hills? Who stuffed her mouth with plaster? What is this business about the diamond ring? I am led to conclude that some elaborate and diabolical hoax has been played on the court—but by whom and for whose benefit, I am at a loss to say. However, as long as there is a failure of medical proof, I am constrained to grant your motion—”
“No! No!” burst out a high-pitched, frenzied voice. “I killed her! I killed her!”
Harry McCandless had clambered to his chair to give himself greater height. Wild-eyed, shouting, oblivious of the touch of spittle in the corner of his mouth, he shouted at the bench. I’m guilty, do you hear? I killed her! I stuffed the plaster in her mouth. Why won’t you believe me? What else must I do?”
Dan McCandless arose with a stricken look. “Son? Oh, Sonny! Oh, my God! Don’t say anything! They’ll let you go if only you don’t say anything—”
Kilgore cried, “Harry McCandless! Shut up, or you’re dead!”
A dozen voices began all at once. Harry McCandless shouted through the banging of the gavel. “I’ve been trying to tell you all! Really I have!” A look of cunning crept into his eyes. “I told Mike Duer about the ring and the anthropology book. Didn’t I, Mike? Tell them about that!”
Mike Duer said wonderingly, “So it was you that sent those notes!”
Harry laughed cunningly. “Of course I sent them! How else would you ever have guessed—any of you? The only reason we’re in court now is because of me. Don’t you see, Judge?” he turned back to the bench. “You mustn’t let me go. Not now! Now when we’re so close?”
“He’s mad!” Dan McCandless shouted. “Don’t listen to the boy! He never killed anyone—”
“Mad?” Harry threw back his head and laughed freely. “Mad? For the fi
rst time in my life I feel sane. Sane and clear! Do you think these people hate you, Dan McCandless? They don’t know what hate is! Only the Luceros know hate! Real hate! Hate that goes back to the beginning! Hate! Hate! Hate!”
Kilgore turned and seized the wrists of the shouting youth. “Every word you’re saying is being heard!” he said strongly. “Stop now! What are you trying to do?”
The courtroom went silent. Harry McCandless said in a childish voice: “I want my mother, Mr. Kilgore. I want to go back to her. I want to show her what I did.” He gazed wonderingly at the bench. “You mustn’t let me go, Judge,” he said simply. “I must be allowed to die. It’s the only way to show him! You won’t let me go, will you?”
Tears were trembling in his eyes, childish tears of protest, as the sheriff touched his arm and motioned him back to his seat.
Kilgore stared at the suddenly infantile face with incredulity. The pattern of events suddenly was clear. Harry had seized upon the girl’s sudden death and had transformed the cerebral accident into the basis of a suicidal scheme against his father. Kilgore wondered how much Dan McCandless had suspected of all this, how much McCandless had refused to believe.
Harry had planted the evidence—and Harry had tipped off Duer about Eli, about the carpet, about the ring. Small wonder Harry had deceived and tricked Kilgore, had given so many contradictory stories. It was all a game, a mad game the boy was playing—letting the trial drag on, doling out the evidence secretly to the prosecution, planning that the inevitable verdict would be death—death for him, but ruin and heartbreak for the father he hated!
But Kilgore had played his hand well. He had outplayed Harry without even realizing it. And Harry was saved from the rope now.
Judge Hazledine said quietly, “The motion for a directed verdict of acquittal is granted. The clerk is directed to make an entry to that effect. The defendant is discharged.” He tapped the gavel formally. “This court stands adjourned.”
“No, no,” Harry McCandless said pitiably. “I won’t go—”
Out of a vast abyss darkness swarmed and the chamber of silent faces swarmed and coalesced in myriad colors. . . .
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