Anatomy of a Murder

by Robert Traver

  One of the endless fascinations of trying cases, I thought, was the unexpectedly sharp word pictures lay witnesses sometimes painted without even half trying. In fact it was only when they tried that they failed. “Were there any signs of anger on his part?” I pressed on.

  “None that I saw. Of course I did not get a good look or stop long after the shooting. I wheeled it for home.”

  “What time was it? The shooting, I mean?”

  “About twelve-forty or twelve-forty-five, as I recall. It was one-one A.M. when I got home, I noted that.”

  “Now Mr. Yates, this well-earned nightcap of beer you were having—had the deceased treated you to that?”

  “Yes. I had put my money on the bar but Barney waved it away. ‘On the house, Carl,’ he said.”

  “I see. And was the bar crowded?”

  “Yes, practically the whole length. It seemed to me the Lieutenant had got himself in the only place that was left. There’s some rails there.”

  “You are referring to the waitresses’ service station?”

  “I think so. Anyway, that place where Barney never wanted us to stand.”

  “And had Barney bought the whole bar a round of drinks?”

  “Yes, all of us. I heard tell later it wasn’t the first round he bought.”

  “And was he drinking?”

  “Well, he was on the round he bought me.”

  “Was buying house drinks his usual practice?—if you know?”

  “Hm … . Let me think.” The witness paused. “It was the first time I’d seen him treat the bar since I was stationed at Thunder Bay. That’ll be three years come May month.”

  “And you were a fairly regular customer at Barney’s—for your occasional nightly pint of beer, I mean?” I did not want to put this candid hard-working game warden on the spot or appear to make him out a bar fly; for my part any man that protected our U.P. deer and fish—especially the trout for Biegler—was entitled to swill all the beer he could hold, free or not.

  He smiled appreciatively. “Yes, a fairly regular customer,” he said.

  “I see. And where at the bar were you standing and by whom?”

  “At the far end, nearest the street, talking to the Mongoose twins.” (The Mongoose brothers were two young Indians, both ex-service men, and Parnell’s and my pre-trial investigation indicated that any game warden could well afford to relax a bit provided only he could keep the brothers Mongoose forever under his watchful eye.)

  I purposely did not get into the anticipated controversial subject of Barney’s prowess with firearms and pistols, though this witness undoubtedly would have known. I wanted to get the stage clearly set for the jury in other directions, and not have the picture distorted or forgotten in a flurry of confusing objections from the pouncing Mr. Dancer. The pistols could come later.

  “Where was the bartender during all the shooting?” I asked.

  “Standing over near the door, I believe. At least I spoke to him there when I came in.”

  “Was it the usual practice, if you know, for Barney to work alone behind the bar?”

  “No, it wasn’t. In fact I remarked about it to the Mongoose twins. He often stood at the end or behind the bar, but rarely waited on the trade. His bartender or the barmaids usually attended to that.”

  “And was it equally unusual for the bartender to be out on the floor—standing by the door?”

  The witness looked up thoughtfully at the courtroom skylight. “Well, now that you speak of it, it was. ’Phonse usually stayed behind the bar.”

  A few more pieces were slipping quietly into the growing mosaic of proof. I glanced around and sure enough Mr. Dancer was again stalking me; the little man seemed to have sensed it too. Well, he’d taken all that trouble to stalk me, and wouldn’t it be a shame to keep him standing there so eager and mute? I’d quick have to ask something that would exercise that lovely voice.

  “Now, Mr. Yates,” I went on, “just before the shooting how did the deceased appear?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Did he seem like a man who was nervous or fidgety and expecting something bad to happen”—I paused—“or instead cheerful and calm and at ease?” The question was objectionable on several counts, as I well knew, but I gambled that my Mr. Dancer was in turn gambler enough and curious enough to want to learn the answer. It looked like I’d won; all was golden silence behind me.

  “He appeared perfectly calm and at ease,” Carl Yates answered. I could almost hear Claude Dancer purring with contentment behind me, doubtless thinking of what a massive blow our rape story had just taken. How could a man who had just perpetrated such a brutal assault and rape at the same time appear so calm and at ease? I paused to let this impression sink in, and then thought it was time to shatter Claude Dancer’s little dream.

  I spoke swiftly. “So that if you were not here today testifying in the murder case of People versus Frederic Manion, Mr. Yates, you could nevertheless still honestly say the same thing—that Barney Quill was calm and at ease—even if the case being tried here now were instead the trial of People versus Barney Quill for rape?”

  The witness’ unmistakable “yes” and Claude Dancer’s booming objection exploded in my ears at the same time. The little man was beside himself, and I wondered how the poor racing reporter could possibly take down the excited flood of words.

  “The question is clearly objectionable,” the Judge ruled sternly when Claude Dancer finally sputtered into silence, “and both it and the answer will be stricken and the jury asked to totally disregard them.” He frowned down at me. “Surely, Mr. Biegler, you must have known how highly improper your question was. In any case I must warn you against a repetition.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor,” I apologized contritely. “Please put it down to the excessive zeal of battle,” I murmured. “I’ll try to mend my ways.” I turned to Claude Dancer and the little bristling military brushes of hair on either side of his head seemed to be standing straight out. “The People’s witness is back to your assistant, Chief Prosecutor Dancer,” I said.

  “No questions,” Mr. Dancer snapped, and at last any question or pretense of who was assisting whom had flown to the four winds.

  As I sat down I saw that Parnell was back in his place, mercifully sober and grinning from ear to ear. We had argued for weeks over the strategy of that last objectionable question, Parnell being for it. His point was that we had to bring out early and dramatically in the trial that if Barney had actually raped Laura he was doing the only thing he could have done, short of running away or surrendering, namely, calmly brazening it out and at the same time building up his defenses to the inevitable charge of rape. Barney had to appear calm. I glanced at my favorite juror and found him looking at me. His eyes lit up and I glanced quickly away; it looked like old Parnell had maybe won again. In any case the rape now clearly had its foot in the door. And equally clear to the jury, I hoped, was the People’s settled determination to dislodge it and keep it out.

  The next eight or ten witnesses, all men, had been standing at the bar and, aside from the minor discrepancies which appear inevitable when different people try to describe the same event, all pretty much agreed that the Lieutenant had walked up to the bar and wordlessly emptied his gun into Barney, that he had stood up on the bar rail after Barney had fallen, and then had as silently turned and left the place. All agreed that the shooting occurred around 12:45. From various of these witnesses, including the inscrutable Mongoose twins, I developed on cross-examination that Barney had bought as high as five rounds of drinks that night; that he himself had apparently taken whisky each time; that all this sudden barroom philanthropy was a noteworthy departure from his previous austerity (the husband of one of the waitresses disagreed with this and, noting the lushness of his large red nose, I did not have the heart to dispute him); that the bartender was standing out on the floor, also a fairly unusual procedure; that Barney seemed to be in good spirits and calm and at ease. From two of the
witnesses, I brought out that they had spoken to the Lieutenant as he had approached the bar, just before the shooting, but that the defendant had not returned their greeting or looked at them. These same two witnesses also thought they heard Barney Quill say “Good evening, Lieutenant” or words to that effect as the defendant approached the bar.

  Mitch conducted the examination of all of these witnesses, as he did the two waitresses who followed, and I concluded that the Dancer was either trying to recreate the somewhat tarnished impression that Mitch was still running the prosecution or else was saving himself for the more important witnesses ahead, probably both. Neither waitress added much to the story of the shooting, except that one of them also told me on cross-examination that the Lieutenant had failed to return her greeting as he had entered. The other waitress, an amiable plump girl, drew a rumble of laughter when she told Mitch that after the first shot she had “galloped for the ladies’ rest room,” which in turn drew an admonitory bang from the Judge’s gavel and a scowl at the crowd from the Judge.

  By then it was going on for five o’clock, and in answer to Mitch’s query whether to call any new witnesses, the Judge nodded for him to go ahead, and Mitch had looked at me and shrugged in mute resignation and called Ditlef Pedersen. We not only had a judge who ran his court with an iron hand but one who firmly believed in the full working day for jurors, lawyers, and witnesses alike. My heart was beginning to go out to Max Battisfore for being so long away from his beloved patrol. Law enforcement out in the brambles was clearly going to pot.

  Ditlef Pedersen (I loved the name; it rolled on one’s tongue like a lozenge) was the man who had sat at the table near the outside door with his wife and sister-in-law. It was near this table that the bartender, Alphonse Paquette, had stood “resting” after Barney had taken over the bar. Under Mitch’s questioning, Mr. Pedersen, a tall blond plasterer from Iron Bay, told how he and his party had stopped off at the bar to have a drink and to pick up some beer to take to their lake-shore cottage for the weekend; how they had chatted for some time with the bartender, who stood by their table; and of how they had suddenly heard a series of shots—“they sounded like giant firecrackers”—and had then seen Lieutenant Manion leaving the place, followed quickly by the bartender.

  “Your witness,” Mitch said.

  “Did the bartender return or remain outside?” I asked.

  “He came right back in.”

  “Did he say anything to you?”

  “Yes, he said he recognized it was Lieutenant Manion.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, he hurried over toward the bar.”

  “Are you sure he said nothing else?” I pressed, thinking of the “Buster” business.

  “Quite positive. We left shortly after. My wife was nervous—she was expecting, you know.”

  “I hadn’t known, Mr. Pedersen. Now how long had the bartender stood by your table?”

  “Quite a while—well over half an hour, I believe. Perhaps even more. We were in no hurry—a nice moonlit night and all.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Pedersen. Did the bartender sit down and talk with you?”

  “He talked but didn’t sit down, though we asked him to several times.”

  “You asked him to sit down?” I said. This was better than I had hoped for—the tired, resting—and watchful—bartender wouldn’t even sit down when invited to.

  “Yes, but he said he was expecting a friend from out of town and wanted to keep an eye out for him. He kept looking out the window.”

  I glanced around to the rows of waiting People’s witnesses and found the bartender, Alphonse Paquette, sitting with folded arms and staring straight ahead. Mary Pilant was not to be seen; in fact neither Parnell nor I had observed her around the courthouse since the case had opened.

  “Did the bartender talk to you and your party?”

  “Occasionally. Just small talk—the weather, fishing, the tourists, the soldiers out at the firing point, how Barney had recently won another pistol shoot, casual stuff like that.”

  I could have gone up and kissed the man. “Casual stuff” indeed. “So the bartender told you that Barney had won another pistol shoot?” I said.

  “Yes. We didn’t pay much attention; it was an old story; Barney was always winning another pistol shoot—I guess he was one of the best in the business.”

  I paused thoughtfully. Trial lawyers who sought to polish perfection frequently only managed to cloud it instead. Perhaps I’d better leave well enough alone. I turned around toward Mitch, ignoring Claude Dancer, who was again lurking behind me. “Your witness, Mr. Prosecutor,” I said.

  Mitch glanced at Claude Dancer as I watched both him and the jury. Ah, there was the little informative shake of the head. “No questions,” Mitch hurriedly said.

  “Mr. Sheriff,” the Judge said, “let’s call it a day.”

  “Hear ye, hear ye …” the Sheriff thundered.

  chapter 9

  Parnell nodded at me and then got up and left for the car. I sat at our table and chatted with Laura and the Lieutenant for a spell while Max stood in an arm-folded “they-shall-not-pass” attitude at a respectable distance from our table. When the murmuring shuffling buzzing crowd of onlookers had finally disappeared, presumably winding their way back to the beauty parlors and damp caves where they dozed between murder trials, Max nodded at me and then jerked his head in the direction of the jail and hurried on his way. His little show was over … . My impulse was to let out an exultant whoop. That Max would at this point have left the Lieutenant unattended I took as the best omen so far of the trial; I had been watching carefully for such a sign; I had not the foggiest notion myself how we were progressing.

  A lawyer seeking to appraise his case in the midst of a trial is like a deceived husband: he is frequently the last person to suspect the true state of affairs. Max’s willingness to let the Lieutenant find his way back to the jail unattended was eloquently telling me that, in his opinion at least, my man was still not in too great danger. And I had developed a wholesome respect for the opinions of Mr. Max Battisfore on matters of mob psychology and the temper of the crowd. After all the man spent most of his waking hours studying it, a veritable Mr. Demos himself. I said nothing of this to the Manions.

  “I’ve got bad news for you, Counselor,” the Lieutenant said.

  “Good news, bad news, news around the town,” I hummed. “How now, Herr Lieutenant? Vass iss da pad noose, ya?”

  “Laura picked up the mail earlier today and then forgot to give me a letter from the Army.”

  “Curses! Don’t tell me our psychiatrist has broken a leg?”

  “No, not quite that bad. The Army just wrote me they are holding up my pay until this case is over.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry—I’d figured on making another payment on your fee.”

  A lawyer in the midst of trying his case is also apt to be like a visiting oilman running daft and amuck at Las Vegas: money is the farthest thing from his thoughts. “Don’t worry about it, Lieutenant,” I said airily. “How did you like that left jab I took at our little friend Dancer?”

  “Yum,” the Lieutenant said vaguely, and Laura reached over and impulsively touched my arm. “Win or lose, Paul, we’ll never forget you. You’re wonderful.”

  The talk was veering a little on the moist side and I gave the Manions some suggestions that had occurred to me during the day’s take. We finally separated, Laura accompanying her husband out through the main courtroom door toward the jail, and I taking my usual route through the Judge’s chambers, a half-conscious hangover from my days as D.A.

  Judge Weaver was sitting alone at his desk reading a Michigan law report. A stack of opened and unopened bound law reports were lying around him on his desk. The manila folder containing our thick wedge of requested instructions lay at his elbow. He looked up. “Well, Mr. Biegler, another day, another dollar,” he said pleasantly.

  “You’re a real bearcat for work, Judge,” I said. “When do you eat?”


  The Judge smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’m as lazy as the next man. But when counsel load me up with such brain-cracking requests for instructions as you’ve dumped on me, a man can’t help but work. It looks like I’ll be burning the midnight oil.” He patted the manila folder. “You didn’t throw these things together overnight.”

  “No, Judge,” I said, feeling like a monstrous heel that I couldn’t tell him that most of the work was Pamell’s. “I hope you’re finding some food for thought.”

  The Judge laid both of his big knuckly hands palms down in front of him on his desk. At that moment he reminded me of my dead father, Oliver, about to deliver one of his impromptu after-dinner perorations on the beauties of moderation and keeping early hours. The Judge turned and glanced thoughtfully out the window. “In no sense am I passing on the draft instructions you have given me. They mayor may not ultimately be given, in whole or in part.” He looked at me. “But you’ve obviously toiled and thought so hard over these instructions that it is perhaps only an act of mercy to tell you that so far they are checking out. Your authorities do what they should do: they sustain what you cite them for, no more and no less. So far they are among the best instructions on their points I’ve ever seen.” He smiled. “Now let’s talk about something else. Sit down and ignite one of your hideous Roman candles—they can’t all be duds.”

  “Thank you, Judge,” I murmured, doubly embarrassed because I could not give old Parnell his just due. “That is generous of you—a man gets pretty lonely and uncertain during a trial like this. It—it’s like nightmare and ecstasy all stirred up together.”

  “Yes, I know, I know.” The Judge pushed his book away and stuffed his briar pipe. I sat with one leg over the arm of my chair, staring out at the lovely empty lake, longing to be out there, floating along with a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and—and whom? I almost blushed; I had been thinking, of all things, of Mary Pilant.

  “You like being a judge, don’t you?” I said, forsaking my idle dream.