Anatomy of a Murder

by Robert Traver

  Claude Dancer paused like a good actor to let these pregnant words sink in. “And what time was that?” he continued.

  “Just before one A.M.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I told him to go wait in his trailer, that I would go uptown and notify the state police.”

  “And did he go wait?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the police finally arrived and took over.”

  “They did. Somebody else notified them first.”

  Mr. Dancer turned toward me and smiled, he actually smiled, and I swiftly concluded, as I had with Barney’s bartender, that if I had to take him at all I much preferred him frowning. He was in a benevolent mood, the day was going nicely, and somehow Biegler was flubbing his shots … . “Your witness, Mr. Biegler,” he smiled sweetly and padded nimbly back to his assistant boss. I heaved myself to my feet, feeling not a day older than the witness I was about to face.

  “How old are you, Mr. Lemon?” I said.

  “I’ll be sixty-nine in February,” he answered.

  “And how long have you been custodian of the Thunder Bay tourist and trailer park?”

  “Going on nine years, sir.”

  “And who do you work for—who pays your salary?”

  “The township—Mastodon Township.”

  “And how long have you been a deputy sheriff?”

  “Going on three years.”

  “And who pays your salary for that office?”

  Surprised: “Why no one, sir—there just isn’t any salary.”

  “So your sole income—from your work at least—comes from the township of Mastodon as custodian of the tourist and trailer park?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, as deputy sheriff was it your practice to serve legal papers; roam highways, chase speeders, pinch violators, quell riots, patrol strikes, case the outlying taverns on Saturday nights and pay days—and all the many things that our busy Sheriff here and his loyal deputies are required to do day and night?” (I glanced at the Sheriff. This was Max’s pay-off and in his moment of glory he was all flushed and swollen out like a pouter pigeon. At that instant, at least, the Lieutenant could plainly have gotten up and strolled off unhindered to Georgia.)

  “Oh, no sir,” the witness replied, recoiling in horror at the thought. “I only work at the park.”

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Lemon, you’ve never done any of these things, have you; your deputyship is purely a convenience in connection with your duties in the park; you’ve never made a dime as deputy; you don’t wear a uniform or carry a gun; and you’ve probably never arrested a man in your life?”

  “All that is correct, sir. I don’t even own a gun.” He hesitated and smiled. “Perhaps I can explain. You—you see, Mr. Biegler, about three years ago some of our town boys began coming around the park at night, singing and disturbing the tourists. Nothing vicious, you know—just being boys. Well, I—I thought if I got to be a deputy sheriff that might scare them a little.”

  “And did they scare, Mr. Lemon?” I said, smiling.

  “Not readily,” he said timidly. “It was Mrs. Lemon who finally, solved the problem.”

  “How?”

  “Cookies.”

  “Cookies, Mr. Lemon?”

  “Cookies, Mr. Biegler. Isabelle—Mrs. Lemon, I mean—discovered that the best way to silence the town boys at night was to fill them up with homemade cookies.” He held out his hands. “We haven’t had any trouble since.”

  What a lovely little man, I thought. I glanced over at Mr. Dancer, who was sunk in profound thought—probably yearning for Isabelle’s recipe. “Passing now to the locked gate,” I said. “I believe you testified that you close and lock this gate at ten every night, and that this is well known to the patrons of your park?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I assume then that this would be even better known to the residents of Thunder Bay?”

  “Oh yes, sir—everybody knew that. It’s been locked at that hour since the park opened—long before I became caretaker.”

  “So that if any local resident suggested driving a tourist, say, into the park after that hour, he must surely have known that the gate would be closed and locked?”

  “Objection,” the Dancer said. “The gate is irrelevant and immaterial.”

  “Mr. Biegler?” the Judge said.

  I was beginning to feel a little benevolent, too. “I’ll abide by your ruling, Your Honor.”

  “The objection is overruled. The People have opened the gate, so to speak, and within reason, the defense may close it. Take the answer.”

  “Oh, yes sir,” Mr. Lemon said. “Everybody knew that.”

  After that I had myself a time swinging gaily on the creaking park gate, showing that while the caretaker had told the Lieutenant about the gate and given him a key, he hadn’t told Laura; that on the few occasions they had stayed out together past ten that he, Mr. Lemon, had left the gate not only unlocked but standing open for them; that there was indeed a foot-stile at the side of the gate but that the tourists rarely, if ever, used it and instead either drove through the gate in cars, or, when walking, used the more northerly short-cut footpath to town which passed near Mr. Lemon’s cottage. I also showed that bears were frequently seen in or near the tourist park, especially at night near the garbage dump on the south or entrance end. I finally showed that there was no other automobile road into the park proper except that which passed through the main gate.

  “Closing the gate, now, Mr. Lemon,” I said, “how did Lieutenant Manion appear when he told you what you say he told you?” Claude Dancer’s failure to get into this on direct might be a trap, I sensed, but on the other hand one never knew … .

  “He was white as a ghost and stood very straight, very erect and soldierly. He—he seemed to have trouble speaking; it seemed like he talked through his teeth. He—he acted like a man in a dream.”

  “A little caretaker shall lead them,” I thought, pausing to let this answer soak in. While it was not entirely inconsistent with cold rage, it was even less inconsistent, I felt, with the picture of a man in the grip of some grave emotional or mental disturbance. I decided to rest the subject there.

  “And Mrs. Manion,” I said. “Did you see her?”

  “Oh yes. I walked over to the trailer with the Lieutenant and she came to the door crying and said, ‘Look what Barney did to me.’”

  I half crouched, waiting for the booming objection, but no, the Dancer was too smart to nail the point home twice by objecting—the thing had slipped out and maybe it would go away.

  “And what was her appearance?” I said, trying to make sure it wouldn’t go away.

  “She—she was a mess.” The witness closed his eyes as though to banish a bad dream.

  Everybody in the courtroom and county knew, of course, that Laura Manion had claimed that Barney had raped her. But this was the first sliver of actual evidence of the fact. The jury now knew that we were skating on the very edge of the rape. And like the hushed and slack-mouthed women sitting in the courtroom, they were also probably dying to hear about it. But I was damned if I was going to risk getting slapped down again; on the other hand, I had to try to lay the jury’s disappointment at some other door. I was beginning to rather like it this way. I looked up at the Judge.

  “Your Honor,” I said, “we seem to be veering rather close to a keep-off-the-grass subject. I have no desire to annoy the court or to try to circumvent its earlier ruling, and I shall push ahead on the subject or not, as the court will please indicate.”

  I stood glancing curiously about the room as though it was the first time I had ever seen the place, as unconcerned as any bored and sun-blistered tourist being shown through the place by Sulo. “Hm …” said the Judge, leaning back and studying the domed skylight. I had passed him a little poser and we both knew it. But he was equal to the challenge-like a good halfback in trouble he promptly lateraled the ball off to Claude Dancer. “The People, M
r. Dancer?” he said. “What do you say?”

  “Absolutely not,” the Dancer came faithfully storming through; you could always count on the little man. “The Court has ruled; counsel is aware of it; and there is not a scintilla of evidence of any—” he paused and for once the boy orator was at a loss for words. I was certain he had nearly said “rape.”

  “Yes, Mr. Dancer?” I leered at him helpfully.

  “—of any issue to which this line of questioning would be relevant,” he concluded, glaring at me and plumping to his chair.

  “Perhaps, Mr. Biegler,” the Court suggested, “perhaps in view of the People’s attitude you had better push on with something else. You may recall this witness later, of course, as per our earlier understanding.”

  The entire courtroom sighed a collective sigh, as though someone had punctured a balloon. Nearly everybody seemed to be glaring at somebody else. Most interesting to me, however, was that to a man the jury was now glaring at Claude Dancer. I studied the dusty portraits of the deceased judges until everybody could get thoroughly glared out and then I cleared my throat.

  “Now, Mr. Lemon,” I said, coming slowly to another delicate subject, “what time did you retire that night?”

  “About ten-fifteen, my regular hour, right after closing the gate and listening to the radio newscast.”

  “And was your rest disturbed between that time and when Lieutenant Manion awoke you around one?”

  “No, though I am a light sleeper.”

  “And your hearing, Mr. Lemon?” I asked softly.

  Proudly: “I hear very well. Mrs. Lemon says I can hear a pin drop.”

  “And your cottage was about how far from the Manion trailer?”

  “About thirty feet—just as the chart there says.”

  “And from your cottage down to the main gate?”

  “About three hundred feet like it says.”

  “And nothing disturbed your slumbers—or at least your rest?”

  “No, sir.”

  Slowly: “No boys sang?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No women screamed?”

  “The screams were down by the gate—”

  “Objection, objection!” Claude Dancer was fairly breathing on my neck.

  There was an edge in the Judge’s voice. “Please let the witness complete his answer before you object, Mr. Dancer,” he said sharply. He turned toward the witness. “Proceed,” he said.

  “Those were Mrs. Manion’s screams that the Ohio tourists heard down by the gate.”

  Objection. Hearsay. Tourists best evidence—these were some of the objections that Claude Dancer urged in a torrent upon the Court.

  “Your Honor,” I said, acting on a sudden hunch. “I withdraw the question. The witness is back to you, Mr. Dancer.”

  “No questions,” he snapped.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lemon,” I said.

  “Call a ten-minute recess, Mr. Sheriff,” the Judge said, frowning thoughtfully up at the skylight.

  chapter 12

  The compassionate Judge must have divined the shape I was in; he excused us a little early that afternoon. Due to some providential mixup two out-county lawyers had wandered into court during the afternoon with their default divorce clients and witnesses, erroneously thinking their cases were scheduled to be heard that day instead of a week later. When, during recess, the Judge learned of their plight he lacked the heart to send them away with their angry and unfreed clients; after all, the profession had to save face. Old drummer-boy Biegler could have kissed all of them, even to the grim-looking clients. By four o’clock Mitch had taken a couple more routine witnesses over the jumps and at last I was free. With a parched tongue and pounding temples I fairly raced out to my car and fled the courthouse and Iron Bay.

  It had begun to rain, gently at first and then with a kind of monotonous autumnal savagery. Wounded defense counsel drove home the back way, splashing through colorful dripping tunnels and rolling hillsides of fading leaves, carefully making a wide arc around the beguiling Halfway House, which, I numbly remembered, refused to sell drinks to people over a hundred and one. The day’s courtroom hunting had resulted in a mixed bag, some good and some bad. But mostly it had been bad, I morosely concluded, for not only had the bartender and prosecution teamed up to block the defense, but now even the good Judge himself was contributing to the enterprise. And what assurance had I that the little bartender would ever open up and tell at least part of the truth, if and when the Judge finally let me really have at him? No, all in all it had not been a good day and the prospects were far from pleasing. And where, dear Lord, where was my wandering Parnell?

  On the outskirts of Chippewa I stopped at a little store and, scampering through the rain, picked up a copy of the Mining Gazette, which I read avidly, sitting in the steamy rain-pelted car, much as a prizefight fan races from ringside to the nearest newsstand after a big bout as though to confirm what really happened and that, indeed, there had been any fight at all. “Manion murder trial marked by bitter clashes between lawyers,” one of the headlines shouted. I read on, unbelieving, held in a fiend’s clutch. Was Paul Biegler the quiet trout fisherman really one of the noisy guys mixed up in this unzippered tempest, this snarling courtroom hassle? Were we two really carrying on like “two scorpions in a bottle,” as the newspaper said? The young reporter, Bob Birkey, was doing a manful job, and a fair one, too; most of it was there, the good and the bad. But most of the nuances were missing; newspapers rarely ever have time for the nuances. Yet nuances were the heart of this case. “See Murder Trial, p. 8” the newspaper said, and I flipped the pages.

  Ah, there were the photographs of the Judge and handsome crew cut Mitch and balding fur-haired Claude Dancer leaping out at me—the Dancer as alert and eager-looking as a well-scrubbed choirboy. Yes, there they all were, bigger than bear-wheat, with row upon gap-toothed row of shelved law books making an impressive backdrop. Little Mr. Dancer was passing a paper to Mitch, the inevitable mysterious document that newspaper photographers somehow feel compelled to trot out—this one doubtless being, I maliciously thought, Mitch’s instructions for the day. There was also a good shot of the Judge sitting imperturbable and alone at his desk, then another of Mitch and his man Friday, this time Mitch doubtlessly passing the instructions back. An apt title occurred to me for the last one: “Lieutenant Manion’s Wrecking Crew.”

  Back at my musty office I threw open the windows and phoned in a wire to our psychiatrist that he must arrive not later than Saturday (this was Thursday evening), and then I read my mail. There was a letter from my mother Belle, who would be home in two weeks and hoped her Polly wasn’t working too hard and was getting plenty of sleep (at the very thought of sleep I yawned until I feared my jaw was stuck) and who hoped I was regularly watering her geraniums (“Good God,” I thought). The rest was bills, bills, bills, tintinnabulations of colorful, autumn-tinted fluttering bills … .

  I idly tried the television but it was lousy. We were mercifully too far away for good television. I worked for a while on my jury argument; one had always to be prepared for that; trials had a nasty. habit of ending abruptly; one suddenly found oneself cut adrift before a jury composed of stony-faced native Buddhas, trying in a fleeting hour or so to carve a modicum of sense out of days of chaos.

  “Give jury true picture of tense setup in bar that night,” I scribbled away. “Stress Barney knew gate was shut and Laura didn’t. Give Dancer hell. Show bartender goddam liar. Take Dancer the prancer apart … .” The city hall clock struck nine; darkness fell; I scribbled on and on; the clock boomed ten; my numbed mind simply wasn’t tracking; I kept giving Dancer hell; verily, I would incant the little man into oblivion. I yawned and yawned; my head nodded down toward my desk … . I must have fallen asleep … .

  “Polly,” someone was saying softly. “Polly, Polly. Wake up, boy. It’s me … .”

  Parnell stood across from me looking like a beardless Father Time; the tired pouches under his fatigue-reddene
d eyes sagged like those of an old rabbit hound; his new suit was soiled and wrinkled and looked as though it had been rained on. But the old man was smiling and cold sober. He dropped his brief case and sagged into the chair across my desk. “Tire troubled … .” he murmured, wagging his head. “I’m not the driver I used to be, boy. What’s more, I never was.”

  “He’s home,” I thought, “thank God the old man is home.” “Where you been at, Parn?” I said wearily, still only partly awake. I hadn’t realized until then how much I loved this old man, loved and depended on him.

  Parnell sighed and stretched out in his chair like a basking grampus, his plump hands folded across his belly. “First fetch me one of those habit-forming orange pops, Polly boy,” he said. He sighed: “Where have I been? Ah, lad, sometimes I don’t believe it myself—I feel like I been to the South Pole.”

  With his pop at his elbow, and part of it in him, Parnell rallied a little and leaned forward. “It happened this way, boy …” he began, and away he went on his story of his adventures at the South Pole.

  Parnell had been quietly working on the Barney Quill will contest. He and Maida had worked on it for days. He had briefed the whole subject, including the question of the Wisconsin divorce, and had become convinced that legally the opposition didn’t have a Chinaman’s chance to upset either Barney’s will or the divorce. Then he had gone to Mary Pilant’s lawyer, Martin Melstrand, and put his cards on the table. He and old Martin were contemporaries; they had taken their bar exams together years before; he knew Martin could be trusted … .

  “But, Parn,” I interrupted, “why—why didn’t you tell me? We were partners in this case—remember?”

  “I didn’t want you to worry, boy. You had enough on your mind tryin’ your case. If I failed I—I didn’t want … .” He paused and held out his soiled hands pleadingly. “Listen me out,” he said. “The proof of the pudding—”

  “Gathers no moss,” I cut in. “Go on,” I grumbled dubiously.

  Parnell had gone over his brief with Martin Melstrand; he had sold him on the proposition that he was right; Martin Melstrand said that furthermore they had receipts and canceled checks showing that Barney’s ex-wife had collected alimony for years; that Barney had indeed been sober when he made the will; that he had been in town for a physical checkup by Doctor Broun; that Martin Melstrand had himself drafted the will and handed it to Barney; that both he and his stenographer and the doctor knew he was then sober; that he had signed it immediately upon returning to Thunder Bay that very day; that in addition to the two witnesses to the will the local justice of the peace had also been present.