Anatomy of a Murder

by Robert Traver

  “Yes, sir. He said—”

  “Objection! Objection, Your Honor,” the Dancer boomed. “Court has ruled on all that. Would not be relevant to any issues properly—”

  I leapt to my feet. “Lissen, Dancer!” I shouted, suddenly goaded beyond all endurance. “Whaddya tryin’ to do—railroad this poor guy to the clink? This is cross-examination in a murder case, not a highschool debate. You and your incessant chatter about relevant issues, issues, issues … .” (I could hear the Judge calling my name and pounding his gavel, but the only way he could have stopped me then was to have used it over my head.) “You want to unload all the bad news on my man but none of the good. Issues, issues, issues!” I imitated his voice. “‘Dear Judge, please let’s not mention anything as horrid as rape until somebody gets raped! Let’s not let Junior go near the water, mother, till he learns how to swim … .’ Listen, fella—who in—who in the blazes do you think you’re foolin’?”

  “Mr. Biegler, Mr. Biegler,” the Judge kept calling, and I finally turned to him, hot and flushed. He too was deeply flushed with anger. “I must warn you against another such outburst,” he said sternly. “You are an experienced lawyer and know better, much better. Henceforth please address your comments on objections solely to the Court. I cannot tolerate another such intemperate display—and I warn you I shall not. The only reason I am overlooking this one is that I realize you men are under such a strain.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor,” I said. “I apologize to the court.” (In my burst of anger I had not entirely lost sight of the fact that my outburst might obliquely do him some good, too.) “Your Honor,” I went on, “I shall now address my remarks on the objections, if I may.” The Judge nodded grimly and I went on. “This witness is a key witness for the People. He has investigated this alleged murder. He has given testimony here today which, if unexplained or not further explored, could conceivably be most harmful to this defendant. I think and I insist that we have the right now, while the one-sided impact of that testimony is still fresh before the jury, to learn all that he knows, everything that the defendant and his wife told him. I think we should have this right in order to bring out the true climate and circumstances in which those admissions, if any, were made. Insanity is an issue in this case; it has been an issue in this case since the start of this trial; and we submit that whatever trouble this defendant’s wife had had with the deceased must have triggered or at least contributed to that claimed insanity. We now seek to find out what that ‘trouble’ was.”

  I paused, my mind racing, feeling that this, at last, was it and that I had better be good. “Among other things this witness has testified that the defendant told him he shot Barney because his wife had had ‘some trouble’ with the dead man. What kind of trouble? Had Barney called her a bad name? Had he cheated her at pinball? On the face of it it must be apparent even to a child that the defendant said more than that to Officer Durgo if he said anything at all. That he said something this witness has already testified. I submit and I urge with the utmost seriousness that we should be entitled to get into that ‘something’ here and now and not later on after the impression of this adroitly restricted direct testimony has jelled.” I dropped my voice; a little genteel warning might not be amiss. “It would be a pity, Your Honor,” I said, “to inject grave error into this case now when we are so close to being done.” I turned away abruptly and sat down. The fate of the whole case, I felt, now hung in the balance.

  The Judge had listened intently and he leaned back in his chair and looked up at the skylight, his fingertips together and his lips thoughtfully pursed. Claude Dancer arose and advanced as though to give argument, but the Judge waved him away. The courtroom grew hushed. I heard the electric click of the clock on the wall behind me and it sounded like a brass gong. The Judge leaned forward and looked at the clock as though to mark the hour of his decision.

  “I am going to take the answer,” he said.

  “The defendant told us that the deceased had raped his wife,” Julian Durgo said quietly.

  I sighed inwardly and was glad I was seated. “At last,” I thought, “at last I got the lady laid!” Never had I had a harder chore, in court or out … .

  “What else?”

  “He said he had taken a nap earlier and that around nine o’clock his wife had gone to the hotel bar to get some beer and that he had planned to join her later. The next thing he knew he heard some screams—and his wife fell in his arms.”

  “And you saw the wife?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What shape was she in?”

  “She was semi-hysterical and sobbing and her face and arms were badly bruised.”

  “And did she tell you her story?”

  “She did.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “Objection, Your Honor—this—”

  “The objection is overruled. Proceed.”

  “She said that Barney Quill had raped her and beat her up.”

  “Without going into detail now, Sergeant, did you ask her and did she tell you that Barney Quill had raped her?”

  “I did and she did.”

  “In great detail?”

  “In great detail.”

  “And did she tell you it was in the woods on the other side of the main road?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And about the second attack back at the tourist park gate when she escaped and was caught and further assaulted and screamed and then finally escaped?”

  “She did, sir.”

  “And did she lead you officers to the side road where the first attack was alleged to have occurred?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And did you find tire marks and burns and dog tracks in on that road?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And looked for her panties but couldn’t find them?”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “And was this the ‘some trouble’ that Lieutenant Manion referred to?”

  “It was.”

  “And was it your notion to come in to this court and call it that?”

  Quietly: “It was not, sir.”

  “Was the suggestion made to you to call it that by someone now in this room?”

  The witness looked over at Claude Dancer, as I guessed he would, like a careful officer, to confirm that he was still there. “He is, sir.”

  I paused and decided to let the subject rest there; I had got Julian Durgo off the hook and rested the blame finally where it belonged.

  “There has been testimony here, Officer, that you were given Laura Manion’s torn skirt for the purpose of having it tested for sperm or seminal stain. Was it so tested?”

  “It was, sir.”

  “And the results?”

  “They were negative.”

  I had been afraid of that, but I had to make sure on the off-chance that the People’s studied silence on the subject had been an attempt to cover up. Claude Dancer had finally sprung one of his little traps on me and he grinned amiably across at me and, wincing, I gravely nodded my congratulations.

  “And the clothing worn by the deceased—were they so tested too?” I pressed doggedly on, like a boxer being helplessly clubbed on the ropes.

  “They were.”

  “And the results?”

  “Also negative, sir.”

  Again a delighted and toothsome Claude Dancer grinned happily over at me. “Would the fact that they were blood-soaked have had any effects on the test?” I went glumly on, taking a shot in the dark.

  “It would, sir,” the witness answered. “In fact our laboratory man did not see any use in testing them—it seems that excessive blood has a tendency to obliterate or merge evidence of sperm or seminal stain—but he nevertheless did so to complete the tests and quiet any future argument.”

  Well, I’d softened the blow a little, at least. My next question was aimed more at the jury than at the witness. “There was also present the great possibility that if the deceased had raped Mrs. Man
ion, he would doubtless have changed his clothes before he was shot, was there not?”

  Claude Dancer half rose in his chair, as though to object, and then, thinking better, slowly sank back.

  “You’re reprieved,” I prompted the witness. “You may dare to speak now without mortal danger.”

  “Yes, sir,” the witness replied, and at last I was able to leer back at Claude Dancer. It was time, I saw, to forsake the uneasy subject of blood-stained clothing.

  “Now, Officer,” I said. “I assume you conducted an independent investigation then and later to check on the story of the alleged rape, did you not?”

  “I did, sir; an extensive one.”

  “And did that investigation tend to confirm or refute Mrs. Manion’s story of the rape?”

  “Confirm it, sir.”

  “In every particular?”

  “In every particular.”

  “And what were some of these things that confirmed your opinion on that score?”

  “Well, sir, the scene of the attack, which I’ve described.” He paused. “The biggest thing was the screams.”

  “Screams, Detective? What screams?” If I looked surprised I was sure it was not half as much as I felt.

  “Mrs. Manion had told us she had screamed several times at the gate. We naturally checked on that—not only to find out if she had screamed but whether the screams might not have instead come from the trailer.”

  “You mean, Officer, to find out whether it might not have been her husband who beat her up for staying out alley-catting?”

  He smiled slightly. “Well, yes, sir, that’s about it.”

  “And what did you learn?”

  “That the screams came from the gate, as she had said. We found four tourists whose trailers were closest to the main gate. They all said they were awakened around midnight by a series of screams coming from the gate. One of them also heard a moaning and a dull thud, like something hitting the ground.”

  “And you have the names and addresses of these witnesses?”

  “I have.”

  “And you had long ago turned this information over to the prosecuting officials?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I paused and glanced at my juror; I’d been neglecting him lately, but he still looked good. “Now, I ask you, Sergeant, if you are an expert pistol shot?”

  Modestly: “Well, Mr. Biegler—yes, sir, I guess I am.”

  “And you are familiar with pistols and ammunition?”

  “I believe I am, sir.”

  “And have you ever engaged in pistol shoots with persons not in police work?” (This too was a shot in the dark.)

  “Occasionally.”

  “In this county?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was one of them the deceased, Barney Quill?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And was he also an expert?”

  “Yes, sir. I would say he was among the best I have ever seen.”

  “We’re up, we’re down, we’re up … .” I thought. I reached for the lüger among the exhibits and handed it to the witness. “Are you familiar with this type of weapon?”

  “I am, sir. It is a German lüger.”

  “What happens when it is empty?”

  “Well, without getting technical, when it is empty—as it is now, the gun stays open, this gadget goes up, and the trigger clicks loose—like this.”

  “So that a person familiar with that weapon could tell it was empty simply by looking at it, without opening it?”

  “Correct.”

  I took the gun and returned it to the pile of exhibits. “Returning now, Detective, to your confirmation of Mrs. Manion’s story of the rape, was there anything else that tended to convince you of the truth of her story?” (I was at last trying to lead up to the lie-detector test.)

  “There was.”

  “What?”

  The witness knew that such tests were inadmissible in court, and he glanced uncertainly at the Judge. “Well,” he said, “we questioned her again at length at the state police barracks.”

  “Who is we?”

  “Lieutenant Webley, myself and—” The witness hesitated.

  “And who else, Sergeant?”

  “Lieutenant Peterhaus, sir.”

  “What does he do? I don’t believe his name is endorsed on the information or was mentioned before in this case?”

  “He is our expert on the polygraph.”

  “And what is the polygraph?”

  “It is generally known as the lie detector, sir.”

  “You mean, Detective, that Mrs. Manion was given a lie-detector test?”

  “Objection. Results of polygraphs never admissible in our courts, as counsel well knows.”

  “Your Honor,” I said, “no one is talking about the results of any lie-detector test, but whether one was given.”

  The Judge thoughtfully pursed his lips. “Take the answer,” he said.

  “She was given such a test, yes.”

  “And was this test given before or after you had determined on your own whether she was telling the truth?”

  “After.”

  “At whose request?”

  “Mrs. Manion’s.”

  “And after the test was given did you change your mind on that score?”

  “Your Honor, Your Honor!” Dancer was shouting behind me, nearly beside himself, making little sqealing noises, like a Japanese general fallen on his sword. “This is a sly subterfuge to get around the rule barring such tests. The defense has never asked us for the results. I—I—”

  I leered across the room at my excited friend and spoke quietly. “We ask you now, Mr. Dancer.”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the Judge said, his voice rising. “There has been a question and an objection and I must make a ruling, which I cannot do if you keep up this unholy wrangling. We are skating on thin ice, I realize, but in all conscience I cannot rule that the question is objectionable. Counsel is not asking for the results of any polygraph test but the opinion of the witness based upon certain knowledge possessed by him. Take the answer.”

  “My mind did not change.”

  “So that before the polygraph test you believed she was telling the truth?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And after?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And do you still believe it up to this moment?”

  Crisply: “Yes, sir.”

  “Finally, Officer, wasn’t that the real reason you did not ask Dr. Raschid during the autopsy to make any tests for possible recent intercourse or the alcoholic content of the blood?”

  Nodding: “Yes, sir.”

  “It was never with any idea, then or now, that you or your organization wanted to suppress anything here in court?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “But rather because you and your organization were then satisfied beyond all doubt that the rape had in fact taken place and that no further confirmation was necessary?”

  “Precisely, sir.”

  “And at that time, Officer, did you anticipate that any question would ever be raised or issue made over the fact of that rape, least of all by the prosecution?”

  The witness shot a look at Claude Dancer’s table. “I certainly did not, sir,” he said. Julian Durgo, I saw, had not been happy with his role in the trial of this case.

  “Thank you, Officer,” I said. “Your witness, Mr. Dancer.”

  Bulldog Dancer was not a man to give up easily. “Officer,” he tugged away, “couldn’t the screams at the gate have been those of a man?” (“Ah,” I thought, “Laura is now raping Barney.”)

  “Possibly, Mr. Dancer,” the witness answered crisply. “Except that all the tourists said they were a woman’s.”

  “But did the tourists know it was this woman’s screams?” he said, pointing at Laura.

  “They did not, sir.”

  “Your witness,” Claude Dancer said, looking as triumphant as though he had just uncovered a brand-new
batch of Dead Sea scrolls.

  “Officer,” I said, “during your investigation did you hear of any other woman or women who had screamed in the park that night?—at the gate or anywhere?”

  Smiling briefly: “I did not, sir.”

  “You were unable to dig up any evidence of a general epidemic of screaming females that night?”

  “Only the one occasion at the gate, sir.”

  “No further questions,” I said.

  “The witness is excused,” Claude Dancer said.

  “Fifteen minutes, Mr. Sheriff,” the Judge said

  chapter 15

  During recess Parnell and I huddled in the conference room where I hastily tried to bring him up to date on my strange moonlit session with Mary Pilant. I told him everything—well, almost everything. His white-faced relief over learning that his Nora-Mary was all the things he’d hoped she might be was touching to behold. “Ah, Polly, Polly, I knew it, lad, I knew it all along … .”

  I aroused myself from a pensive dream of Mary and shrugged. “Well, Parn,” I said, “it now looks as though all our work and worry over the will contest—mostly your work and worry—was all in vain. I guess it doesn’t make much difference now whether the bartender comes our way or not.”

  “Not on your life, Polly,” Parnell said. “You’ve got your rape in, now, yes—and thank goodness for that—but that still is not a legal defense to this murder. We’ve still got that problem to face, and also the big twin problem of why the Lieutenant went to the bar that night carrying a concealed weapon. The bartender can help us on all that if he will. Do you think he will, boy?”

  “Lord knows, Parn,” I said. “I told you what Mary Pilant phoned me. Pretty soon we find out about the slippery bartender. I wish I’d been sweeter to him when I was little. Ah for the days of yesteryear. ‘O lost and by the wind—’”

  Max Battisfore popped his head in the door. “Second act curtain in two minutes, Polly,” he said.

  “Thanks, Max,” I said, tightening my necktie.

  “You know,” Parnell said thoughtfully as I snapped shut my swollen brief case, “that Sheriff of ours might have possibilities if he’d only get out of politics. He—he kind of grows on me.”