Anatomy of a Murder

by Robert Traver

  “Yes, even take Judge Weaver, Parn. Both of us like and respect him, but all we know and probably all we shall ever get to know about the man is but three small hairs on his head. It’s a solemn mystery.”

  “Ah, there, lad, now you’ve touched it. Yes, take our judge, Polly. Judges, like people, may be divided roughly into four classes: judges with neither head nor heart—they are to be avoided at all costs; judges with head but no heart—they are almost as bad; then judges with heart but no head—risky but better than the first two; and finally, those rare judges who possess both head and a heart —thanks to blind luck, that’s our judge.”

  I nodded wordlessly.

  “Alas, boy, we have plenty of words of bitter invective and scorn for people, but none to describe that man or our own Judge Maitland. It seems that humility and kindness and profound intelligence are so seldom blent in one man that the world—at least the English-speaking world—has never felt compelled to coin a word to describe it. If it has, that word has eluded me.” He shook his head. “Our words are legion to describe bastards—Roget is simply a-crawl with ’em. Yet to describe this judge of ours I have instead to make a small speech!” He looked at his watch. “But come, Polly, better turn around—it’s off to do battle again.”

  Every seat in the courtroom was taken and it seemed that there were almost twice as many people squeezed in the seats as the place could comfortably hold. Most of them were the same frizzy-haired, wall-eyed women who could have been turned out on the same lathe. The room grew perfectly still and Judge Weaver looked down at me and nodded. It was time for me to make the opening statement for the defense, the statement that Parnell and I had brooded over so long.

  I arose and walked before the bench and bowed slightly and half turned toward the jury. “May it please the court and ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I said, in what was probably one of the shortest opening statements to a jury in the annals of Michigan murder, “the defendant proposes to show that he was not guilty of murder or of any crime growing out of the fatal shooting of Barney Quill; that he was actually and legally insane when he shot the deceased; and that he had a perfect legal right to go to the place of the deceased as he did and seek him out. I thank you.” I turned and went back to my table and sat down.

  “Call your first witness,” the Judge said.

  “The defense will call Dr. Malcolm Broun,” I said. The curtain had risen on the third and final act of our courtroom drama.

  Dr. Broun, a country doctor of the old school, hurried up to the stand in a kind of impatient sidewise lope. He was a large sandy craggy cliff of a man, almost defiantly untidy, and a stethoscope protruded ominously from the pocket of his wrinkled tweed jacket as though he were bent upon pinning down and thumping, the Judge.

  “I certainly do, young man,” the doctor boomed in answer to Clovis’ oath, sitting and squarely facing me. I briefly qualified him —everybody in the county knew old Doc Broun or Red Broun—the unabashed lover of county fair harness racing, Scotch whisky and newly born babies (though I was not quite sure of the order).

  “Doctor,” I said, “did you have occasion during July of this year to make a physical examination of Barney Quill in connection with his application for some policies of life insurance?”

  “I did,” the doctor boomed, and I could feel the Dancer panting softly on my neck. “July twenty-eighth in my office.”

  “And did you do so on behalf of Mr. Quill or the insurance company?”

  “The latter, young man—and they paid me, too.”

  “And what kind of a physical specimen did your examination disclose Mr. Quill to be?”

  “Objection. Irrelevant, immaterial. Anyway results of examination privileged,” the Dancer cabled the Judge. “Too remote. No showing physical condition continued unchanged up to murder.”

  “Mr. Biegler?” the Judge said.

  “I believe the privilege would be personal to the deceased or his fiduciary,” I said, “and I am not aware that Mr. Dancer has now wormed his way in on the dead man’s estate. Furthermore, this examination was made by this witness for the insurance company—he was not acting as Barney Quill’s doctor. As for remoteness or possible change, I suggest that would be a question of fact for the jury; also possibly a proper matter for rebuttal by the People.” I paused and glanced at Claude Dancer. “If Mr. Dancer wants to show that Barney Quill went into a wizened decline since July twenty-eighth he can call Dr. Raschid and the others who attended the autopsy to prove it—that, and by suppressing, if he can, all of the People’s exhibits of the excellent photographs showing the deceased lying on the slab.” I quickly found and held up the pictures of Barney, and waved them so that the jury could see the body-beautiful, superb even in death.

  “The objection is overruled,” the Judge said, rather unsuccessfully suppressing a smile.

  During this exchange Dr. Broun had sat impatiently drumming his fingers on the mahogany railing of the witness box. His disapproving look declaimed eloquently that if all this infernal nonsense constituted the practice of law he for one would gladly stick to his stethoscopes and clattering bedpans.

  “You may answer now, Doctor,” I said.

  “Incredible,” he murmured. “Well, young man, I am a doctor of medicine and not of divinity,” he growled. “Whatever this man Quill’s morals may or may not have been, I can say this: they were lodged in the body of a Greek god. The man was compounded of whalebone and piano wire. He was a magnificent animal—like a blooded stallion.” He stirred restlessly. “Any further questions?” It was more of a challenge than a question.

  It was also a good question. “No further questions, Doctor, and thank you,” I said. “Your witness, Mr. Dancer.”

  “No questions,” Claude Dancer said from his table, to which he had returned, glancing up sharply and glowering at Dr. Broun as he loped past him.

  “The defense will call Dr. Orion Trembath,” I said. Dr. Trembath was the “lady” doctor who had examined Laura about a week after the shooting. He transported his big-shouldered field-marshal bulk to the stand with surprising ease and was sworn, sat down, and was examined by me as to his qualifications.

  “Now, Doctor, do you have any specialties?” I went on, the preliminaries over.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Obstetrics and gynecology.”

  “And gynecology is what?”

  “Female pelvic disorders.”

  “Did you have occasion to examine Mrs. Laura Manion recently?”

  “Yes.”

  “When and where?”

  “On August twentieth in my office.”

  “Will you please tell us the results of your examination?”

  “Yes, I found several areas of discoloration, from former bruises and contusions, around both eyes, the left shoulder, both buttocks and a large area over the left hip. This last measured six by four inches.”

  “Were these discolored areas what a layman might call black and blue?”

  “Yes, but turning yellow when I examined her.”

  “And what might that indicate?”

  “The duration of the injuries.”

  “And have you formed an opinion on that?”

  “Yes, upwards of one week old.”

  “Now, Doctor, have you any opinion as to how the woman might have received the massive discoloration on her right hip?”

  “Left hip, sir. Possibly a hard blow or kick.”

  “Now, Doctor, if you were called, say to the county jail, to take a vaginal smear to determine the possible presence of sperm in a woman, what would you bring?”

  “I would bring a vaginal speculum or dilator so the tract could be exposed and inspected, and a light to illuminate the area. And some applicators, which are slender sticks of wood with cotton on the end, to swab up any secretions which are present, and glass microscopic slides on which to transfer these secretions.”

  “And I ask you how many glass slides you would probably take.”

  “At least two.”r />
  “In what areas?”

  “To be taken well up around the cervix, which is the mouth of the womb. Well inside the vaginal tract.”

  “And having obtained those slides what would you do with them?”

  “I would either send them to the Michigan Department of Health at Lansing or to a competent pathologist.”

  “Under any circumstances would you send them to a laboratory technician who was not a pathologist or a medical doctor?”

  “By no means, sir.”

  “I ask you whether or not it would be possible to examine a dead body of an adult male and determine whether or not he had recently ejaculated?”

  “Yes. An examination of the seminal vesicles would indicate whether they were full of seminal fluid or not.”

  “And if a doctor or pathologist were trying to determine that fact would you say in your opinion that that should have been done?”

  “I would think so.”

  “Is that your opinion?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now I ask you whether or not you made any further examination of Mrs. Manion?”

  “Yes. I examined her right knee and also did a pelvic examination.”

  “What, if anything, did you find about the right knee?”

  “She complained of pain in the inner aspect of the knee. The knee was tender at that location.”

  “Any bruises?”

  “There was no bruise apparent.”

  “Did she complain of tenderness or soreness in any other part of her body?”

  “She complained of vaginal pains and disorders.”

  “And you made such an examination?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I ask you, Doctor, whether or not such soreness could have been induced by a forcible act of sexual intercourse.”

  “I believe it could have.”

  “And what is the medical explanation of that?”

  The Doctor hunched forward and spread his hands. “Well, ordinarily when a woman intends to have sexual relations there is a secretion of fluid, a natural lubrication. When the act is taken against her will there is no preliminary secretion, and consequently more friction and subsequent inflammation and pain.”

  I looked at Claude Dancer. “Your witness,” I said.

  Claude Dancer stood thoughtfully staring up at the skylight, rocking on his heels. “You did not specialize in pathology, Doctor?” he said.

  “No.”

  “And that is a specialty, as much as your own?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “And the pathologist is usually more experienced and schooled in post-mortem procedures?”

  “Yes.”

  “And would you concede that an experienced pathologist would be more qualified to determine the cause of death in a dead body than yourself?”

  “Freely.”

  Claude Dancer had stared up at the skylight during his brief examination. He now turned and gave me his Dead Sea scroll smile. “Your witness,” he said.

  “Doctor,” I said, “would you equally concede that this experienced pathologist was more competent to test a dead male body for recent seminal ejaculation than yourself?”

  Thoughtfully: “I should say that we were equally well qualified on that score and that if that were an issue, an examination of the seminal vesicles should properly have been made.”

  “Back to you, Mr. Dancer,” I said.

  “No further questions.”

  I turned and looked at Laura Manion and nodded. “The defense will call Mrs. Laura Manion,” I said.

  The Judge looked out at the clock and batted his sandy forelock out of his eye. “I think we’ll take ten minutes before examining the next witness,” he said. “All right, Mr. Sheriff.”

  chapter 18

  “Lieutenant,” I said, when we three were alone in the conference room, “I want you to go outside and have a smoke or something so that I can talk with Laura alone. The coach wants a final word.”

  Without a word the Lieutenant turned and marched to the door and out the room. I turned to Laura. “Well, young lady,” I said, “this is it. I was hoping I could rush you onto the stand before you had time to brood about it, but the Judge didn’t co-operate. How do you feel?”

  Laura laughed nervously and felt her stomach. “The butterflies are flapping like condors,” she said. “What’s good for that, Coach?”

  “Truth,” I said. “All you got to tell is the truth. Remember what I told you before?—don’t be led into anything that can throw any doubt on our rape story.” I anticipated that the Dancer would go after her with hammer and tongs trying to shake her story and cast doubt on her morals and credibility and what not, but I did not tell her so. “Before you answer a prosecution question, Laura,” I said, “think. Soft-pedal the jealousy business if you can, but if they get into it don’t lie about it. And don’t answer more than you are asked and if you don’t understand the question or know the answer, simply say so. Truth must be the order of the day.” I’d told her all this before, many times. “One more thing,” I said, “when we get to the rape part keep it slow and simple—don’t feel you must act and don’t, for Heaven’s sake, try to dramatize any emotions you don’t feel. Those women on the jury will crucify you if you dare play-act.” I patted her shoulder. “Have you got it, my dear?”

  She nodded and smiled tremulously. There was a knock on the door and Max Battisfore put his head in. “So soon, Max?” I said.

  “I’d like to see you for a minute, Polly,” Max said. “Alone.”

  “Sure thing, Max,” I said wonderingly, turning and nodding to Laura, who crushed out her cigarette and quickly left the room. I turned to Max.

  “First of all, Polly, I got a telegram here for you,” he said, handing me the sealed envelope which I put in my breast pocket. “Then I want to thank you for that nice courtroom sendoff you gave me and our department when you were questioning Deputy Lemon. I really appreciate that.”

  “That’s all right, Max,” I said, smiling but still puzzled as to his real mission. “You and your boys have been very nice to the Manions and me. We can’t forget all that and especially how you threw out the life line on that psychiatrist business—having your top man drive the Lieutenant to lower Michigan. That was—could be—a a lifesaver—”

  “Listen, Polly,” Max broke in, lowering his voice and speaking rapidly. “Recess is almost over and I got to talk fast. It’s about the Lieutenant. I’m willing to testify for him.”

  “Testify for him?” I said incredulously.

  Max nodded. “Yes, testify. I feel sorry for the man, and especially the way this guy Dancer is piling on him, trying to block and keep out the truth. Like that lie-detector test. I’ve known all along that the test showed his wife told the truth and the state police are fit to be tied the way this man Dancer has put them on the spot, making it look as though they were trying to hide the truth.”

  “Hm … . What would you testify to, Max?” I said thoughtfully, my mind racing.

  “Insanity,” Max pressed on. “Manion was practically a harness case that first weekend, like a man in a dream—he didn’t eat or sleep and just wanted to sit and mope in his cell. When the bartender came and gave him that carton of cigarettes he absently handed them to one of our panhandling drunks. Didn’t he tell you all this?”

  “Lord, no, Max,” I said. “You really mean you’re willing to testify for the defense on these things?”

  Max glanced at his watch and gave me his hand. “Any time, Polly, and now I must be going”—and he was gone. I tore open the telegram. It was from our psychiatrist, Dr. Matthew Smith. “Arriving your airport at 9:17 tonight. Please meet me,” it said.

  “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye,” Max intoned, and once more we were away. The Judge nodded at me and I arose and addressed the court.

  “Your Honor,” I said, “with the court’s permission I would like to change the order of my witnesses, if I may, and call another witness at this time in place of Mrs. Laura
Manion.”

  “Very well,” the Judge said. “Call your other witness.”

  “Sheriff Max Battisfore!” I announced, and there was a rustle and stir in the courtroom as Max got up and marched resolutely to the witness stand and was sworn and sat down. I stole a look at Claude Dancer, who had his head bent in hurried conference with Mitch. Glancing the other way I found a perplexed Parnell leaning forward with his brows understandably knitted. “Your name, please?” I said.

  “Max Battisfore,” good old Max answered.

  “Occupation?”

  “Sheriff of Iron Cliffs County.”

  “And as such do you have custody of the county jail and its inmates, Mr. Sheriff?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Including that of the defendant in this case?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And how long has he been—ah—living with you?”

  “Since his arrest on August sixteenth.”

  “And have you seen him almost daily since he was first arrested?”

  “I have, sir.”

  “Now, Mr. Sheriff,” I said, “how did his appearance, deportment, and general behavior when he was first arrested compare with that of now?”

  “Well—” Max began.

  “Wait, waitl” the Dancer shouted, leaping to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Irrelevant and immaterial. If calculated to show mental state of defendant, then this witness certainly not competent to express an opinion.”