Anatomy of a Murder (42 page)

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Authors: Robert Traver

BOOK: Anatomy of a Murder
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“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“
T
estify
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.”
I turned and looked at the little man, who was livid with rage that a law-enforcement officer should dare do anything to oppose the prosecution in a murder case. “Mr. Biegler?” the Judge said.
“Your Honor,” I said, “the defense would not for a moment try to pit our Sheriff against the erudite psychiatrist for the People. In the first place our Sheriff appears to labor under the disadvantage of having seen the defendant over a longer period and much closer to the time when we claim he was temporarily insane. However, we do not offer this evidence as the Sheriff's opinion on the sanity or insanity of Lieutenant Manion, but as possible evidence by one of the few witnesses who was in a position to observe and tell, of certain symptoms, from which, persons who are competent to pass an opinion might do so. Mr. Dancer, with his characteristic tactics, seems bent on keeping this out as well.”
“You offer the evidence, Counsel,” the Judge inquired of me, “not as an opinion, then, on either sanity or insanity, but rather as evidence possibly bearing on those disputed issues?”
“Correct, Your Honor,” I said.
“The witness may answer,” he said.
“Well,” Max said, “Lieutenant Manion was practically a harness case when he first came to my jail—”
“Objection, Your Honor, I am unacquainted with the argot, the terminology-”
“Strait jacket, Dancer,” Max broke in, his gray eyes flashing ominously. “Then he went into a sort of gloomy depressed state, like a man in a dream, he didn't eat or sleep for two days and just wanted to sit and mope in his cell. We were so concerned I put one of our deputies as a phony prisoner in a cell near him to keep watch. When the bartender came on Sunday and gave him that carton of cigarettes he absently handed it to one of my drunks and in five minutes was himself bumming my jailer for a smoke.”
“And how did the Lieutenant appear, say, during the latter part of his stay?”
“Much better. He seemed to get a grip on himself, like a man come out of a fog. After about a week he ate and slept well and has never given us any further concern or trouble.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sheriff,” I said, and turned to Claude Dancer. “Your witness.”
Claude Dancer stood glaring at the Sheriff, who glared steadily back at him, and Dancer, sensing shrewdly that all he could do now was make matters worse by examining, murmured, “No questions,” and abruptly sat down.
I stood for a moment silently reflecting that perhaps I had been culpably lame in not quizzing the Sheriff on all this long beforehand. Supposing Max had not come forward? All this testimony would have irretrievably been lost and it would have been my own stupid fault. But then again, perhaps no; getting sheriffs to testify for the defense in murder cases was something like bird-watching: if you hotly pursued and wooed the birdies they gaily flew away, but if you went calmly and unconcerned about your business the woods were apt to be alive with them. Good old Max … .
“Laura Manion,” I announced, and Laura got up and walked to the stand, and held up her hand for the oath. The jurors, I noted, especially the women, were watching her closely.
“Your name is Laura Manion and you are Lieutenant Manion's wife?” I asked.
“I am,” Laura replied quietly.
“Did you consent to ride and did you drive in an automobile with the deceased, Barney Quill, on the night of August fifteenth?”
“I did.”
“Will you please tell us what happened,” I said.
Without giving any background of how or why she had ridden with him Laura described briefly how Barney had first driven her and her dog to the gate of the tourist park; how he had expressed surprise on finding the gate closed and had said he would drive her home another way; and then how he had backed up to the main road and driven rapidly down the road and abruptly turned off to the right on a strange, heavily wooded side road. Parnell and I had planned it this way, first, to get her over the hard part before she possibly broke down, and second, so that the jury could judge the rest of the story in the light of what had happened, and third (this was Biegler's corny reason), because of the greater impact that might be added by satisfying the curiosity of the jurors at once.
The courtroom had grown hushed. “What happened after Barney turned off on this strange side road?” I went on.
In a low voice Laura told what had happened: how Barney had grabbed her arm and driven furiously into the woods and suddenly stopped and turned out the lights and flung the dog out when it had whined; how he had told her he was going to rape her and would kill her if she resisted, of his pounding her on the knees and all the rest; and of how she had finally told him that her husband would kill him if he did that to her; how Barney had then bragged about his prowess as a pistol shot and Judo expert; how he had finally hit her hard with his fist and sworn and called her an “Army slut”; and how she nearly fainted but knew she hadn't because she could still hear the little dog Rover whining and scratching at the door.
“What happened then?” I said softly.
In the intensity of her recollection Laura seemed to have forgotten that she was being questioned or was talking in a courtroom before a jury; her green eyes glowed as she went on and described how she finally knew that the man had succeeded in his purpose; that finally she realized that the car was turned around and moving again and that little Rover was once again beside her; and how Barney had finally driven her back to the gate … .
At this point I asked her how she happened to have ridden with Barney that night, and she began at the beginning and told of how she had left her husband sleeping in the trailer and gone to the hotel bar to get some beer; of her playing pinball with Barney and, later, his asking her several times to let him drive her home; of his warning against the bears and strange men; of her final consent to let him drive her. She also admitted having removed her shoes to play
one game of pinball, but denied having danced with Hippo Lukes or any man, with or without shoes.
I then led her back to the gate, after the rape, and the telling of Barney's second attack and her temporary escape, with Rover lighting her way through the stile; of the recapture and struggle and blows and her final frantic screams for help; of her making her way to the trailer and falling finally into the arms of her husband. Then, her entire testimony taking but little over a half-hour, she quickly recounted the rest of the events of that evening: the arrest of her husband, the ride to the jail, the attempted smear taken by Dr. Dom-piere, her co-operation with Detective Sergeant Durgo and the other police and of her telling them the story several times, the last time at the state police post with various gadgets attached to her body and arms. I then turned and glanced casually at Parnell who arose and quickly left the court by way of the judge's chambers.
“And have you yet been officially informed of the results of that lie-detector test?” I asked her.
“I have not,” Laura replied.
“Would you like to know the results?”
“I would.”
“Would you for your part be willing that everyone in this room should know the results?” I said.

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