The Trial, page 16
part #91 of The Executioner Series
"Why d'you s'pose he waived the jury, anyway? That kind'll usually stall for time."
She thought about it for a moment. "I don't believe you've met his kind before," she said at last. "I know I haven't, anyway."
"Is somethin' wrong?"
She eyed the sheriff, reading his concern as genuine, and wondered how much of her uneasiness she ought to share.
"It's sour," she replied at length. "I don't know how to spell it out..."
"You don't believe he's innocent."
It wasn't quite a question, but a different sort of doubt had found its way into the sheriff's eyes and tone, as if he might be pondering her sanity.
"Of murder? No." She shook her head emphatically. "We've got a killer on our hands, no doubt about it. But of this crime?"
"Jesus, Amy..." Kendricks caught himself, remembered they were not precisely on a first-name basis, then tried again. "You've got the body in his room, for cryin' out loud. What more..."
She raised a hand to still the questions. "I can't explain it, Sheriff. It's a feeling I have...but, anyway, you're right. We're going with the evidence."
"Well, I should hope to shout..."
"It is peculiar, though. I mean, the man's insistence on a trial today."
"Could be he thinks he's running out of time."
The implications worried Amy Stone, and it was clearly written on her face. "I trust you haven't had another problem with security?"
"No way. I'm sleeping in, if it's a consolation to you, and we're screening everybody on the block. He'll survive until we pass him on to Huntsville, anyhow."
"And then?"
The lawman's shrug was enigmatic. "I'm too old to look for miracles. This boy's got enemies that he ain't even heard of yet. If someone wants him bad enough to try an' kill him in my jail, they'll try again."
"I want him out of here before that happens."
"Gotcha covered there," he said, smiling. "The crown jewels oughta be as safe as Bolan is right now."
"All right, then... once more from the top. We've got Doc Ferris to establish time and cause of death. The lab reports from Austin will substantiate. Clem Schofield placed the call that brought your people to the Blue Oasis, and the deputies will spell out what they found."
"Tha's it."
"With any luck, I should be able to conclude sometime tomorrow at the latest."
"Any clues on the defense?"
It was the lady prosecutor's turn to shrug. "I filed discovery. They've got no witnesses except the man himself. As of last night, he plans to take the stand."
The sheriff whistled softly in anticipation of the Executioner as witness in his own behalf.
"That oughta sew it up," he said at last.
She wished that it was possible to share the lawman's confidence, but something dark and indistinct was eating at the assistant D.A.'s mind, ingesting bits of scattered information and regurgitating doubts. If she could only pin it down...
"What time did Schofield place that call again?"
Bo Kendricks scratched his double chin reflectively. "I wasn't on, but if I recollect the log it was around 4:45."
"And he reported a disturbance?"
Kendricks nodded, following along.
"According to our lab reports, the victim had been dead... how long before he called?"
"A coupla hours," Kendricks answered.
"Right." The lady mulled it over for a moment. "Why would anybody hang around a slaughterhouse that long unless he wanted to get caught?"
"Might be your boy was lookin' for exactly that. Might be a lotta things." The sheriff frowned, recalling some distasteful bit of information. "There's a few o' these ole boys who like their women cold, ya follow?"
Amy shook her head.
"We have no evidence of intercourse before or after death." She noticed Kendricks's grimace at her choice of words and chalked up one for womankind. "I wish to heaven we had a recent psychiatric profile."
"Nothin' in those papers you got from Washington?"
"The military psychiatrics? Hardly. Based on them, our boy is arrow-straight. He comes off sounding like a paragon of sanity."
The sheriff's frown reminded Amy to avoid the two-dollar words, but he was following her meaning.
"I'd say your motive was the least of it," he told her flatly. "Hell, you've got the world's most wanted fugitive, arrested in a motel with a mutilated corpse. It's cut and dried... no disrespect intended toward the dead."
But was it cut and dried? For Amy Stone the case had seemed that way at first, and no solid evidence had surfaced that would change her mind. But after meeting Bolan in the flesh, and after hearing what he had to say, however briefly... dammit all, she wasn't sure.
If there was the slightest doubt, it was her duty to investigate, to wipe all doubts away. But in the absence of exculpatory evidence, the lady prosecutor had no choice at all.
She must proceed and prosecute the evidence as it existed, casting all her hunches and her intuition to the wind. If she should falter now and stall the greatest single prosecution of her life — of any prosecutor's life — she would become a laughing stock, a monument to feminine incompetence.
From childhood Amy Stone had taken pride in what she was, in what she could achieve without relying on the favored treatment girls and women seemed to get around McLary County. At the same time she had fought against the obvious obstacles that had sought to keep her "in her place," while male contemporaries were encouraged to reach out, excel, achieve.
She had done all that on her own. Amy Stone was justly proud of what she had achieved and prouder still that she had done it by herself in open competition with a group of individuals whose skills and whose ambitions had been equal — nearly equal — to her own.
She was a self-made woman, but she was a woman first of all. And while the lady prosecutor put no stock in old wives' tales of "feminine intuition," she trusted her instincts implicitly. The self-same instincts that were telling her there was something rotten in the Bolan case.
But where to start?
The answer was self-evident. She would begin where she belonged — in court. Her faith in the judicial system, tempered as it was with healthy realism, led her to believe that justice would prevail. If her suspicions were correct, if there was something wrong with the "conclusive" evidence, it was the job of Bolan's counsel to reveal discrepancies, to pry open the loopholes and admit the cleansing light of day.
And if the evidence was proven right...then Amy Stone had done her job. It was the best she could do for Bolan, for the system, for herself.
And it was time to start.
21
For more than twenty years Gene Ferris had presided as McLary County's coroner. The post was an elective one, but he had faced no competition in the past three county-wide elections. So familiar was his weathered face, his rangy form and his measured way of speaking at an inquest, that the "Gene" had been dispensed with, possibly forgotten, by the vast majority of voters in McLary. He was just Doc Ferris now, and that was fine with all concerned.
Doc Ferris was no stranger to the courtroom. He had testified at homicides, suicides and accidental deaths of all description in his time, delivering the grim details in terms that even farmers from the outlands visiting McLary for the afternoon could understand. In over twenty years he hadn't been surprised by a defense attorney's questioning or caught in a mistake of judgment even once. It was a record that the doctor viewed with pardonable pride.
He always wore the same gray suit to court, or so it seemed, reserving blue and brown for days around the office, black for church. Four suits should be enough for any man, and Ferris took great pains to demonstrate that he could live within his county salary. His car was ten years old, his home nearly paid for on a second mortgage, and the last time around he had declined a cost-of-living raise, complaining to the local press about misuse of county funds. It was a stance that kept him on the smiling side of county voters and assured another uncontested run next fall.
This afternoon Doc Ferris took the witness stand as if it was his home away from home, considering the long-familiar oath and thinking on it for a lengthy moment prior to answering, "I do." He took his seat, craned forward toward the microphone and waited for the prosecution to begin.
"Dr. Ferris, did you have cause, on or about the fifth day of this month, to examine the remains of one Alma Jennings?"
The doctor gave a solemn nod to emphasize the answer. "Yes, I did."
"Could you describe your findings for the court?"
"Of course. The cause of death was severance of the larynx, jugular, and the carotid artery by an incision moving left to right. In short, the throat was cut from ear to ear."
A little murmur in the courtroom died before Judge Price, could lift his gavel, and the coroner was satisfied. He had their full attention now; he could continue with the recitation of atrocity.
"The victim — er, Miz Jennings — had been dead for several hours by the time I took delivery of remains. I'd be inclined to place the time of death between two and three o'clock that morning."
"Was the wound immediately fatal?"
"In my experience, death would have been immediate, that's right."
"And were there any other injuries?"
"The body had sustained a number of postmortem lacerations... that is, stab wounds and cuts inflicted after death. An initial examination revealed slashes on both breasts, about the abdomen, the pubis — er, that is, the genitalia — and running down the thighs."
This time there was a louder crowd reaction with some groaning, and the judge had time enough to bang his gavel once before it died away. Doc Ferris cleared his throat and waited for the audience to give him their attention again.
"My autopsy revealed penetrating stab wounds to the chest and abdomen, inflicting damage on various internal organs. The pericardium was torn, the left lung was punctured, there were lacerations to the stomach, liver, spleen, intestines."
Amy Stone was looking grim and slightly pale as the coroner casually delivered his description of the damage. Doc Ferris watched her carefully across the tops of his spectacles, taking her measure as she approached the witness stand.
"Anything else, Doctor?"
"Indeed there was, Miz Stone." He paused again for maximum effect. "Upon examining the pelvic cavity, I found extensive damage to the vaginal canal and uterus, inflicted by a rigid, sharp-edged object. Probably a hunting knife or bayonet, in my opinion, with a blade not less than seven inches long."
The murmuring went on for all of thirty seconds this time, and the gavel sounded half a dozen times before the noise died down. Doc Ferris risked a narrow smile, his eyes intent on Amy Stone, anticipating what would have to follow next.
"Did you find any evidence of rape?"
The doctor frowned. "You realize, Miz Stone, that rape is relative... that is, a legal term." He saw the color rising in her cheeks and was satisfied. "I did examine the remains for any evidence of sexual activity, including acid phosphate tests on swabs retrieved from the vagina, sphincter, mouth and nasal cavities. All tests were negative for sperm."
"In short."
The lady prosecutor's tone was terse, almost impatient, and inspired the coroner to take his time.
"In short, I found no evidence of sexual activity during the past twenty-four hours."
"Thank you, Doctor."
She was turning toward the prosecution table, a gesture of dismissal, but Doc Ferris couldn't let it go.
"You realize, of course, that laceration of the pubis indicates a psycho-sexual motive in and of itself. Despite the missing evidence of rape, or penile penetration, we are dealing with a sexual crime."
"Thank you, Doctor,"
"The evidence is clear that..."
"Thank you, Doctor"
Ferris was still chewing empty air, dumbfounded by the woman's arrogance as she turned her back on him completely and faced the defense attorney.
"Your witness."
Fleming rose to stand beside his client, then circled toward the witness stand and treated Ferris to his most disarming smile.
"I wonder. Doctor, if you might enlighten us concerning your credentials?"
Ferris looked confused at first and then dumbfounded. "Sir?"
"Your medical credentials, Doctor."
"Why..."
"You are a surgeon, are you not?"
"Most definitely, sir."
The doctor's tone was stiff with indignation now, and that was fine. With any luck at all, the anger would prevent him from anticipating Fleming's moves.
"You are an expert in forensic medicine?"
A narrow smile appeared. "I like to think so. After twenty years..."
"Would you describe your education in psychiatry?"
Off balance, Ferris hesitated, his lips working silently for a moment before he recovered. "I beg your pardon, sir?"
"I asked if you would give the court a brief description of your background and your training as a clinical psychiatrist."
The smile was back and almost cunning now. The coroner was ready to embarrass Fleming, and he seemed delighted at the prospect.
"You're mistaken, sir," the witness drawled with feigned good humor. "I am not a practicing psychiatrist."
"I see. But, certainly, you have some psychiatric background? Training?"
Ferris shook his head, still smiling. "I am not a psychiatric specialist," he said again.
"Psychology, perhaps? Some training — any training — which equips you for the diagnosis of a mental illness?"
"No."
The smile was fading, caution edging in, but Ferris still retained his poise.
"No psychiatric training whatsoever?"
"None."
Dan Fleming dropped his smile. "And yet you have seen fit to offer psychiatric diagnosis in this court."
The coroner was craning forward, glaring hard at Fleming through his horn-rimmed spectacles.
"I speak in my capacity as coroner, and nothing else."
Dan Fleming circled past his client, scooping up a yellow legal pad along the way.
"If I may quote your prior testimony: 'You realize, of course, that laceration of the pubis indicates a psycho-sexual motive in and of itself. Despite the missing evidence of rape, of penile penetration, we are dealing with a sexual crime.' Was that your testimony?"
Ferris glowered at him from the witness stand. "It was."
"A psychiatric diagnosis, if I'm not mistaken, Doctor?"
"Well..."
Dan Fleming changed his tack abruptly, taking full advantage of his momentary lead. "Have you examined any other evidence besides the body of the victim, Alma Jennings?"
"Yes, indeed."
"Would you elaborate?"
"I had occasion to examine certain bloodstained bedding — pillowcases, sheets and blankets — taken from the murder scene. The victim's clothing was recovered as were other bloodstains from the carpet, walls, the ceiling."
"Ceiling?"
"Yes, sir." Ferris saw a chance to score and bored in eagerly. "A number of the wounds were violent, hacking wounds. When arteries are severed violently..."
"Is massive bleeding common after death?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"After death," the counselor repeated. "Is it normal for postmortem wounds to bleed extensively?"
"Not normally."
"Explosive bleeding from an artery is caused by beating of the heart. Would you agree?"
"Most certainly."
"And after death the heart has ceased to beat?"
"In my experience it doesn't keep on beating after death. That's right."
There was a sprinkling of laughter through the audience as Ferris scored again.
"Your testimony indicates that all of Alma Jennings's wounds except the severed throat were suffered after death. Is that correct?"
The doctor's eyes were narrowing again, the glint of easy humor winking out. "It is."
"I see. Then tell me, Doctor, if you will, how violent, hacking wounds inflicted after death could possibly produce explosive arterial bleeding?"
Ferris was silent for a long moment as he glared at Fleming. When he spoke, his voice was inaudible for the first time.
"I beg your pardon, Doctor?"
"I said it would be virtually impossible."
"Ah, yes. And did you come to a conclusion on the nature of the bloodstains found on the bedding, walls and ceiling?"
"It was human blood," Ferris answered, cautious now. "Type O. It matched the victim's blood type."
"Was it hers?"
"I said..."
"You said it matched her type," Dan Fleming finished for him. "Was it microscopically identical?"
"I didn't check beyond the type."
"There are precision tests available. Is that correct?"
"There are."
"Examination of electrolytes, and so on?"
"Yes."
"But you did not see fit to undertake such tests?"
Doc Ferris scowled at Fleming from the witness stand. "I saw no need. It stood to reason..."
"Thank you, Dr. Ferris. No more questions."
Fleming turned away, returning to his seat, while Amy Stone went through the motions with her redirect, attempting to negate the points that Fleming had probably scored. It didn't take her long, and Ferris saved a sullen sidelong glance for Fleming as he left the stand, retreating toward the row of seats reserved for witnesses. His step had lost the customary bounce, his shoulders seemed to slump, and he kept his burning eyes away from Bolan as he passed.
Up front the bailiff stood before an empty witness dock and gruffly hailed the next in line.
"Clem Schofield, take the stand."
"Please state your full name and address."
The owner of the Blue Oasis grimaced.
"Clement Ezra Schofield." Snickers in the back, goddamn it anyhow. "I own and operate the Blue Oasis, Route 16, McLary, Texas."
"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth in the matter pending before this court, so help you God?"
"I do."
"Be seated."
Schofield settled back into the wooden chair, then remembered briefly that he ought to keep his posture straight. To hell with it. He might as well be comfortable.
