William Bernhardt: Murder One

Dexter was asking routine predicate questions to get his exhibits admitted. It was an obvious preliminary to passing the witness.

“Psst. Planning to cross?”

Ben glanced over his shoulder. It was Christina. For years, she’d been indispensable to him as a legal assistant. And now she was on the verge of graduating from law school.

“I don’t see much point,” he whispered back to her. “Nothing he said was in dispute.”

Christina nodded. “But I’m not sure this business with the body was handled properly. I think the police bungled it six ways to Sunday.”

“Granted. But why? Because they were so traumatized by the hideous death of their colleague, a fact we don’t particularly want to emphasize. And what difference does it make? None of the evidence found at the crime scene directly incriminates Keri.”

“You may be right. But I still think any cross is better than none. Whether he actually says it or not, Dexter is implying that Keri is responsible for these atrocities. We shouldn’t take that lying down.”

Ben frowned. He didn’t want to cross, but he had learned to trust Christina’s instincts. “Got any suggestions?”

She considered a moment. “I’d go with physical strength.”

“It’s a plan.”

Dexter had returned to his table. Judge Sarah Hart, a sturdy woman in her midfifties, was addressing defense counsel.

“Mr. Kincaid, do you wish to cross?”

“Of course.” Ben rose and strode to the podium. “Sergeant Callery, it sounds as if you and your men had a fair amount of trouble cutting that body free. Right?”

The change in Callery’s demeanor and body language when Ben became his inquisitor was unmistakable. He drew back in his chair, receding from the microphone. “It took a while, yeah.”

“Sounds to me like it was hard and required a great deal of strength.”

“I suppose.”

“And if it was hard to get the body down, it must’ve been even more difficult to get the body up.” He paused, letting the wheels turn in the jurors’ minds. “The individual who chained Sergeant McNaughton up there must’ve been one seriously strong person, wouldn’t you agree?”

Callery had obviously been expecting this. “Not necessarily, no. The killer could’ve—”

Ben didn’t give him a chance to recite whatever explanation he and Dexter had cooked up ahead of time. “How much did Sergeant McNaughton’s body weigh?”

“I couldn’t say exactly.”

“You must have some idea.”

“It would just be a guess.”

“You were there, weren’t you, officer?”

“Ye-ess …”

“You were, I assume, paying some degree of attention when your men were cutting the body loose?”

Callery tucked in his chin. “Yes—”

“So how much did McNaughton’s body weigh?”

Callery frowned. “I’d guess about two ten, two twenty pounds.”

“Two hundred and twenty pounds. And of course, he was dead, right?”

“I think everyone in the courtroom is aware of that fact, counsel.”

Just like a game of cat and mouse, Ben marveled, not for the first time. Two diametrically opposed archenemies pretending to be civil. “Would it be fair to say that it’s harder to move a dead body than a live one? “

Callery nodded. “Much.”

“So we’re talking about two hundred and twenty pounds of pure deadweight, right?”

“About that, yeah.”

“But someone somehow managed to carry the body to Bartlett Square—without the use of a car—to elevate it, hog-tie it, and wrap it around the central fountain.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Sergeant Callery, you were pretty good at estimating your deceased colleague’s weight. Would you care to guess what my client, Ms. Dalcanton, weighs?”

He grinned faintly. “I would never be so indelicate.”

“Then I’ll tell you. A hundred and three pounds. Wearing shoes.” He paused. “So you’re saying that these feats of tremendous strength, which frankly I doubt you and I could manage working together, were accomplished by this tiny woman? How?”

A bad question, as it turned out. “We believe she drove the body there. We found faint traces of tire tracks on Fifth, parallel to the fountain. Someone drove onto the pedestrian walkway beside Bartlett Square. We believe she wrapped the chains around the body’s hands and feet while it was still in the car, then dragged him to the fountain. As the coroner can confirm, the body had any number of scrapes and abrasions that could be the result of being dragged over the pavement in this manner. Once she had the chain around the fountain, we believe she was able to improvise a rudimentary pulley system to haul the body up.”

Ben silently cursed himself. This was a classic case of asking one question too many. “It still sounds to me as if it would require a good deal of strength.”

“Maybe. But if I’ve learned anything in my years on the force, it’s that size is no indicator of strength. Sometimes the most potent medicine comes in small bottles.”

“That’s quaint, officer, but are you seriously suggesting—”

“Besides,” Callery said, rushing his words in edgewise, “whoever said Keri Dalcanton wasn’t strong?” A small smile played on his lips. “I hear she gets lots of exercise. All that high-octane dancing must build up some stamina.”

There was an audible response from the gallery. Callery was referring to the fact that Ben’s client worked—at least until she became a permanent resident of the Tulsa County Jail seven months ago—at a “gentleman’s club” at Thirty-first and Lewis. In other words, she was a stripper. Another dramatic—and damning—fact that everyone in the courtroom already knew all too well. The press wouldn’t let them forget. No article overlooked the salacious side of the story. The headlines began STRIPPER SUSPECTED and continued with SEX CLUB SIREN SEIZED.

“Sergeant Callery, it took three men to lower McNaughton’s body to the ground. Are you seriously suggesting—”

“Hey, I saw that picture in the paper. You know, the one with her in nothing but a bright red G-string thingie? Looked to me like she had lots of muscles.”

“Your honor, I object!” Ben knew what Callery was talking about, though. The day Keri Dalcanton was arrested, a morning paper, in an unaccountable lapse of taste, had run a picture of her taken on the job. Something a reporter swiped from a backstage bulletin board, apparently. Tasseled pasties on her ample breasts; bright red G-string on her rock-’n’-roll hips. The paper apologized the next day, explaining that it was the only photo of Ms. Dalcanton they could locate, as she had covered her face when arrested. One of the lamest excuses for tabloid coverage by purportedly “legitimate” journalists Ben had heard yet.

Ben approached the bench. “Your honor, I object to any discussion or sly references to my client’s former occupation.”

Judge Hart lowered her eyeglasses and gave Ben the no-nonsense look he knew all too well. “On what grounds?”

“It will work extreme prejudice against Ms. Dalcanton.”

“Probably. But she should have thought of that before she took the job. Overruled.”

“But your honor—”

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Then I’ll object on a different basis.”

She arched an eyebrow. “And that would be …?”

“I object because … because the photo in question has not been admitted into evidence.”

“Do you want it to be?”

“Hmm. Good point.”

Ben returned to the defense table knowing that his cross had been a bust. He hadn’t put a dent in the prosecution’s case, and given what few arrows he had in his quiver, he was unlikely to do so at any time in the future. He could see the determination in the eyes of the prosecution and police officers, and he could see the revulsion in the eyes of the jury. Even Judge Hart, normally a sympathetic, fair judge, was cutting him no slack. This time, the stakes were too high. The crime was too appalling, and too well known.