The Baxter Trust

gone. He was in a fight, and he loved it.
    But Dirkson’s world had just collapsed. It was his worst nightmare. My god, he thought, he is a clown.

37.
    A S HIS FIRST WITNESS , D IRKSON called the coroner, Dr. Marvin Fenton. Fenton, a bald, pudgy man with a slightly pompous bearing, stated his name and occupation.
    “Now,” Dirkson said, “directing your attention to the afternoon of June seventh of this year, were you summoned to apartment 2B of an apartment house at 193 West 97th Street?”
    “I was.”
    “And what did you find there.”
    “I discovered the body of a man.”
    “Was he alive?”
    “He was dead.”
    “Did you determine the cause of death?”
    “I did. Death had been caused by a large carving knife, which had been stabbed into the back of the victim. The blade had entered the back just below the left shoulder blade, and angled down until it penetrated the victim’s heart.”
    “That was the only cause of death?”
    “It was.”
    “There were no contributing factors? No bruises or contusions of any kind?”
    “No, sir.”
    “No presence of any drug in the body?”
    “No, sir.”
    “The knife was the sole cause of death?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Was the knife still in the body?”
    “It was.”
    “Would you know that knife if you saw it again?”
    “Yes. I scratched my initials on the handle of the knife.”
    Dirkson smiled his approval. He walked over to the prosecution table, where his assistant handed him a paper bag. With something of a flourish, he produced a carving knife.
    “Doctor,” he said, striding back to the witness stand. “I hand you a knife and ask you if you have ever seen it before?”
    Dr. Fenton took the knife and examined it.
    “Yes, sir. This is the knife I found in the body of the victim.”
    Dirkson took back the knife and approached the judge’s bench.
    “Your Honor, I ask that this knife be marked for identification as People’s Exhibit number one.”
    “No objection,” Steve said.
    “So ordered,” said Judge Crandell.
    Dirkson handed the knife to the court clerk to be marked. He turned back to the witness.
    “Now then, Dr. Fenton. Did you determine the time of death?”
    “Yes, sir. I did. The decedent met his death on June seventh between the hours of twelve-thirty and one-thirty P.M.”
    “Thank you, Doctor,” Dirkson said with a smile. He turned to the defense table. “Your witness.”
    Steve frowned. It was a damn clever way of presenting the evidence. The coroner was undoubtedly armed with a barrage of expert medical testimony to back up his determination of the time of death. But Dirkson hadn’t asked for it. He was going to let Steve bring it out himself and crucify his own client.
    Steve got up and went over to the clerk. “Could I see the exhibit, please? Thank you.”
    Steve took the knife and approached the witness. He smiled, and began his cross-examination almost conversationally.
    “Dr. Fenton, you identify the knife by the initials you scratched on the handle?”
    “Yes. I do.”
    “What tool did you use?”
    Fenton frowned, wondering what he was getting at. “A small etching tool I carry for that purpose.”
    “Well, Doctor, if you scratched your initials into the handle of the knife with an etching tool, how can you be sure that the pressure you put on the knife didn’t alter its position in the body and cause more extensive wounds than would otherwise have shown up in your autopsy?”
    Dr. Fenton was indignant. “I did no such thing. I never said I scratched my initials on the knife while it was still in the body.”
    Steve feigned surprise. “Oh? So when you scratched your initials on the knife it had been removed from the body?”
    “It had.”
    “Did you remove the knife from the body?”
    “Ummm. No, sir. I did not. My assistant, Dr. Blake, removed it.”
    “And what did he do with the knife?”
    “Ummmm. Well ...”
    “Yes?”
    “Well, Sergeant Stams wanted to fingerprint the knife, so he turned it over to him.”
    “I see. So it was Sergeant Stams who gave you back the knife?”
    Dr. Fenton shifted in his seat. “Well, no, actually it was Lieutenant Farron who returned it to me.”
    “Ah. So it was Lieutenant Farron who gave you back the knife. And where were you at the time?”
    “In my laboratory at the city morgue.”
    “And it was at Lieutenant Farron’s request that you scratched your initials on the handle of the knife, wasn’t it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then how do you know that the knife