The Baxter Trust

investigation?”
    Steve rose. “Your Honor, I object. We are here to try a woman for murder, not to whitewash the police department’s sloppy investigative techniques.”
    Dirkson was furious. “Your Honor, that’s not an objection. That’s a gratuitous attack on the police department.”
    Steve equaled his tone. “And your question was a gratuitous defense of a police blunder.”
    Judge Crandell banged the gavel. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Could we have some semblance of order here? Now, as far as the so-called objection goes, one point at least is well taken. We are supposedly conducting an investigation into a murder. Could we attempt to confine ourselves to that?”
    Dirkson smiled. “Very well, Your Honor. I withdraw the question, and I have no further questions of the witness.”
    Lieutenant Farron was surprised. He had expected Dirkson to question him at some length, and he had no way of knowing of Dirkson’s change in strategy.
    “No questions,” Steve said.
    Dirkson smiled. He had been afraid Winslow might cross-examine Lieutenant Farron at some length, which might have spoiled his timing. But now he had all the time he needed for what he wanted to do. By not cross-examining, Winslow was playing right into his hands.
    It had been understood by Dirkson’s trial assistants that he would next call the cab driver to establish the time Sheila Benton returned to her apartment, so they were caught flat-footed when he instead called Sergeant Stams, and there was some delay getting him into the courtroom. The Sergeant was produced, however, and he took the stand.
    “Sergeant Stams,” Dirkson said, “on the afternoon of June seventh did you receive a telephone call?”
    “I did.”
    “From whom?”
    “From the defendant, Sheila Benton.”
    “How did you know it was the defendant?”
    “I recognized her voice. Lieutenant Farron and I had talked with her the day before.”
    “I see. And what time did you receive the call?”
    “At one thirty-five.”
    “And what did the defendant say?”
    “She said that a man had been murdered in her apartment.”
    “And did you subsequently go to that apartment?”
    “I did.”
    “What did you find?”
    “The body of a man.”
    “The man who has subsequently been identified as Robert Greely?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Did you make a search of the victim’s clothing?”
    “I did.”
    “And what did you find?”
    “A key.”
    “A key?”
    “Yes.”
    “I hand you a key and ask you if this is the key you removed from the body?”
    Sergeant Stams took the key and looked it over. “Yes, sir. That’s the key.”
    “I ask that this key be marked for identification as People’s Exhibit number six.”
    “No objection.”
    “So ordered.”
    “Now then, Sergeant, did you make any attempt to locate the lock that this key fitted?”
    “I did.”
    “And what did you find?”
    “The key was to the front door of the defendant’s apartment.”
    There was an audible reaction from the spectators in the courtroom. And from Sheila Benton. She gasped, and her face contorted.
    And the attention of the jurors shifted from the witness and focused on her.
    Steve Winslow kept his composure and betrayed no emotion. But he’d been hit with two body blows. First, hearing the devastating information about the key. And second, seeing the focus of the jurors’ attention shift to the defendant. It was a sign he could read clear as day.
    A sign they’d made up their minds.
    It was a delicious moment for Dirkson, and he did his best to prolong it. “Excuse me, Sergeant. Let me be sure I understand this. You say the key fit the door to Sheila Benton’s apartment?”
    Judge Crandell looked expectantly at Steve. The question had already been asked and answered, and Dirkson was clearly milking the situation. But Steve was silent. He knew better than to make a fuss at this point.
    “That’s right,” Sergeant Stams said.
    “It would open the door to her apartment?”
    “That’s right.”
    “You tested it yourself?”
    “I did.”
    “And the key opened the door?”
    “It did.”
    “The door to Sheila Benton’s apartment?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Cross-examine,” Dirkson said triumphantly.
    Steve looked at the witness. He couldn’t let this go by unchallenged. Not after the reaction of the jury. And particularly not after the reaction of the defendant. He had to do something to blunt the testimony. He got to his feet.
    “Sergeant Stams,” he said. “You