“Sergeant Callery, would you please describe the condition
of the body when you found it?”
Callery swallowed hard before answering. “Are you sure you
want me to?”
This would be the focal point, Ben Kincaid realized, for
the entire trial—all that came before and all that
followed. Every murder trial had one—an indelible moment
in which sympathies were polarized and the full gravity of
the crime struck the jury like a ball peen hammer to the
head. Even though he knew there was not a soul in the
courtroom who did not already know the answer to this
question in gruesome and graphic detail, this would be the
moment when everything changed, and not for the better.
“I’m sure,” Assistant District Attorney Nick Dexter said.
He obviously didn’t mind the delay. A little suspense
preceding the big moment could only increase the jury’s
attention level. “Please tell us what you saw.”
Sergeant Callery licked his lips. His eyes drifted toward
the floor. His hesitation was not just for dramatic
effect. He was not anxious to proceed.
And Ben didn’t blame him. Describing a crime scene was
always difficult. But when it was a cop talking about the
murder of another cop—one he knew personally and had
worked with on many occasions—it bordered on the
unbearable.
“When I arrived, I discovered that Sergeant McNaughton’s
body had been stripped of clothing. He was chained naked
to the base of the main fountain in Bartlett Square—right
in the center of the downtown plaza. He’d been hog-tied;
his arms and legs were pulled back to such an extent that
someof his bones were actually broken. He’d been stabbed
repeatedly, twenty or thirty times. A word had been
smeared across his chest—written in his own blood.”
“And what was the word?”
“It was hard to tell at first, given the condition of the
body. But when we finally got him down and put him on a
stretcher, it looked to me like it said ‘faithless.’ ”
“Was there anything else . . . noteworthy about the body?”
The witness nodded. The spectators in the courtroom
gallery collectively held their breath. They knew what was
coming.
“His penis had been severed. Cut off—and stuck in his
mouth.”
To Ben, it was an almost surreal moment, as if they were
all actors in a play. After all, everyone knew what
questions would be asked, as well as what answers would be
given. There were no surprises; they were just going
through their prescribed motions. And yet, the singular
horror of the crime had an impact that left no one in the
courtroom unmoved.
This case had been high drama from the outset. Everyone
knew about this ghastly crime. How could they not? The
body had been on display for almost an hour before the
police managed to get it down. Workers going downtown that
cold Thursday morning couldn’t help but see the macabre,
almost sacrificial tableau.
The location had been well chosen. Downtown Tulsa was a
place where people worked, but almost no one went there
for any other reason. From the time the workday ended
until sunup, it was virtually deserted. Even the police
rarely patrolled; the inner downtown streets were
inaccessible by car and there was simply no justification
for mounted patrols at that time of night, when no one was
present. And so the killer was able to create a grisly
spectacle that had been etched into the city’s collective
consciousness during the seven months since the crime
occurred.
“Why are they spending so much time describing the body?”
a voice beside Ben whispered. “How is that relevant to who
committed the crime?”
The question came from the defendant—Ben’s client, Keri
Dalcanton. She was a petite woman, barely five foot two.
She had rich platinum blond hair and skin the color of
milk. She was wearing no makeup today—on Ben’s advice. She
was a natural beauty, with perhaps the most perfectly
proportioned body Ben had observed in his entire life. And
he’d had a lot of time to observe it, during the months
they’d spent preparing for this trial.
Even in the courtroom, Ben was struck by how Keri exuded
youth and energy. But that was not surprising. She was
only nineteen.
“It isn’t relevant,” Ben whispered back. “But Dexter knows
the gory details will appall most jurors and make them
more inclined to convict. That’s why we’re spending so
much time here.”
“But it isn’t fair,” Keri said, her eyes wide and
troubled. “I didn’t do those things. I couldn’t—”
“I know.” Ben patted her hand sympathetically. He wanted
to take care of his client, but at the moment it was more
important that he pay attention to the testimony. If
Dexter thought Ben wasn’t listening, all kinds of
objectionable questions would follow.
Dexter continued. “Did you check the body for vital signs?”
“Of course. When I first arrived. But it wasn’t necessary.
He was dead. As anyone could see at a glance.” A tremor
passed through Callery’s shoulders. “No one could have
lived in that condition.”
“Why did it take so long to free the body?”
“We weren’t allowed to alter the position of the body
until the forensic teams had been out to make a video
record and to search for trace evidence. Even after that
was done—Sergeant McNaughton’s body had been double-
chained to the fountain and the lock was buried. We
couldn’t get him loose. We eventually had to bring out a
team of welders. Even then, progress was slow.”
“And during this entire time, the decedent’s naked
mutilated body was on public display?”
“There wasn’t much we could do. We couldn’t cover the body
and work at the same time. And there’s no way to block off
Bartlett Square.”
“Were you and your men finally able to get the body free?”
“Eventually. Even then, though”—his head fell—“nothing
happened the way it should. His right arm had been pulled
back to such an extreme degree that when we released the
chains—it snapped off. And the second we moved
McNaughton’s body, his—member—spilled out onto the
ground.” The man’s jaw was tight, even as he spoke. “It
would’ve been horrible, even if I hadn’t known Sergeant
McNaughton so well and trained under him. I’ve been on the
force six years, but this was the worst, most
horrible . . . goddamnedest thing I’ve seen in my career.
Or ever will see.”
Ben knew Judge Hart didn’t like swearing in her courtroom,
but he had a hunch she would excuse it this time.
The media representatives in the gallery—and there were a
lot of them—were furiously taking notes. The McNaughton
murder had dominated the papers and the airwaves for at
least a month after the crime occurred, and the onset of
the trial had refueled the obsessive coverage. Ben had
never had so many microphones shoved in his face against
his will; he’d never seen so many people insist that he
had some sort of constitutional duty to give them an
interview. His office manager, Jones, had even found a
reporter hiding in the office broom closet, just hoping he
might overhear some tasty tidbit of information. His legal
assistant, Christina McCall, had the office swept for
listening devices. A blockade of reporters awaited them
every time they left the office; another greeted them as
soon as they arrived at the courthouse. It was like living
under siege.
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?”
Copyright 2001 by William Bernhardt