“I gave it to Reginald Steele to be fingerprinted.”
“Thank you. That’s all.”
“No questions,” Steve announced cheerfully.
Dirkson gave him a look. “Call Reginald Steele.”
Reginald Steele took the stand and testified that he was an expert technician employed in the police lab.
“That is correct,” Steele said. “I received the knife from Sergeant Stams.”
“And what did you do with it?”
“I removed it from the evidence bag and tested it for fingerprints.”
“I see,” Dirkson said. “Now then, I am not asking you about any fingerprints you may have found at this time. I am merely trying to account for the whereabouts of the knife. With that understanding, please tell us what you did.”
“Yes, sir. I developed latent fingerprints on the knife, and turned it over to my assistant to photograph them.”
“And who is your assistant?”
“Samuel Beame.”
“Your witness.”
“No questions,” Steve announced, with the same broad grin.
With a sinking feeling, Dirkson suddenly realized what was going on. That grin. That damned, infuriating grin. It was infectious, and people in the courtroom were catching it. With each successive witness, the atmosphere in the courtroom was getting lighter. In a murder trial, for Christ’s sake. Dirkson couldn’t believe it.
And yet, he realized, there was no help for it. He had to keep on with what he was doing, even though he knew he was playing right into that clown’s hands.
“Call Samuel Beame,” he said, and out of the corner of his eye he could see some of the spectators smiling, and some of the jurors looking at each other.
“Yes, sir,” Samuel Beame testified. “I received the knife from Reginald Steele.”
“And what did you do with it?”
“I photographed the fingerprints on the knife.”
“Fine. I’m not asking you about those fingerprints at this time. But the fact is you photographed them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then what did you do with the knife?”
“I returned it to Reginald Steele.”
“That’s all.”
“No questions,” Steve said, grinning.
Dirkson knew it was coming. He’d been in the courtroom often enough to be able to read audiences just the way an actor would. And there was no mistaking the expectant hush of the crowd. But he had no choice.
“Recall Reginald Steele,” he said.
That’s when it hit. The first audible chuckles. Judge Crandell immediately banged them silent with his gavel, but Dirkson knew the dam had broken, and from here on the reaction could only grow.
“That is correct,” Reginald Steele said. “I received the knife back from my assistant, Samuel Beame.”
“And what did you do with it then?”
Steele seemed unhappy about his answer, which only made things worse. “I gave it to Sergeant Schneider to deliver to Sergeant Stams.”
“Thank you. That’s all.”
Steve grinned. “No questions.”
Dirkson sighed. “Call Sergeant Schneider.”
As Dirkson had expected, it was worse. The chuckles were louder this time. Even some of the jurors were grinning. Christ, even the defendant was grinning.
Sergeant Schneider turned out to be one of those bullnecked cops who look and talk as if they had the I.Q. of a tree stump, which didn’t help.
“Yeah, I got the knife,” he said.
“Where did you get it?”
“Steele gave it to me.”
“And what did he tell you to do with it?”
“Give it to Sergeant Stams.”
“So what did you do with it?”
Schneider helped Dirkson out by staring at him as if he were an idiot. “Gave it to Sergeant Stams.”
“Thank you. That’s all.”
“No questions,” Steve announced happily.
“Recall Sergeant Stams.” Dirkson announced. He got it in quickly, before the audience could build up the anticipation to it. It was a good strategy. It got chuckles, but not proportionally bigger than the last.
Sergeant Stams looked unhappy as he took the stand. It was apparent to everyone that he didn’t want to be there, and that he was giving his testimony very grudgingly. Which, of course, only heightened the mood.
“Yes, sir, that’s right,” he said. “I received the knife back from Sergeant Schneider.”
“And what did you do with it?” Dirkson asked.
Sergeant Stams looked trapped. He hesitated, looked around and then blurted, “I gave it to you, sir.”
Laughter rocked the courtroom. The spectators laughed. The jurors laughed. Everyone except the police and the prosecution was terribly amused.
Judge Crandell banged for silence, but even he seemed to be suppressing a smile.
Harry Dirkson stood, stony-faced, and waited for it to be over. There was nothing else for him to do.
When the courtroom was quiet again, he said dryly, “Thank you, Sergeant. And what did I do with the knife?”
“You gave it to Lieutenant Farron, sir.”
“In your presence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all,” Dirkson said, wearily.
Steve was on his feet. “Your Honor, I have no questions of this witness. I would also like to say at this time that the defense has no wish to embarrass the prosecutor by forcing him to take the stand. Therefore, we will stipulate that Harry Dirkson, if called upon to testify, would state that he received the knife in question from Sergeant Stams and that he gave it to Lieutenant Farron.”
Dirkson accepted the stipulation with bad grace. No attempt to embarrass him indeed, he thought. And then, having done so, the guy had the gall to play the good guy by making the stipulation. But there was nothing Dirkson could do but accept it.
Dirkson called Lieutenant Farron to the stand.
“Yes, sir,” Farron testified. “You gave me the knife.”
“And what did you do with it?”
“I delivered it to Dr. Fenton.”
“That’s all.”
“No questions,” Steve said.
“Recall Dr. Fenton.”
“That is correct,” Dr. Fenton testified. “I received the knife from Lieutenant Farron.”
“And it was then, and in his presence, that you scratched your initials on the handle?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dirkson turned wearily to Judge Crandell. “I now ask that the knife be received in evidence as the murder weapon.”
“No objection, Your Honor,” Steve said brightly.
Dirkson, who had expected a long argument, stared at the defense counsel in exasperation and disbelief.
Judge Crandell came to his aid. “So ordered,” he said. “It is now well past the hour of adjournment. Court
