“That isn’t at all what I said,” the doctor answered. “I am not an expert on fighting,” he added with a faint smile. “I am only an expert on medical matters.”
“But that seems to be a necessary inference to be drawn from your testimony,” Linton insisted.
“Draw it then,” the doctor announced in a dry, crisp voice. “It is an inference for you to draw. I am only stating the conditions as I found them.”
“But the blow must have necessarily been very violent?”
“It took a very great amount of force to cause the injury which I have described.”
“But can’t you tell us any more than that, Doctor?”
“I can only repeat that it was not the type of injury one would expect to find from the striking of the head caused in an ordinary fall such as is occasioned when a person loses balance. It was an injury that was caused by an impact occasioned by considerable violence. That is not exactly the way I wish to express it, either, Counselor. I will say that under the circumstances which we are now discussing, and the possibility which is being considered in my testimony, the head of the deceased must have struck the threshold with greater force than would have been the result of an ordinary fall. That’s as far as I care to go, and I think that’s as clear as I can make it.”
“In the event that force which contributed to the fall had been a blow, it would have been a heavy blow?” Linton asked.
“Yes.”
“A blow struck by a trained fighter?”
“I cannot swear to that.”
“But definitely a blow that was very violent?”
“In the generally accepted, popular meaning of the word, yes.”
“I think that’s all,” Linton said.
“That’s all,” Mason announced.
“Call your next witness,” the judge said.
“Thomas Lawton Cameron,” Linton announced.
Thomas L. Cameron turned out to be a weather beaten man in the late fifties, broad-shouldered, stocky, competent, with a face covered with a fine network of wrinkles from which steady eyes regarded the world in an intent scrutiny from under black, bushy eyebrows. He was, it transpired, a caretaker at the yacht club where Roger Burbank kept his yacht, and he answered questions in a low-pitched voice, wasting no words, most of the time answering questions in a frank, conversational manner.
Cameron testified that it was Burbank’s custom to take his yacht out over week-ends; that usually he left on Friday about noon; that on the particular Friday in question he had arrived at the yacht club about eleven-thirty; that he had boarded his yacht, cast loose the moorings, hoisted sail, jockeyed the yacht out into the channel and sailed around the point and up the lagoon or estuary, whichever you wanted to call it. That he had then, within an hour, returned in the yacht’s dinghy powered with an outboard motor, had tied the dinghy up and had been away all afternoon. That sometime around five o‘clock the witness had heard the noise of the outboard motor and had glanced out of the window of his cabin workshop. He had seen the yacht’s dinghy chugging down toward the main estuary. There was someone in the stern, but the witness wasn’t prepared to state this person was the defendant. He hadn’t seen the figure clearly enough to identify it.
“Are you acquainted with the deceased, Fred Milfield?” Linton asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you see him that Friday afternoon?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“He arrived at the yacht club about five-thirty and rented a rowboat from me.”
“You’re certain it was Fred Milfield?”
“Yes.”
“Was there some mark of identification on this row boat?”
“Yes, a number.”
“What was the number?”
“Twenty-five.”
“When did you next see this rowboat?”
“Almost twenty-four hours later. We found it Saturday afternoon where it had run aground after having been carried by the tide.”
“Where did it run aground?”
“Up the estuary, about half a mile below where Burbank’s yacht was anchored.”
“Below the spot where the yacht was anchored?”
“Yes.”
“So the boat must have been cast loose while the tide was running out — sometime after high tide?”
“Well... I guess that’s a matter of deduction.”
“Did you see Burbank any more after that?”
“Yes. I saw him come back in his dinghy about half or three-quarters of an hour after Milfield left. He tied it up to the mooring, went over to his car, and drove away.”
“Did you see him again later?”
“Well, I didn’t see him. It was when I was answering the phone; someone started an outboard motor. I beard the putt-putt as the boat went past, but I was busy talking, and I didn’t look out. After I finished my telephone conversation, I looked out and the Burbank dinghy was gone. It was getting dark when it came back, and so I never did see who was in it.”
“Then what happened to this dinghy?”
“Well, as near as I can tell, it remained tied up all night. I didn’t hear anyone start the outboard motor. If anyone had, I think I’d have waked up. I didn’t. I slept right through after I got to bed. That was around midnight. The dinghy was there when I went to bed, and it was there when I got up in the morning, around six o‘clock.”
“When did you next see Milfield?”
“That was after this sheepherder came rushing in...”
“Never mind the hearsay,” Linton interrupted. “I just want to know when you next saw Mr. Milfield.”
“Saturday morning.”
“That was the day following the occurrences of which you have just testified?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And where was Mr. Milfield?”
“His body was lying aboard Roger Burbank’s yacht.”
“Were you alone at the time you saw him?”
“No, sir. Lieutenant Tragg was with me, and a couple of other gentlemen whose names I have forgotten.”
“Police officers?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Was Mr. Milfield alive or dead?”
“He was dead.”
“You may cross-examine,” Linton announced to Perry Mason.
“Did you actually see Roger Burbank return to the club in that dinghy?” Mason asked.
“Yes, sure.”
“Talk with him?”
“No.”
“See him get in his car and drive away?”
“Yes.”
“Saw him clearly?”
“As clearly as you could see a man at that distance.”
“How far was it?”
“Oh, perhaps a hundred and fifty feet.”
“You were wearing your glasses at the time?”
“Yes, sure.”
“Know it was Burbank in that dinghy as soon as you saw him?”
“Well, to tell the truth — I sort of took it for granted when I first saw the man that it was someone else.”
“Milfield?”
“Yes.”
“Now how far away was this?”
“Like I told you, it was right around a hundred and fifty feet, or two hundred feet.”
“Where were you?”
“In my little cabin, down there.”
“What were you doing?”
“Cooking dinner.”
“Have your glasses on?”
“Yes.”
“Looked out through a window?”
“Yes.”
“And saw this man?”
“Yes.”
“There may have been some steam on your glasses — from the cooking?”
“Well there may have been. It’s a chance.”
“And,” Mason said, pointing his finger to give added emphasis to his words, “at the time, you thought this man was Fred Milfield, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”