There was a commotion in the courtroom. A man, whose face was so completely bandaged that only a bit of his nose and one eye were visible, said in muffled tones, “I want to be excused.”
“Who are you?” Scanlon asked.
“I’m Jackson Weyman. I was a witness in that other inquest, and now somebody’s subpoenaed me for this inquest. I’m a sick man.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Cuts in my face got infected,” Weyman explained. “I have no business to be out. I should be home in bed right now and—”
He was interrupted by a thin, austere woman who stood up at the other end of the courtroom and said, “The same is true in my case, your Honor. I’m Mrs. Stella Anderson. I also was a witness in that other case. I’ve been ordered to appear in this case and testify. I know absolutely nothing about this young man—”
“Perhaps you two know more than you think you do,” Scanlon said. “Since you’re here under subpoena, I’ll ask you to sit down and listen to at least a few of the witnesses. And, as far as you’re concerned, Mr. Weyman, on account of your physical condition, I’ll call you just as soon as I can. The first witness, however, will be Dr. James Wallace.”
Dr. Wallace arose and walked toward the witness chair. “But I demand that something be done about letting me go,” Weyman said, his words somewhat muffled by his bandages. “I have an infection which may be dangerous unless I keep absolutely quiet and—”
“You should have produced a physician’s certificate,” Scanlon said. “Since you’re here, simply sit down and compose yourself. I’ll finish with you in a very few minutes. I have only a few routine questions to ask of Dr. Wallace.
“Dr. Wallace, you’re a duly qualified and practicing physician and surgeon in this state and a resident physician and head of the interns at the Good Samaritan Hospital in this city. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you have been for more than a year?”
“That’s right.”
“Now, you’ve seen the remains in the undertaking parlors?”
“I have.”
“Do you know that man?”
“Yes,” Dr. Wallace said slowly. “I do. That man is an individual whom I treated for shock, for minor abrasions, bruises, and for traumatic amnesia on the thirteenth of this month.”
“Where, Doctor?”
“At the Good Samaritan Hospital. He had, I understand, been the victim of an automobile accident. He regained consciousness as he was being brought into the hospital. I found that his physical injuries were relatively superficial, treated them, and, in the course of my conversation, discovered that the man was suffering from traumatic amnesia. He—”
“Just what do you mean by traumatic amnesia, Doctor?”
“A loss of memory superinduced by external violence. He didn’t know who he was, nor where he lived.”
“So what did you do, Doctor?”
“Very adroitly,” Dr. Wallace said, “I maneuvered the conversation around so that it included the city of Alta-ville. I had previously ascertained from a driving license found in his pocket that the man was a resident of Alta-ville, and that his name was Carl Packard. By leading the conversation to Altaville and its environments in such a way that I did not add to his mental shock, I soon cleared up the patient’s mental condition.”
“What did you do with the driving license?”
“I returned it to him.”
“And he knew who he was at that time?”
“Oh, yes, he remembered his identity and was able to discuss matters intelligently.”
“Now, Doctor, after leaving the hospital, this man disappeared.”
“So I am given to understand.”
“He was next found pinned under a wrecked automobile at the bottom of a precipitous canyon in the Santa Monica Mountains. The very severe injuries he had sustained had evidently killed him almost instantly, as will be shown by the testimony of the autopsy surgeon.”
“Yes,” Dr. Wallace said, “I noticed in making even a superficial examination that the skull had been completely crushed.”
“There were also numerous other internal injuries and broken bones. Now, Doctor, I want to know if it’s possible that the patient wasn’t cured of this amnesia that you mentioned, but was wandering around in sort of a daze.”
“Absolutely not,” Dr. Wallace said positively, and somewhat belligerently. “When I discharge a patient as cured, he’s cured. If there had been any possibility of an immediate recurrence of this condition, I would not have discharged him. Of course, you’ll understand, however, if there’d been some independent shock, some other injury, perhaps, it is possible that another and separate traumatic amnesia might have developed, but it would have been entirely separate and distinct. Of course, there’s nothing except the law of averages which prevents a man who has been run over by an automobile and treated by me going out and immediately becoming involved in another automobile accident. Yet they are separate and distinct accidents.”
“We understand that,” Scanlon said. “Now, what can you tell us about the identification you have made?”
“Well, in view of the condition of the cadaver,” Dr. Wallace observed, “my identification must, of course, be predicated upon certain matters of circumstantial evidence. For instance, it has been definitely established that the man who gave me the name of Carl Packard at the hospital, and who apparently lived in Altaville, was, in reality, an investigator for the Board of Fire Underwriters, named Jason Braun. He had apparently taken the alias of Carl Packard for the purpose of facilitating some of his investigations, and, having recovered his memory as to his alias, he naturally remembered his reason for concealing his true identity. Which is why he never once mentioned the name of Jason Braun to me, but agreed with me in the assumption he was Carl Packard of Altaville.
“Now, the Board of Fire Underwriters has its investigators all fingerprinted and, despite the partial decomposition of the cadaver, the ridges and whorls of the fingers can be readily ascertained. While I am not a fingerprint expert, I am an anatomist and I have carefully compared the fingerprints of the cadaver with those of Jason Braun. Having first assured myself that the man whom I treated was in reality Jason Braun, I have no hesitancy in identifying that man as being one and the same person with the cadaver lying at present in the undertaking parlors adjoining this room.”
“I think that’s all, Dr. Wallace,” Scanlon said.
“Just a moment,” Perry Mason observed. “Might I have the indulgence of the coroner in asking one or two questions?”
The coroner nodded.
“At the time this man, Packard, or Braun, whichever you wish to call him, recovered consciousness at the hospital — that is, when he recovered his knowledge of his identity — did he discuss the accident with you, Doctor?”
“He did.”
“What did he say about it?”
“He said that he had seen something in the window of a house on his right which had caused him to focus all of his attention on that window and he neglected to look where he was going; that suddenly he realized some huge bulk was towering on his left. He swung his eyes back to the road in time to see this big moving van just about to make a turn into Fourteenth Street. He tried to apply his brakes, but by that time it was too late. The moving van hit him and the two cars swung into the curb where Packard lost consciousness at the moment of impact.”
Rodney Cuff, on his feet, said suavely, “If the coroner please, I object to this form of inquiry. This man, Braun, or Packard, as the case may be, is now dead. He can never testify in any trial as to what he saw. Any attempt to perpetuate his testimony in the records by this indirect method is highly irregular, and calls for hearsay and a conclusion of the witness.”