Too few people realize how many murders go undetected because of ignorance, incompetence, or lack of proper investigative facilities on the part of those who are called upon to make medical (or medicolegal) investigations.
Too few people realize how frequently cool, calm efficiency on the part of a medical examiner can aid in the cause of justice.
There is one case which will illustrate my point, and which will, I think, prove to the reader Baltimore’s wisdom in seeking the best brains available in this particular field of investigation.
A few months ago, a young white man, accompanied by three friends, was operating his car on the streets of Baltimore. Another car, driven by a colored lad, cut them off at a corner.
There was ill feeling. The white driver speeded up and forced the colored boy’s car to the curb.
The colored boy got out of the right-hand front door of his car and stood on the sidewalk ready to defend himself.
The driver of the pursuing car jumped out of the door on the left-hand side, hurried around the car and approached the colored boy.
Witnesses said that the colored boy hit the white boy with his fist. The white boy promptly collapsed to the curb, unconscious. He was rushed to a hospital and died six hours later without regaining consciousness.
The colored lad was arrested and charged with manslaughter. The newspapers took up the case and racial feeling began to flare up.
Then Dr. Fisher performed an autopsy. He found something that a less skillful man would have missed. He found the cause of death was due to a ruptured aneurysm in that portion of the brain known as the “Circle of Willis.” There was no indication that the man had been struck. It was evident that a congenital aneurysm had ruptured under the influence of increased blood pressure due to anger.
So the Medical Examiner requested that the police start checking up on those who had seen the blow struck.
Then a peculiar thing developed.
Confronted with the findings of the Medical Examiner it turned out that no one really had seen a blow struck. The witnesses had been “pretty sure a blow was struck since the white boy fell just as a fight was starting”
A careful reconstruction of the scene of the crime showed that some of the witnesses simply were not in a position to have seen the blow even if a blow had been struck. In view of the findings of the Medical Examiner it was proven that the man had died from natural causes, probably superinduced by his own anger.
And so I set forth an authentic example showing the responsibilities of a medical examiner, and one of the reasons why Maryland and Baltimore are ranked among the top areas in this work, feeling that you readers of mystery stories who, like myself, are interested in all the puzzling manifestations of crime and crime detection, will find it interesting. And I dedicate this book to my friend:
RUSSELL S. FISHER, M.D.
Chief Medical Examiner
State of Maryland
Erle Stanley Gardner
Cast of Characters
PERRY MASON — Came up with a double portion of trouble the night he stopped in at Morris Alburg’s restaurant
DELLA STREET — As Mason’s secretary, she had a good chance to examine the mink
MORRIS ALBURG — needed a lawyer — the very best — to get him out of the mess he found himself in
DIXIE DAYTON — A terrified waitress who ran so fast she forgot the mink
LIEUTENANT TRAGG — Co-operated with Mason, but it was much against his better judgment
PAUL DRAKE — Head of the Drake Detective Agency. The one time he regretted that Mason’s business was his bread and butter
GEORGE FAYETTE — A solitary diner — obviously his mind wasn’t on his steak
MAE NOLAN — Claimed Morris Alburg wasn’t a boss one could get enthused about
ROBERT CLAREMENT — A dedicated cop who was taken for a ride
THOMAS E. SEDGWICK — Suspected bookmaker and cop killer. When the heat was put on, he made himself scarce
SERGEANT JAFFREY — In charge of the Vice detail. The tie-in with Claremont’s murder brought him into the case
MINERVA HAMLIN — Night switchboard operator at the Drake Agency and a most efficient young woman
FRANK HOXIE — A hotel like the Keymont had use for a man of his particular talents
HAMILTON Burger — Barrel-chested district attorney who clothed himself in an air of unctuous dignity
Chapter 1
It had been a hard, grueling day. Perry Mason and his secretary, Della Street, had finished taking a deposition. The witness had been cunning and evasive, his lawyer brimming with technical objections, and all of Perry Mason’s skill was needed finally to drag forth the significant facts.
The lawyer and his secretary, entering Morris Alburg’s restaurant, sought the privacy of a curtained booth in the rear. Della sighed her relief, glanced at Mason’s rugged features, said, “I don’t know how you do it. I’m like a wet dishrag.”
Morris Alburg made it a point to wave the waiter aside and himself take the order of his distinguished customer.
“Hard day, Mr. Mason?” he asked.
“A bear cat,” Mason admitted.
“In court all day, I presume?”
Mason shook his head.
“A deposition, Morris,” Della Street explained, indicating her shorthand books. “I took check notes.”
Alburg, not understanding, said, “Uh-huh,” vaguely, and then asked, “Cocktails?”
“Two double Bacardis,” Mason ordered, “a little on the sour side.”
Morris passed the cocktail order on to the waiter. “I have some nice fried chicken,” he suggested. “And the steaks are out of this world.”
He raised a thumb and forefinger to his lips.
Della Street laughed. “Are you going ritzy on us, Morris? Where did you get that?”
“The steaks?”
“No, the gesture.”
The restaurant proprietor grinned. “I saw a guy do that in a restaurant scene in the movies,” he confessed. “Then you should have seen the junk he brought on, steaks you could look at and tell they were tough like shoe leather.”
“Then never mind the gestures,” Mason told him. “We want two thick steaks, medium rare, lots of lyonnaise potatoes, some buttered bread, with—” He glanced expectantly at Della Street.
Della nodded.
“Garlic,” Mason said.
“Okay,” Morris Alburg said. “You’ll get it. The best!”
“Tender, juicy, medium rare,” Mason said.
“The best,” Alburg repeated again, and vanished, letting the green curtain drop back into place.
Mason extended his cigarette case to Della Street and held a match. The lawyer took a deep inhalation, slowly expelled the smoke, and half-closed his eyes. “If that old goat had only told the truth in the first place, instead of beating around the bush,” he said, “we’d have been finished in fifteen minutes.”
“Well, you finally got the truth out of him.”
“Finally,” Mason admitted. “It was like trying to pick up quicksilver with your bare fingers. You’d ask him a question and he’d run all over the place, twisting, turning, evading, throwing out red herrings, trying to change the subject.”
Della Street laughed and said, “Do you realize there was one question you asked him exactly twelve times?”
“I hadn’t counted the times,” Mason said, “but that was the turning point. I’d ask the question, he’d try to lead me off on some other conversational channel, and I’d wait until he’d finished, then ask the same question over again, in exactly the same words. He’d try new tactics to shake me off. I’d nod attentively as though I were taking it all in, and inspire him to new heights of verbal evasion. Then, when he’d finished, I’d ask him the same question in exactly the same words.”