Soirées Noires: A San Spade Detective Story
Chapter 4
July 1947
VI
I burst through the front door of the office, taking Tina so offguard she let out a surprised "Oh!"
'Tina, who do we know down at the coroner's office? Any friends who can help us out? I need to know what piqued Grissom in court today." I quickly recounted the last few minutes of the Anderson trial for Tina and she began dialing immediately.
I strode to my office and called Puckerman. Before the rest of us had a chance to close our mouths after Grissom's disruption of court and Sylvester storming out, Puckerman had disappeared from the courtroom. As most of his reporter pals were expecting court to let out at 3 or 4PM, no one was waiting for him as he ran out of the courtroom into the nearest phone booth to call his office. I saw him ranting madly into the phone as I left.
"Puckerman." The voice on the phone answered somewhat annoyed.
"It's me, Noah. What happened with Grissom?"
"Oh, hi. That's the hundred thousand dollar question, Lopez. You and every reporter in Metropolis is trying to figure that out. Or they will be when I tell them what happened, after the evening edition hits the stands," he chuckled. I could hear the scrape of his lighter flint and hear the intake of breath as he lit up a cigarette. "You heard anything?"
"Nothing. Do me a favor? Let me know what's going on before I read it on the front page?" I asked. Puckerman said he would and I sat down at my desk reaching instinctively for the bottle of rye whiskey in my drawer, and twisting the top off with the one hand. I'd just set a shot glass on my desk when Tina walked back in, giving me a mildly disapproving look as she saw the glass.
"It's not even 3 o'clock yet. Do you really need that?" Tina said, pointing at the bottle in my hand with her notepad.
"I'm very competitive Tina," I smiled knocking back the first shot as I poured a second, smiling at her, "there's rummies who've been drinking since 10."
Tina shook her head, begrudgingly giving me a smile. "There's definitely something happening down at the morgue right now. My contact said Grissom's office has the State's Attorney on conference call. She heard the word 'exhume' but that's all she knows right now. It's Friday and they're all trying to leave before Grissom can ask them to stay."
"Exhume, Blaine Anderson's body?" I asked, more thinking out loud than asking Tina a question. "What could he have seen in a photograph that would make him want to dig up a body that's been buried for nearly 2 months?" Tina shrugged. I stood and looked out the window, lighting a cigarette. "I need to see those photos. Think you can charm Hudson into letting me see the negatives?" I laughed turning back towards Tina and leaning against the windowsill.
"How about I ask him to make you a special deputy and issue you a badge, too?" Tina said sitting down in the chair in front of my desk and reaching for the shotglass and whiskey.
I chuckled, "It's times like these I wish I was a little nicer to Hudsy." I produced another shotglass from my drawer and slid it across the desk to Tina, taking the one she'd just filled. We sat in silence for a few minutes while we both drank and I blew smoke overhead. "Tina," I said standing up and walking towards the door, "can you get changed for dinner? I'll pick you up in two hours." I walked to the closet in Artie's office, the first time I'd breached the threshold since the day after he was shot. I pulled out a small bag and retrieved a silver and black TOKO camera small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.
Tina had followed me and stood in the doorway, almost hesitating to come in. "I can be ready. Why are you taking the camera?"
I sprinted past her to the hallway hoping to make the camera shop for film before they closed for the weekend. I'd gotten down the first dozen stairs before I backed up and leaned into the front office doorway. Tina, putting the cover on her Underwood typewriter, again looked startled to see me.
"Thank you, Tina," I smiled and waited for the beam of sunshine that was Tina's smile before I ran downstairs to hail a cab.
VII
A petite young girl with straight blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes stepped up to the table where Tina and I sat overlooking the stage at Soirées Noires. I'd requested a table as close to the stage as possible. Closer to the stage meant closer to my target of the backstage dressing rooms.
"Welcome to the Soirées Noires, I'm Lauren, I'll be your waitress tonight. May I start you with a drink?" My ears pricked up at the sound of an accent reminiscent of the New Jersey shores. I thought I'd been subtle in glancing down at her legs, when I felt Tina kick me from under the table.
"Yes! Please get her a drink right away. Make it a double. I'll have gimlet, please," I replied, stroking my shin through the dark fabric of my burgundy pencil skirt. Topped by a pearl colored wrap blouse, my outfit was just dressy enough to not stand out in the sea of cocktail dresses I saw twirling around the dancefloor below. After the reception I'd gotten on my last visit, I'd decided to spare myself the plucking and primping. Tina was radiant in a red and white floral print cocktail dress, her lipstick and a barrette that held back her chignon, all in matching shade of red that complimented her skin beautifully.
"I'll have a Manhattan," Tina replied to the waitress, before shifting her chair sideways to get a better view of the dance floor. "Can you give me a few minutes to soak this all in before you do whatever it is you're going to do?" Tina said smiling as she watched the dancers twirl, swaying her shoulders in time.
"Yes, dear, enjoy," I said as the lights dimmed and a woman in a silver sequined gown, silver heels and matching clanking silver bracelets and earrings stepped onto the stage. The Noire Orchestra filled in behind her and she stepped into the spotlight surrounding the microphone at the front of the stage, blinding the room with the reflection off her clothes and jewelry.
I looked at the nametag of our waitress as she returned, setting Tina and my Christmas colored drinks on the table. "Thank you, Lauren. Excuse me," I said, putting a hand on her arm before she could disappear, "could you tell me who that is on stage?"
Lauren squatted gracefully next to the table so as not to block the view of tables behind us. "That's Sugar Motta. She's a friend of Mrs. Anderson."
"She's a singer?" I asked, looking back to the stage as Miss Motta introduced the Noir Orchestra.
Lauren chuckled and replied, "She's no singer. I'd advise you to try and get through your main course before she starts." Lauren smiled and stood again.
"Are steaks okay, Tina?" I asked and Tina nodded absently enthralled by the stage. "Two steaks rare, please," I said and winked at Lauren before she walked away.
Miss Motta finished with the horns section of the orchestra and then turned back to the stage. "Ladies and Gents, I have a special treat for you tonight, a group of gals who worked together at the Mars Candy factory during the war have made it big singing. Give a big hand for the Snicker Sisters!" As she spoke, four women dressed in pink damask dresses with full skirts and v-shaped necklines entered from the side stage smiling, hands folded in front of them. Of varying heights and ranging in haircolor from black to auburn to red, it wasn't until they stepped closer to centerstage that I noticed the letters 'M', 'A', 'J', and 'K' embroidered on the bodice of their dresses.
I listened for a moment as they launched into a cover of the Andrews Sisters song "Rum and Coca-Cola". I tuned out and began watching the room for the best time to try and make my move to backstage. As the Snicker Sisters began their second song, I touched Tina's shoulder and motioned that I would be back.
It didn't take much effort to slip backstage without being challenged. Members of the Orchestra that weren't onstage were too busy smoking or playing craps in the hallway behind the stage to pay attention to me. The chorus girls were limbering up, applying make-up, and chattering noisily in their large dressing at the opposite end of the hall from the Andersons dressing room. I walked quickly to the doorway of Mr. Anderson's dressing room and stepped inside after just pushing at the door, the doorjamb still shredded from the break in months ago. Looking back over my shoulder to see if I was being observed or followed, I waited a beat, and turned into the room.
Mrs. Anderson's stark white dressing room couldn't have been more opposite the warm almost homey atmosphere of Mr. Anderson's room. A Tiffany lampshade sat on the dressing table along with a neatly lined up tortoise shell hair comb, and two tiny metal combs, for his mustache or eyebrows, I wasn't sure which. His dressing table was a mahogany colored wood the color of a good rye whiskey, and had four bare light bulbs around the outside of its large mirror. Just as in Mrs. Anderson's room, there was a small sink near the door and a folding screen in the back of the room behind which he could change clothes. A hanger with four red bow ties hung from the small hook on the front of the screen. There was a small table with three dark leather club chairs, atop a richly colored oriental rug in the center of the room where Mrs. Anderson's chaise would have been. As I touched the leather of the club chair, I was startled by my reflection in Britt Anderson's dressing table mirror about 15 feet away through the doorway.
I held my breath as I stepped through the second broken door that connected the Anderson's dressing rooms. The room smelled strongly of bleach, it must have taken quite a bit of effort to remove the blood and accompanying smell. The plush white rug and white chaise were gone, the bare wood floor in the center of the room now visible. I was being silly, but the temperature seemed to drop just taking a few steps into the room. The sound of laughter in the hallway reminded me that I needed to be quick and I stepped with my back to the dressing table, taking several quick photographs from various angles, hoping to find the shot that would show me what Grissom had seen in the police photo. I took a few more pictures of the rest of the room and then walked back towards Mr. Anderson's room to exit.
Passing the threshold, my eyes swept over the damage the crowbar had done to the door. There were small slashes in the wood jamb that framed the door in a thick white border of several inches. The slices through the paint to the lightly tan-pink wood underneath looked like wounded flesh. I saw two small round wounds at just below waist height and I leaned down to examine them. They were just big enough for the tip of my pinky to fit into them. Flicking off the light in both rooms, I fumbled in the dark to swap the camera lens with the body cap and turned the lights back up. Using the lens as a magnifying glass, I examined the holes, chuckling to myself that Sherlock Holmes would have been proud. There was a trace of black around each hole that rubbed off on my fingers. I flicked the lights off again, replaced the camera lens and took several close-up pictures, before stepping back across the room to the dressing table. The new vantage point revealed three more holes near the baseboard next to the door, bullet holes. Grissom had noticed bullet holes in the photograph. I snapped several more pictures, tucked the camera back into my pocket and stepped out into the hallway.
I heard applause and knew I should be getting back to Tina out front. The air felt stale and heavy, I was more than ready to leave. Mike's claim that anyone could have come into and out of the Andersons' dressing room that night made me wonder how easy it would have been to leave without being seen. I took a few steps towards the chorus girls dressing room and felt a small breeze coming from behind a dark curtain. Brushing the curtain aside, I saw a double door propped open with a brick that lead outside. Looking back to the dressing room doorway, it wasn't even ten feet away. I peered out the door and saw our waitress, Lauren leaning over a railing that leads to three steps down to the alleyway.
"Is there where you go to escape Miss Motta's singing?" I said stepping fully through the door and up next to Lauren. She jumped and turned to face me, a cigarette between her lips and tumbler of amber colored liquor in her hand.
"Haha!" she laughed, "This isn't far enough away. You just wait, she should be starting any minute now. What are you doing back here? Your steaks were delivered ten minutes ago. Was there something wrong?" Without waiting me to answer, she continued, "Damn that Holly, she was supposed to be covering for me!" The cigarette in her mouth waggled as she spoke.
I leaned against the balcony next to her, the crisp autumn air quickly diluting the smell of bleach that clung to me. I took a deep breath and lit my own cigarette. "No," I said, appreciating the calm of my cigarette after the chill of being in the dressing room again, "everything was fine. I just wanted to take a look backstage." I glanced over at her taking a sip of her drink. She seemed unconcerned about my presence as long as it wasn't related to her service. "Actually, I'm a detective and I'm just following up on a lead." Most people hear the word 'detective' and automatically think I work for the police. Most of the time it isn't in my interest to explain their error. "How has the Soirées Noires been doing since…the incident."
"Fine," Lauren offered. "If anything, business is better, people get a kick out of eating someplace someone's been murdered or something sick like that. Did you miss something? There was a group in earlier." She held her tumbler out, offering me a bit of her drink, but I shook my head and took another drag of my cigarette.
"Just double checking," I wasn't surprised Grissom's group had been here already, "we wouldn't want to miss anything." Wouldn't want to miss anything again, I thought. Changing subjects I asked, "What was Mr. Anderson like?"
"Mr. Anderson? He was a really classy guy, but he'd started drinking a lot in the last few months…" her voice trailed off.
"Alcohol dissolves class," I offered.
"Yeah, he and Sebastian would stay after shows and drink and argue for hours. Eventually, Mr. Anderson let him go," Lauren replied taking a last draw in her cigarettes before flicking it into a sand- and butt-filled bucket at our feet. I offered her another and lit it for her, the lighter flame reflecting eerily in her pale eyes.
"Who's Sebastian?" I knew the most basic answer, but was hoping some shading from an insider might make the sketch more realistic.
"Sebastian Anderson, Mr. Anderson's cousin."
"I see, bet you got an earful of those when we were young stories, huh?"
"Don't remember any of those. But I know they used to work together as Pullman porters on the Super Chief. When they'd drink they'd tell us all stories about the stars and gangsters they'd met," Lauren answered.
The Super Chief was a passenger steamliner train that made daily runs from Los Angeles to Chicago and New York. The air-conditioned compartments, gourmet meals, and frequent Hollywood passenger list gave the train a certain mystique no other line had been able to match. Even the lowest fare compartments were luxurious compared to other passenger trains, meaning the average joe could buy a little piece of snob appeal of their very own. After the rationing and sacrifice of the war, Super Chief was a welcome reversal. Warm weather places like California and Nevada beginning to blossom and drew the attention of people looking to avoid the scrutiny of the police out East. Rumor had it money and goods moved from New York to Chicago to the West Coast on the Super Chief virtually unnoticed. Soon names linked with organized crime, like Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lansky were regulars who added to the Super Chief allure. Who wanted to fly when you could rub elbows with Bogart, Bacall, and Bugsy?
"But they fought a lot? About what?"
"I don't know, they were drinking so I didn't pay much attention, you know?" Lauren said shrugging.
"How were the Anderson's getting along before this happened? I'd heard rumors…"
"They fought, for sure, but that's called marriage isn't it?" Lauren sighed as she looked out into the alleyway. "Mr. Anderson was planning a big surprise for her though, that night it happened."
"Really?" I prompted when she paused to take a drink. "What kind of surprise?"
"Dunno, I was out here before the first show and he was pulling a steamer trunk up the steps. Asked me to hold the door."
"A trip?" I asked.
"I guess." As she spoke, the door was thrown open and the Snicker Sisters came barreling outside laughing.
"Hi!" 'A' , the auburn haired songstress said, waving.
Lauren and I both waved back.
"Mind if we join you?" 'K', the darker haired, asked, producing a flask from somewhere in her bustier.
The long lashed 'M', stepped up to the rail and leaned back against it. "I've got some cigarettes. Wanna try?" She reached into the bodice of her dress and pulled out four spindle shaped rolled cigarettes.
"Borrow your lighter?" the red haired 'J' asked Lauren, who handed over her lighter, smiling as she watched the four women lighting up. I stepped back into the doorway, giggles rising behind me, wondering whether Holly was going to have to cover the rest of the night for Lauren.
"Ready to go?" I asked as I stood next to Tina at the table. I saw she'd had the dinners wrapped up in matching foil swans and was staring with a look of horror at the stage.
"Yes, please!" Tina said standing and walking ahead of me.
I took the two tin foil swans and followed her, stopping momentarily to locate the out of tune saxophone player that was mistreating a Charlie Parker tune. I was startled to see the sound was coming from Miss Motta scatting the song to the dismay of the audience and Orchestra alike.
We had the cab drop us off at the office so that I could return the camera to Artie's closet and Tina could have the film to drop off on her way into work on Monday morning. Tina called for two cabs and we walked back down the stairs after locking up the office for the night.
"Were you okay going back in there?" Tina asked. I knew she'd been watching me anxiously since we'd left the nightclub and had honestly hoped she'd just let me go without questioning.
"It was a strange feeling," I replied.
"Do you think you figured out what Grissom saw in the photos?" Tina asked, frowning at me concerned.
"Bullet holes in the wall. I think Blaine was shot," I answered, seeing the headlights of the first cab turn onto our street.
"Well, that's great isn't it? They thought she stabbed him, but he was shot. That's perfect!" Tina paused seeing that I didn't seem excited by the new information. "Right? That mean's she's innocent."
Tina's cab pulled up before I had to answer and I kissed Tina on the cheek before waving good night.
Now the gun I'd found in Britt Anderson's purse had gone from a troubling thought to a legitimate issue. If exhuming the body showed that Blaine was shot, Britt Anderson could be the killer. If she was, why stab him too? If she wasn't why make it look like she was? Whoever did it clearly escaped without a trace, why frame Britt Anderson?
I shielded my eyes from the headlights of the cab approaching as it came to a stop in front of me. I gave my address and leaned back in the seat, massaging my temples. I wish I hadn't found that damn gun. A Metropolis Memorial ambulance flew by in the opposite direction and my thoughts went to Artie. Artie was shot, the same night, working the same case. I closed my eyes and hoped the dark cool of my tomb apartment would quiet my mind enough to let me sleep.
VIII
The weekend came and went, Saturday blurred into Sunday and before I knew it I was leaving the Justice Diner headed to Judge Sylvester's courtroom again. Grapefruit and a cup of coffee probably weren't the best thing for the perpetual gnawing in my stomach, but I didn't have the time or inclination for anything else. In the few hours before court reconvened, Tina had reached out to every connection she had at Grissom's office, but even to Tina's wily ways, the place was sealed up tighter than a drum. If the coroner changed his opinion, there'd be a lot of pink slip confetti to rival the end of the war floating around the State's Attorney's office. I winced imagining the fallout in Police Chief Hudson's office. As much as Hudson wasn't my favorite brand of anything, he was predictable and, for the most part, good-natured. We may not have liked each other, but we understood each other and largely stayed out of each other's way. Better the devil you know.
Again I waited until Judge Sylvester was in residence and Grissom was being sworn in before I took a seat in the balcony. I'd wanted to avoid Puckerman, whom I knew would be anxious for any lead and willing to do almost anything for it. There hadn't been any six point screamer headlines with his byline since Friday, so I assumed he didn't know about the bullet holes. I slid into the wooden bench on the jury side of the courtroom and waved to him across the way. He raised his eyebrows as if to say 'anything?'. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. Grissom would tell us what he'd found in a few minutes. I rationalized I wasn't really keeping anything from Puckerman since I had no way to confirm anything. I wouldn't have my chance to look closely until this afternoon when Tina picked up the photos from the camera shop. I was sure they were bullet holes, but maybe they were old and Grissom was shaken up by something else in the photos. I wouldn't bet even Hudson's brass buttons that I was wrong, but it was possible. Anything was possible. Even Britt Anderson being innocent was possible.
I leaned towards the rail and looked over at the defense table. Mike was in a well-tailored charcoal grey suit, the pencil he twirled between his fingers a yellow blur. He looked around the courtroom as Grissom was sworn in again and finding me, mouthed "you're next". I nodded my head in return. Looking down at my ankle length plaid culottes, I hoped they looked sufficiently more like a skirt at a glance than pants, at least to Judge Sylvester. I had the right to dress as I pleased given that I'd be called to testify today and may have to provide evidence to Britt Anderson's guilt. Signing death warrants is uncomfortable business.
As much as I didn't want to look at Britt Anderson today, my eyes moved to her of their own volition. Given the general landscape of the courtroom, I couldn't blame them. She was polished and poised in a tasteful brown and white checked two-piece suit. Her hair was neatly pinned up, her turned under bangs giving her blue eyes privacy with just a small tilt of her head. No doubt both Schuester and Mike had stressed to her the importance of her wardrobe given the sensational press before the trial. She needed to look equally well prepared to stand trial for her life or plan the church picnic if she was to erase the wild picture the jurors had painted too vividly in their minds by the Metro dailies. I watched her chatting with Mike, smiling demurely. Still something seemed out of place, yet from golden head to well shod toe, it wasn't obvious at first glance. I was about to chalk it up to those something from nothing tricks your mind plays on you when you exchange gin for sleep, when I saw it. Her worry showed; the repeated tensing of her jaw marking the seconds on the clock. There was warm blood behind those cool blue eyes after all.
Israel coughed, addressed the jury with a 'Good morning', then stepped to the side of the witness box, where Dr. Grissom sat looking more disheveled than usual. "Dr. Grissom, good morning," he said. Grissom winced a smile. "Would you mind telling us what happened last Friday?" Israel said turning his back on Grissom and walking towards the jury box.
"Could you be more specific?" Grissom replied, oblivious to the snickers from the jury box.
"Dr. Grissom, why did you rush out of the courtroom on Friday afternoon?" Israel sighed, pushing up his glasses, placing two fingers on either side of the bridge of his nose, and rubbing gently as he squeezed his eyes shut.
"Ah, yes. When I examined the crime scene photos, I noticed something we'd overlooked that could have been pivotal to this case," Grissom replied looking genuinely ashamed.
"Could you explain what happened this weekend in regards to your discovery, Dr. Grissom?" Israel asked, beginning to master the art of questioning Grissom.
"Certainly. This weekend, we established that the original cause of death stated for Blaine Anderson was incorrect," Grissom paused, looking down at his hands, embarrassed. I glanced at Britt Anderson, who stared stoically ahead; she made no movement nor did Mike react to the information. Israel would have been legally obligated to inform Mike of Grissom's findings as soon as his office found out. She would already know what Grissom was about to say. My eyes were fixed on her, watching for some reason to believe my gut's assertion that she was still innocent.
"What do you now believe was the cause of death, Dr. Grissom?" Israel folded his arms behind him and paused his pacing in front of the witness box.
"Blaine Anderson was shot multiple times, which resulted in his death," Dr. Grissom stated simply. Eyes wide, members of the jury looked between each other, Grissom and Israel. Judge Sylvester tapped her gavel to silence the low murmur.
With the slightest movement of her honeyed head, Britt Anderson looked up, returning my gaze. Her eyes were blue summer skies threatening a thunderstorm, darkly fierce but pleading. I wanted to say something, something that would make sense to either of us at this moment. But I didn't know what would make this better and she wouldn't hear my cheap philosophy across the courtroom anyway. She turned away, her full attention returning to some spot on the wall in front of her. My eyes did not leave her as Israel guided Grissom through detailing his findings.
Grissom described exhuming and x-raying Blaine Anderson's body to look for the bullet fragments responsible for the holes in the door jamb and baseboards. He produced shiny black x-ray films showing bright white bullet fragments lodged in the ghostly shadows of Mr. Anderson's ankle and hip. He explained that the entry and exit wounds for the bullets were intentionally obscured by the knife wounds. Puckerman had mentioned to me that the knife had been twisted in the wounds, at the time, the police attributed it to matrimonial malevolence not guile. Grissom pointed out that at least five of the knife wounds corresponded with bullet exit wounds. Israel asked if Blaine Anderson had been shot and stabbed, how could Grissom say with certainty which came first and which was the true cause of death. Grissom explained if the victim had been shot second, the gunner would have been an excellent shot to precisely line up the point of entry and angle of the stab wounds, a near impossible shot once, much less five times in a row. The second possibility was that the shooter was very very close to Mr. Anderson. Israel suggested that Mr. Anderson might let his wife get that close to him. Grissom dismissed the idea saying that given the lack of gunpowder burns that would have been evident if Anderson were shot with the barrel literally touching him, he was confident that the gun wounds had occurred first.
After more than an hour of explanation, Israel seemed satisfied and concluded with, "Dr. Grissom, given this new information, is there any reason to suspect that Blaine Anderson wasn't murdered?"
Grissom laughed aloud, surprising everyone, including himself. "I'm sorry, but it's highly improbable that Mr. Anderson would physically be able to shoot himself five times in those locations and remain conscious. He was murdered. That hasn't changed," Grissom replied looking over the top of his glasses nearly in perfect imitation of Judge Sylvester.
"Thank you, Dr. Grissom. Your witness," Israel replied returning to his seat.
Mike Chang rose and approached the stand. "First, Dr. Grissom, I'd like to thank you and applaud you for having the courage to re-examine the case and reach a new conclusion. You may have saved my client's life," Mike said. Almost instantly, Israel raised an objection. "Withdrawn," Mike replied before Judge Sylvester could rule. In practice, Judge Sylvester should have asked the jury to disregard Mike's comment, but knowing the impossibility of unhearing something, she waggled a half-heartedly disapproving finger at Mike without taking her eyes off of Grissom.
"Dr. Grissom, was the murderer carrying a gun or a knife?" Mike asked.
"Excuse me?" Grissom replied, looking at Mike over the top of his glasses.
"Was Mr. Anderson killed with a gun or a knife?"
"A gun, most definitely he was killed with a gun," Dr. Grissom replied.
"Did the knife wounds contribute to his death?"
"In my opinion, no," Grissom replied.
"Do you see any reason for the murder to shoot Mr. Anderson, stab him, and then stay in the room holding the knife?"
"Objection!" Israel jumped to his feet. "Dr. Grissom is not qualified to comment on the state of mind of the killer."
"Your Honor, Dr. Grissom is a very well recognized criminologist; one of the top experts on the criminal mindset in the country - according to Mr. Israel's own introduction. If he's not fit to give his expert opinion, who is?"
Judge Sylvester held up a hand to halt the protest about to spill from Israel's lips. "Dr. Grissom, do you feel qualified to answer the question?" Judge Sylvester asked, giving him a stern eyebrow and glare over the top of her glasses which Grissom returned looking over the top of his own spectacles, bringing to mind two owls inspecting one another.
"I'd be giving a learned opinion. An opinion that could be challenged, but… yes, I am quite qualified," Grissom replied, looking back at Mike.
"Overruled. Dr. Grissom you may answer the question," Judge Sylvester said, leaning back to rock in her throne-like chair.
"Thank you, Your Honor. Dr. Grissom, let me restate the question. Do you think that the same person who shot Mr. Anderson stabbed him as well?" Mike asked thoughtfully.
"I do, yes," Dr. Grissom replied steadily.
"Because you believe the murderer was trying to hide the bullet wounds by stabbing him, correct?" Mike added.
"That's correct," Dr. Grissom replied.
"Why do you think the murderer did that?"
"There may be a number of reasons not apparent to any…"
"Excuse me, Dr. Grissom, I'm asking for your expert opinion here. What do you believe is the most likely reason?" Mike redirected.
"Most likely reason?" Grissom paused and pushed his glasses up on his nose, knitting his eyebrows in a frown. I leaned forward once again hoping the answer Grissom was formulating was the same one I believed, or at least still wanted to believe. "To frame Mrs. Anderson," Dr. Grissom answered looking back up at Mike and then Britt Anderson, his lips pressed in an apologetic smile.
"Thank you, Dr. Grissom. I have nothing more for this witness, Your Honor," Mike nodded his head at Grissom and returned to his seat. For the first time today, Britt Anderson turned her head to look at the jury, allowing them to see the relieved sigh she gave as Mike sat next to her, rubbing her back in support.
A/N: Sorry the update's a little on the short side. And bad news for next week, it's exam time so may have to skip an update. I'll give it my best though.
Thank you readers and especially reviewers! I love hearing what you think. Thank you Snixx for the support!
This fic made possible by the idea chick, NEMO; my fantastic beta, Blueashke; and very very importantly, Foss. (Punctuation is prolly all screwy there and that's cos Blue isn't reading this part!)