THE MURDER WEAPON
BY:
Aline Carriere
"Hey, Mitch," Nick motioned to the gray haired man lurking at his office door. He stood behind his
desk turning the pages of a small appointment book; the telephone receiver cradled between his right
shoulder and ear. "I'm on hold. Sit down. Yeah, hi, Nick Clancy. You want a date on Harris? I've got the
14th, 18th. No, I'm on trial, first out...."
Mitchell Gates half-listened to the disjointed telephone conversation as he picked up a pile of files
from a chair and searched for a place to put them. He looked at Nick who signaled to hand them over.
"Okay, okay. Sounds good." Nick scratched in his book and hung up the receiver. "Hey, Mitch, glad
you came by. I've got something for you. Murder. My guy says she fell on the knife. But no one can
find the knife." Nick chuckled. "I need you to find it."
Nick was as close to Perry Mason as a lawyer could get, except that Nick's clients were usually
guilty. Mitch was Nick's Paul Drake.
"Where do I look?"
"My guy says he panicked and threw it down an embankment near the apartment." Nick's voice
became serious. "I have the address." He rummaged among the litter on his desk and drew out a piece
of paper. No matter how cluttered his office became Nick knew where things were. Usually.
"Here." he said handing the paper to Mitch. "You want to grab some lunch? I gotta be back in court
at two."
Nick Clancy's office was located in a building he shared with five other attorneys across the street
from the three courts in Glendale. They were all sole practioners and they practiced the gamut of law.
Nick was the only criminal defense lawyer among them. His clients would come in, scruffy and out of
place, sit across from the receptionist on the couch Nick had proclaimed too good for his riff-raff, and
tell off color jokes while waiting. The other lawyers and the receptionist sometimes complained and Nick
would give them assurances that he would talk to his clients.
Nick had a way with assurances which was one reason he was a damn good defense attorney. He
was sincere. When he said something, people believed him. During closing argument before a jury, Nick
looked into each juror's eyes. He worked over the evidence and worked in the word "free" like a mantra.
He walked back and forth in front of the jury box and seemed to float. The effect of his determination
and talent was almost always the same. Not guilty. And not only did the jurors acquit, they were happy
to. Nick relieved them of moral dilemma. They left to go back to their families and friends with a clear
conscience, convinced they had done the right thing. The same spell worked on his colleagues and the
receptionist. They accepted his assurances; each time believing something would change. If Nick had
been a confidence man he would have been dangerous. As a criminal defense attorney he was
apocalyptic.
After lunch Nick put on his game face and went back to court. Mitch decided to go hunting for the
knife. The embankment was not as steep as Mitch had imagined but the area was larger. In midsummer
the grass and weeds were knee deep and dry. The afternoon sun was beating down. Mitch took off his
suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He could have gone home to change, but that would have taken
time; time when someone else might find the knife. Mitch took his job seriously, did it well and prided
himself on results. If there was a knife here, he would find it.
After half an hour Mitch stopped to wipe his forehead with his sleeve. "I'm getting too old for this,"
he sighed to himself. He was being slow and methodical. He tried to think of a different approach--a
short cut that would lead him immediately to the knife, if it was here at all. He surveyed the entire area
hoping to catch a glint of metal. But there was none. He knew there was no answer but hard work. One
step at a time keeping his senses alert. Mitch returned to his lonely task; a contrast to his usual fare of
witness interviews and research.
In another hour his patience paid off. He was walking along, his mind and body concentrated on
the ground in front of him when he saw the wooden handle of the knife and the sudden hope of success
surged through him. The knife was buried deep in the grass. The blade shaded so that it did not shine
at all. Mitch had known it would be like that. He had never relied on luck and hated stories and movies
where luck played a central part; where the character is just about to give up and then suddenly all is
revealed. That had never been his life.
Mitch took out a clear plastic bag from the pocket of his pants. The plastic bag was just one of the
many items he kept on hand in his line of work. He put his hand in the bag, picked up the knife and
inverted the bag around it. He held the bag up to inspect the knife. No blood. The knife was clean.
Likely washed by rain or dew. Mitch knew that if he took the knife apart there would be at least a trace of
blood embedded in the handle or blade. But it looked clean. The knife was big. He estimated about a
foot long with an eight-inch blade. Definitely a knife kept inserted at the back of the block.
Mitch stood on the threshold of Nick's office for the second time that day pleased to see that his
friend was in again.
"Hey, Mitch, back so soon? Did you forget something?"
"No, I have something for you." Mitch tried not to smile, but he couldn't help it. He reached into
his briefcase and pulled out the bag with the knife. "I found the knife." He said handing it over to Nick.
"Geez, Mitch, why the hell did you bring it here? I can't take that. That would be withholding
evidence. I just didn't want the police to find it."
"Well, what do you want me to do with it?"
"I don't know? Think of something."
"Okay." Mitch shrugged and put the knife back in his briefcase.
Nick shook his head. "I wish I hadn't seen that. But, boy, you sure did find it fast." He laughed.
"You feel like going to interview some witnesses? The DA gave me the statements today and I'd like you
to check 'em out."
As Mitch was leaving the building by the back door he paused at the counter and cabinets near the
conference room. He opened the drawer under the coffee maker containing assorted silverware. He
took the knife out of the plastic bag, placed it in the drawer and threw the bag away.
The day after Nick got the "not guilty" in the murder case, the receptionist planned a small office
party to celebrate. The case had been front-page news in the local paper for four days and the jury had
deliberated for another two. The receptionist had circulated the congratulatory card around the offices
in the morning for everyone's signature. The coffee maker had freshly brewed coffee in the carafe. The
paper plates, plastic forks and napkins were organized beside the cake in the conference room. The
receptionist brought over a plastic knife and placed in on the table.
"Is that what you're going to use to cut the cake?" asked one of the secretaries as people
gathered in the room for the surprise celebration.
"I couldn't find another knife."
"I thought I saw one in the drawer the other day. Let me check." The secretary went out to the
counter and opened the drawer. She moved the loose silverware around and finally located the large
knife at the back.
"Here." The secretary returned brandishing the knife. "It looks like a murder weapon."
"Well, that would be fitting," someone offered and everyone laughed.
"He's coming. Shh, quiet."
Nick walked into the conference room with a broad smile. He didn't much care for parties, but they
were a way for his staff and friends to share in his success. He appreciated the effort and was gracious.
Following the loud and off-key rendition of "For He's A Jolly Good Fellow," the receptionist held up
the knife to Nick.
"Looks like a murder weapon, doesn't it?" she said and everyone laughed again.
"Actually, it does." Nick replied.
"You want to cut the cake?"
"Sure."
BY:
Aline Carriere
"Hey, Mitch," Nick motioned to the gray haired man lurking at his office door. He stood behind his
desk turning the pages of a small appointment book; the telephone receiver cradled between his right
shoulder and ear. "I'm on hold. Sit down. Yeah, hi, Nick Clancy. You want a date on Harris? I've got the
14th, 18th. No, I'm on trial, first out...."
Mitchell Gates half-listened to the disjointed telephone conversation as he picked up a pile of files
from a chair and searched for a place to put them. He looked at Nick who signaled to hand them over.
"Okay, okay. Sounds good." Nick scratched in his book and hung up the receiver. "Hey, Mitch, glad
you came by. I've got something for you. Murder. My guy says she fell on the knife. But no one can
find the knife." Nick chuckled. "I need you to find it."
Nick was as close to Perry Mason as a lawyer could get, except that Nick's clients were usually
guilty. Mitch was Nick's Paul Drake.
"Where do I look?"
"My guy says he panicked and threw it down an embankment near the apartment." Nick's voice
became serious. "I have the address." He rummaged among the litter on his desk and drew out a piece
of paper. No matter how cluttered his office became Nick knew where things were. Usually.
"Here." he said handing the paper to Mitch. "You want to grab some lunch? I gotta be back in court
at two."
Nick Clancy's office was located in a building he shared with five other attorneys across the street
from the three courts in Glendale. They were all sole practioners and they practiced the gamut of law.
Nick was the only criminal defense lawyer among them. His clients would come in, scruffy and out of
place, sit across from the receptionist on the couch Nick had proclaimed too good for his riff-raff, and
tell off color jokes while waiting. The other lawyers and the receptionist sometimes complained and Nick
would give them assurances that he would talk to his clients.
Nick had a way with assurances which was one reason he was a damn good defense attorney. He
was sincere. When he said something, people believed him. During closing argument before a jury, Nick
looked into each juror's eyes. He worked over the evidence and worked in the word "free" like a mantra.
He walked back and forth in front of the jury box and seemed to float. The effect of his determination
and talent was almost always the same. Not guilty. And not only did the jurors acquit, they were happy
to. Nick relieved them of moral dilemma. They left to go back to their families and friends with a clear
conscience, convinced they had done the right thing. The same spell worked on his colleagues and the
receptionist. They accepted his assurances; each time believing something would change. If Nick had
been a confidence man he would have been dangerous. As a criminal defense attorney he was
apocalyptic.
After lunch Nick put on his game face and went back to court. Mitch decided to go hunting for the
knife. The embankment was not as steep as Mitch had imagined but the area was larger. In midsummer
the grass and weeds were knee deep and dry. The afternoon sun was beating down. Mitch took off his
suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He could have gone home to change, but that would have taken
time; time when someone else might find the knife. Mitch took his job seriously, did it well and prided
himself on results. If there was a knife here, he would find it.
After half an hour Mitch stopped to wipe his forehead with his sleeve. "I'm getting too old for this,"
he sighed to himself. He was being slow and methodical. He tried to think of a different approach--a
short cut that would lead him immediately to the knife, if it was here at all. He surveyed the entire area
hoping to catch a glint of metal. But there was none. He knew there was no answer but hard work. One
step at a time keeping his senses alert. Mitch returned to his lonely task; a contrast to his usual fare of
witness interviews and research.
In another hour his patience paid off. He was walking along, his mind and body concentrated on
the ground in front of him when he saw the wooden handle of the knife and the sudden hope of success
surged through him. The knife was buried deep in the grass. The blade shaded so that it did not shine
at all. Mitch had known it would be like that. He had never relied on luck and hated stories and movies
where luck played a central part; where the character is just about to give up and then suddenly all is
revealed. That had never been his life.
Mitch took out a clear plastic bag from the pocket of his pants. The plastic bag was just one of the
many items he kept on hand in his line of work. He put his hand in the bag, picked up the knife and
inverted the bag around it. He held the bag up to inspect the knife. No blood. The knife was clean.
Likely washed by rain or dew. Mitch knew that if he took the knife apart there would be at least a trace of
blood embedded in the handle or blade. But it looked clean. The knife was big. He estimated about a
foot long with an eight-inch blade. Definitely a knife kept inserted at the back of the block.
Mitch stood on the threshold of Nick's office for the second time that day pleased to see that his
friend was in again.
"Hey, Mitch, back so soon? Did you forget something?"
"No, I have something for you." Mitch tried not to smile, but he couldn't help it. He reached into
his briefcase and pulled out the bag with the knife. "I found the knife." He said handing it over to Nick.
"Geez, Mitch, why the hell did you bring it here? I can't take that. That would be withholding
evidence. I just didn't want the police to find it."
"Well, what do you want me to do with it?"
"I don't know? Think of something."
"Okay." Mitch shrugged and put the knife back in his briefcase.
Nick shook his head. "I wish I hadn't seen that. But, boy, you sure did find it fast." He laughed.
"You feel like going to interview some witnesses? The DA gave me the statements today and I'd like you
to check 'em out."
As Mitch was leaving the building by the back door he paused at the counter and cabinets near the
conference room. He opened the drawer under the coffee maker containing assorted silverware. He
took the knife out of the plastic bag, placed it in the drawer and threw the bag away.
The day after Nick got the "not guilty" in the murder case, the receptionist planned a small office
party to celebrate. The case had been front-page news in the local paper for four days and the jury had
deliberated for another two. The receptionist had circulated the congratulatory card around the offices
in the morning for everyone's signature. The coffee maker had freshly brewed coffee in the carafe. The
paper plates, plastic forks and napkins were organized beside the cake in the conference room. The
receptionist brought over a plastic knife and placed in on the table.
"Is that what you're going to use to cut the cake?" asked one of the secretaries as people
gathered in the room for the surprise celebration.
"I couldn't find another knife."
"I thought I saw one in the drawer the other day. Let me check." The secretary went out to the
counter and opened the drawer. She moved the loose silverware around and finally located the large
knife at the back.
"Here." The secretary returned brandishing the knife. "It looks like a murder weapon."
"Well, that would be fitting," someone offered and everyone laughed.
"He's coming. Shh, quiet."
Nick walked into the conference room with a broad smile. He didn't much care for parties, but they
were a way for his staff and friends to share in his success. He appreciated the effort and was gracious.
Following the loud and off-key rendition of "For He's A Jolly Good Fellow," the receptionist held up
the knife to Nick.
"Looks like a murder weapon, doesn't it?" she said and everyone laughed again.
"Actually, it does." Nick replied.
"You want to cut the cake?"
"Sure."
