Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 9, No. 2, February 1964

Blood Will Tell by Arthur Porges

We have often heard the phrase: “like drawing blood from a turnip!” As difficult as this may sound, relieving a suspected murderer of the same precious — and possibly incriminating — fluid, may have more complications.

“Breathes there a cop with hide so tough, he thinks four amendments aren’t enough!”

Ulysses Price Middlebie, Professor Emeritus of the History and Philosophy of Science, and sometime consultant in criminology, smiled tightly at Sergeant Black’s doggerel. “The Fifth Amendment,” he said solemnly, “is a splendid conception, designed to prevent the taking of evidence under torture. It is no more to be blamed for being misused than the morphine which, instead of helping a cancer victim, gives some young fool a thrill.”

“I know,” Black said. “I was just letting off steam. It’s damned frustrating to see a murderer get off scot-free, no matter how noble the Fifth Amendment itself might be. Besides, it isn’t always clear to us cops just how the lawyers spread that one rule so ludicrously thin.”

Middlebie sank deeper into his old leather armchair, and fixed luminous grey eyes on the young detective.

“I’m not a lawyer,” he said, “so it’s not at all plain to me what you expect here. In the purely scientific matters of crime detection, I’ve been able to help you out on several occasions. But if you’re looking for loopholes in the Fifth Amendment, I must plead a total incapacity to offer advice.”

“You have a point,” Black admitted. “It’s just that you are a problem-solver, and even though a legal aspect is involved, there may be some other approach I can’t visualize. You might be able to succeed, judging from past performance. In any case, I’d like to discuss the situation with you — okay?”

“By all means. Your cases are usually quite interesting. Or possibly you don’t bring me the other kind.”

“That’s right, I don’t. I come to you only when I’m in a bind. I’m a pretty good detective,” he added, without false modesty, “but you’ve made a specialty of logical deduction, and have fifty years of experience in practicing what you preach. I know it wasn’t crime consultations, but more of a PhD Doctor — a man who could help almost any young research student over a bad block in his project. There isn’t such a difference. Your work on past cases proves that.”

“Thanks,” Middlebie said drily. “But any more butter, and I’ll need a serum cholesterol test!” Then he smiled in a way that removed any sting from the reproach. “I know you meant that as a sincere compliment, but it’s difficult for an old curmudgeon like me to accept praise gracefully. Now, about the case — or rather,” he punned outrageously, “the fifth!”

“Well, it’s basically a simple matter. There’s a skunk by the name of Carleton Chambers Dell — at least, that’s his current one — who has almost certainly disposed of three wives for their insurance and possessions. They were murdered in other states, by the way. Now he’s killed a fourth one here, and luckily for us, got a little careless. It seems that wife number four got in a good swing at his nose, which is hard to miss, and he spilled several ounces of blood at the scene of the crime. It was meant to look like an accident, but he goofed, and the death was called murder.”

He paused, and Middlebie asked: “Where does the Fifth Amendment come in? It would seem to be a clear case of First Degree Homicide.”

“Ordinarily, yes, but Dell has the luck of the Devil. There are several possible suspects he didn’t know existed, but we turned them up — not with any intention of helping him, you can bet! Just part of the routine investigation before we even knew about Dell’s past record. In other words, we don’t have a sure case against him — one that will really stand up in court, and against his lawyer, who’s about the best around. As to the Fifth Amendment, did you know that it applies in this state to a blood test? That is, we can’t force Dell to give us a sample of his blood. That pool near the victim undoubtedly came from his nose, which was known to be red and bruised the morning after the murder. It’s the rarest type, the police lab says, and if we could state in court that Dell’s blood is a match, I think we’d have him, because the other suspects are all different.”

“I should think the elimination ought to be enough,” Middlebie said.

“Not with Parks, his lawyer. He’ll ring in another unknown killer and confuse the issue. Mrs. Dell was a weird one, and had a lot of off-beat friends. One of them might have done it.”

“Are you sure it didn’t happen that way?”

“Morally, yes, because of his past record. But we can’t use that during the trial; that’s never permitted. Plus the fact that he’s obviously scared to death about giving any blood. He’s claimed everything from religious objections — and he has about as much religion as the late Stalin — down to the Fifth Amendment. That did it. The court has warned us not to touch his sacred veins, or else.”

“I suppose,” Middlebie said, a wicked glint in his eyes, “you couldn’t manage to have somebody, quite casually, punch his nose in public?”

“I thought of that,” Black admitted ruefully. “But we’d be crucified in court. They’d make a martyr out of Dell. Too many complaints about abuse of police power these days. Some of it is justified,” he added hastily, “but cops are human, and they like shortcuts as well as the next guy. When you see some punk sneering at the law, and practically daring you to make something stick, it’s hard to remember civil liberties. That’s not an excuse; just an explanation.”

“We should all be careful about criticizing anybody until we’ve worn his shoes a few days,” Middlebie said. “But surely Dell must have an army record, complete with blood type.”

“Not that we can find. My guess is he ducked that one just as easily as he’s ducked the law. Hid out in Mexico, faked a disease, or got an ‘essential’ job through bribery or pull — who knows?”

“What about hospitalization?”

“Nothing. Either he’s in perfect health, or, more likely, used a phony name. So you see what I’m up against. No blood, no solid case. Either I let him go without bringing a murder charge, or pull him in, and risk losing in court because there’s no proof that blood came from his big, bunged-up nose.”

Middlebie was silent for a moment, his eyes blank. After a few moments he said: “Then I take it that if — and mind you I only say ‘if’; I don’t know how it could be done — but if you could get some of his blood without violence, even through fraud, you’d have your case.”

“Provided we could prove in court our sample really came from Dell. Which means good, dependable medical evidence in the form of some reputable doctor.” Black’s face was grim. “It’s a hopeless problem. Blood without violence. He’s so cautious now that if Albert Schweitzer wanted to nick him for any reason, Dell would refuse automatically. Nobody’s going to get any of his blood voluntarily, that’s certain. And we can’t take it by force. So I guess I’ve bent your ear for nothing. The problem can’t have a solution.”

“At the moment, I’d have to agree,” the professor said. “But let me sleep on it. Occasionally an impossible problem has an obvious answer.”

Black looked at him in wonder.

“You mean there might be a chance?” He shook his head several times. “You never say. ‘die’, do you? Well, I know better than to bet against you, but I can’t see a way out of this mess.” He paused at the door. “Here’s hoping I hear from you tomorrow.”

“Wonderful stuff, blood,” Middlebie said absently. “No wonder so many people hate the idea of losing any. I don’t mean criminals, like Dell,” he added. Then, with more resolution in his voice, “We can’t let this wife-killer get away with only a punch in the nose!”

“He will, if you don’t stop him,” Black retorted, and left.

When he was gone, the professor prepared a swig of his pet drink, a loathsome brew made up of bourbon, brown sugar, and bock beer. He sipped this with relish while reading a long article on the subject of blood. It told him more than he wanted to know, and none of the information promised to be of use in Black’s dilemma. Until the part about sporozoan parasites...

Late the next night, Middlebie, Sergeant Black, and a small, round querulous man, known the world over as an authority on tropical medicine, moved with the air of conspirators up to the rear window of a certain motel apartment.

“This is the one,” Black whispered.

“You’re sure?” Middlebie husked in his very low monotone.

“Positive. Dell’s asleep in there right now. You ready, Dr. Forrest?”

The small man said in a deep, frog-like croak, “Of course, I’m ready. But if anybody except Middlebie asked me to participate in such a fool’s trick — and in the middle of the night!” His voice faded away in an irritable mutter.

Quietly, with almost surgical skill, Black made a hole in the screen. It was a warm night, and the window was up several inches. A word from Middlebie, and Forrest held something over the hole. When he removed it some moments later, the sergeant stuffed cotton into the opening. Then the three men retreated.

“Two detectives will watch the place until morning,” Black said, as they got to the car. “As soon as it’s light, I’ll pick Dell up and, of course, I need you there too. My men can prove nobody else went into the room, but you’ll have to vouch for the rest. It’s going to work,” he said gleefully. “It’s got to!”

State’s Attorney Brand: Please tell the court, in your own words, Professor Middlebie, just what happened on the night of June 18. Be as explicit as possible.

Middlebie: Dr. Forrest, Sergeant Black, and myself went to the Sea Foam Motel, found the rear window of the defendant’s apartment, and cut a small hole in the screen. Through it, Dr. Forrest released fifty common mosquitoes, all with empty stomachs, and all dyed bright yellow with a harmless chemical pigment.

Brand: Would you explain those points — about the empty stomachs, and the dye?

Middlebie: Certainly. These female mosquitoes — the only kind that bite — were raised in the laboratory, in wire cages, for Dr. Forrest’s work in parasitology. Consequently, any blood found in their stomachs in the morning must necessarily have come from the one warm-blooded inhabitant of that motel room. As for the dye, that insured our using only those insects released by us. That is, there was no chance of our capturing any... ah... mavericks that might have brought blood from somebody other than the defendant.

Brand: I see. And in the morning, you did subsequently recapture some of the dyed mosquitoes?

Middlebie: Yes, from the walls of the motel room. The blood in their stomachs was typed, both by Dr. Forrest and police technicians.

Brand: As to that, further testimony will show the blood to be of the relatively rare type spilled by the murderer in the victim’s room...

“I never saw a more surprised man than Dell,” Black said later. “The jury was flabbergasted enough, but Dell! — I almost felt sorry for him. The jury couldn’t disregard the words of men like Middlebie and Forrest. And how could we be blamed for the mosquitoes’ ‘force and violence’?”

“There’s a certain subtle justice you may have overlooked,” Professor Middlebie said. “Not only did Dell have a miserable night, what with fifty starved mosquitoes in that small place, but all his torture and the murder conviction — came from the females of the species.”