by Ben Benson
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
I left him. I went back to my car and said to Nesbit, “I’m sorry, but something’s come up. I have to leave you now.”
“Police business?”
“Yes.”
“That’s Lieutenant Newpole over there, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I recognized him from his pictures. He’s aged a lot, though.”
“I guess we all have,” I said. “I’m sorry as hell to do this to you, Billy. Why don’t you take my car and drive over to Karen’s house?”
“Oh, no,” he said, opening the door and stepping out. “I can walk back and get my own. It’s not far.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “And give my apologies to the girls. It’s just one of those things that’s part of the job. I’ll try and make it up someday.”
“I understand,” he said.
He walked off rapidly and without a backward glance. I went back to the detective sedan. Gahagan flicked his head with a backward nod.
I got into the back seat. Newpole silently handed over my holstered short-barreled pocket revolver and leather handcuff case. “Courtesy of Sergeant Constanza,” Newpole said, after a pause. “How come you were working unarmed?”
“We had a date to go swimming today, Lieutenant. I couldn’t wear a weapon strapped to my swim trunks, and orders are not to leave a weapon in an unlocked car.”
A grin spread over Gahagan’s fleshy face. Newpole grunted something. I thumbed the cartridges into the cylinder of the revolver, then pushed the weapon into the holster and strapped it to the right side of my belt.
Newpole started the motor and said, “Which way do we go?”
I pointed. “Down the hill and across the tracks. It’s the first street on the right. The brown house on the corner.”
“You know this Congdon boy,” Gahagan said. “Should we expect trouble?”
“I don’t think so, Lieutenant,” I said. “He’s a hard cookie, but not rash. His kid brother, Johnny, would give you more trouble.”
Newpole said, “Congdon used a gun on the Goodcliffes. I always go on this premise: Anybody with a gun is dangerous. If this Ernie Congdon is armed, we proceed with caution. We’ll each go to the house separately. Sam, you can cover the back and the left side. Lindsey, you take the right side. I’ll hit the front with Bob Littlefield.”
We bumped over the railroad tracks and stopped at the gatetender’s shack. Bob Littlefield came out, blinking into the sun. Newpole spoke to him.
“Congdon’s in his house,” Littlefield said, wiping moisture from his face. It must have been very warm in the little shack.
He squeezed into the front seat with Gahagan and Newpole, casting a short glance at me and not saying anything. Things had been a bit distant between us since we last rode together and he had made the remarks about Karen Morgan. And I knew it was more my fault than his.
Newpole drove past Travis Road and stopped a little beyond. He looked back at the little dull-brown house. Then he nodded.
I got out of the car with Lieutenant Gahagan. We went straight ahead, turning in at the next corner, Jackson Street. Halfway up, I left Gahagan, cut through an alley and circled back to Travis Road. I went through between two houses, ducked under a clothesline, heavy and sodden with wash, and came into the Congdon back yard. There was a broken-down, rusty old glider off to one side, a tricycle with a twisted wheel, and a pile of trash. I stood at the side of the house and waited. It was quiet. Then I saw Gahagan pick his way through the back yard and disappear behind the house.
Moments later, Lieutenant Newpole came walking rapidly down the street, turning in at the Congdon house. He climbed the creaking front stairs and I heard his knock on the front door, sharp and authoritative. Then Bob Littlefield came quick-stepping up behind him, his jacket unbuttoned and his arm half-crooked near his belt.
The door opened and I heard Mrs. Congdon’s querulous voice. No, she said, Ernie wasn’t home. He had been away all day and she did not expect him until tomorrow.
It was time now to take my revolver from its holster and slide it into my jacket pocket with the hand around the butt. And, as I expected, I heard the back door open. Then Gahagan called out, “Hold it, boy.”
I shouted to Newpole, “Out back,” and raced around to the rear door. There, facing Lieutenant Gahagan, was Ernie Congdon. One arm was through the sleeve of a plaid sport jacket. He was trying to swallow a mouthful of food.
He turned and saw me. “Lindsey,” he said, out of breath. “Damn you.” He chewed and gulped down hard.
Gahagan said to him, “Turn around, boy.”
Congdon made no movement. I reached out, grabbed his shoulder and twisted him around.
“No rough stuff,” he said. “There’s no cause for laying on of the hands, you bastard.”
Just then Newpole came bursting out through the back door, Littlefield behind him. Newpole said, “Is that him, Ralph?”
“That’s Ernie,” I said.
“Fine,” Newpole said. He turned to Congdon. “Sonny, you raise your hands as high as they’ll go.” Then he moved in and searched Congdon thoroughly.
Congdon, his arms raised, said, “What do you expect to find, mister?”
“All right, drop your hands,” Newpole said. “I’m Detective-Lieutenant Edward Newpole of the State Police. And we’re looking for a gun.”
“Not on me, you won’t find it,” Congdon said. “I never had a gun. Ask my mother.”
“Well, now, with all due respect to your mother, I wouldn’t ask her if today was Thursday. I’ve got a hunch she spent a good deal of her unhappy life covering up for you.”
“Never had a gun in my life,” Congdon said.
“We’ll look around the house.”
“You’ve got to have a search warrant,” Congdon said sullenly.
“That’s right,” Newpole said. “There’s a warrant. We’ll search the house, then we’ll take a little ride over to the Easterville Hospital. I want somebody to take a good look at you.”
“Why Easterville?” Congdon asked.
“You ever hear of the Goodcliffes?”
“Yeah.” Congdon rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “I read about them in the papers, Lieutenant.”
“Maybe more than that. Want to get it off the chest, sonny?”
“No, I’m clean on that one.”
“We’ll see,” Newpole said amiably. He looked at me. “Ralph, lock him to you and bring him inside.”
I took out my handcuffs, snapped one bracelet to Congdon’s right wrist and the other one to my left. I brought him into the kitchen. There I waited with him, his mother standing wordlessly by the old black soapstone sink, rocking as though in pain.
Newpole, Gahagan and Littlefield searched the house from attic to cellar. They found no gun and no contraband.
Newpole and I took Congdon to Easterville.
Chapter 17
We brought Congdon into the hospital between us, his right wrist still manacled to my left. The precaution was necessary because, as Newpole said, a hospital was no place to be shooting carom shots at an escaping suspect.
Mrs. Goodcliffe was in a private room and the narrow corridor was hushed. Outside her closed door stood Corporal Mike Gillis and a young State Police detective-sergeant named Boudreau. We waited with them while Newpole stood aside and held a discussion with the resident doctor and a white-uniformed nurse. Then the nurse nodded to us. She opened the door of the room. Ernie Congdon and I went in behind her.
The room was in semidarkness. Mrs. Goodcliffe, her head heavily bandaged, lay propped on a pillow. The nurse moved to the window silently on her rubber-soled Oxfords, and pulled the drawstring on the Venetian blind. The room lightened. Then, from behind me, Lieutenant Newpole said, “Hello, Mrs. Goodcliffe. How are you feeling now?”
He came into view beside us, and Mrs. Goodcliffe whispered, “A little better, Lieutenant.” Her face was a pale blob on the pillow. “Who do you ha
ve with you?”
“Two young men,” Newpole said. “Tell me if you’ve seen either of them before.”
Her eyes blinked rapidly as she stared at us. Then they brimmed with tears. “Yes,” she whispered. A bare white arm came up as she pointed at Congdon. “That one in the plaid jacket. Who is he, please?”
“His name is Ernest Congdon,” Newpole said, “and he lives in Ashendon. Please make sure, Mrs. Goodcliffe.”
“He’s the one.” She looked at Congdon again. “Don’t you have a family—or anybody who’s dear to you? Don’t you have any feelings toward—”
She broke off as the tears coursed down her face onto the pillow. The nurse went over and said something to her in a low, gentle voice. Congdon, his head down, stared fixedly at the highly polished marbleized linoleum.
“Please make sure, Mrs. Goodcliffe,” Newpole said again. “Take your time. Look him over carefully.”
Her wet eyes lifted. “It’s him,” she said simply. “I’ll never—never forget his face. Nor the cruelty. Nor the pleasure he took—Please take him away now, Lieutenant.”
“Sure, Mrs. Goodcliffe,” Newpole said.
We went out into the corridor. I waited silently with Congdon while Newpole went into an office at the end of the hall. When he came out ten minutes later, I learned Mr. Goodcliffe had been operated on. The bullet had been removed from his head and was on its way to the ballistics laboratory at GHQ.
Congdon listened to the conversation, but Newpole directed not one word to him. The three of us went out of the hospital and Newpole drove the detective sedan to the Concord Barracks. The trip was made in utter silence.
In the guardroom we sat Congdon down and transferred the bracelet from my left wrist to his, locking his hands in front. Newpole walked out and left the two of us alone. The guardroom was quiet. Congdon looked at the glass door that led to the cell block, then back to me. He acted as though he was impatient to say something.
I waited. But he subsided. I brought out my pack of cigarettes. “Have a smoke, Ernie.”
“Sure,” he said, reaching with his manacled hands. “I’ve been dying for one. But I’d croak before I’d ask a cop.”
I lit the cigarette for him. He drew in deeply and exhaled. In the adjoining room the teletypewriter started to clack. He asked, “Where did the lieutenant go?”
I shrugged without answering.
“It’s a lot of crap,” Congdon said. “You know the identification won’t stick. I never saw that woman before.”
I said nothing.
“She’s sick with a fever,” Congdon said. “She’s delirious.” Again I said nothing.
“I’ve got an alibi for yesterday morning,” Congdon said. “I was home the whole time. My mother and brother can prove it.”
I didn’t answer him.
He looked toward the cell block again. “It’s a frame, Lindsey. You did this to get me. You know the whole thing is rigged. I don’t care so much about myself, but you’re going to ruin things for Billy Nesbit.”
I stared at him. “Where does Billy come into it?”
“If this frame goes through, you kill his chances of becoming a trooper. Associating with criminals—you know.”
“He doesn’t have to become a cop,” I said.
“He has to be a trooper and nothing else. That’s the big pitch with him now.”
“Why? He hasn’t been trying so hard at it.”
“That’s how much you know. He keeps talking about it, real serious, all the time. And if they hit me with something, how is it going to affect him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sure, you know, Lindsey. You’re a goddam symbol to him. He wants to be like you. You’re a big deal to him.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t know if I am.”
“Sure, you know,” he said furiously, in sudden anger. “You keep saying to me you don’t know. Why the dunce act? Don’t you want me to talk to you?”
“Not particularly,” I said.
“That suits me fine,” he said, savagely grinding out his cigarette in the ash tray.
He slouched down in the chair now, his face brooding. The teletypewriter kept clacking. From the duty office I could hear the short-wave radio calls. The sun had gone down and it had grown dark. I went over and snapped on the lights. The electric wall clock said eight-thirty-five.
Once Dan Tompkins went by us in uniform and went down the stairway leading to the garage. Another time Sergeant Constanza popped his head out of the duty office, glanced at us briefly without expression, then disappeared. Ten minutes went by. Congdon raised his head and asked for another cigarette. I lit it for him.
“What’s taking so long?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“That’s right.” He laughed mirthlessly. “You don’t know anything. I don’t know why I even bother to ask.”
Ten more minutes went by. He ground out the second cigarette and said, “If they want to ask me questions, why are they waiting? I never had this happen before. Ask questions, why don’t you?”
“Why are you so anxious to talk, Congdon?”
“I want to get the hell out of here. Let them ask the questions and get it over with.”
“They’ll be around,” I said.
Five minutes more went by. Congdon twisted savagely in the chair. “I’m tired of sitting here waiting. Is this the Chinese torture system?”
“I’m just as tired as you are,” I said.
“That’s right,” he said, after a moment. “I never thought of that. The cop gets tired, too. That helps a little.”
There were footsteps just then. Lieutenant Newpole came into the guardroom followed by Detective-Sergeant Boudreau.
“Okay,” Newpole said briskly to Congdon. “If you have a statement to make, sonny, the sergeant here will take it down in shorthand. Then he’ll type it up and you’ll read it and sign it.”
“Glad to,” Congdon said. “It’s about time. I’ve got nothing to hide. Shoot the questions to me, Lieutenant, and let’s get it over with.”
“Yes,” Newpole said. He hooked a chair with his foot, dragged it over and sat down by Congdon. He brought out his pipe and tamped tobacco into it. “Before we start, you realize, of course, that Mrs. Goodcliffe made a positive identification of you.”
“Don’t mean a thing,” Congdon said. “I have no gun. Never had one. And you didn’t find any in the house, either.”
Newpole lit his pipe and drew on it. “Where did you hide it, Ernie?”
“I never had a gun in my life, Lieutenant. And I wasn’t in Easterville yesterday morning.”
Newpole said, “You were there—”
He stopped and turned his head because Corporal Mike Gillis had come into the guardroom. Gillis bent and whispered to Newpole and handed him a long white envelope. Then Gillis winked at me solemnly and went out.
Newpole opened the envelope and read the long sheet of paper that was inside. He puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. When he was through, he looked first at Boudreau, who sat there quietly with a stenographic book on the table before him, at me, and finally at Congdon.
“Ernie,” he said. “This just came from the hospital. It’s Mrs. Goodcliffe’s statement. You want me to read it to you?”
“Go ahead,” Congdon said. “I’m a good listener.”
June 27, 1957. Easterville Hospital, Easterville, Mass.
At about 10:30 A.M. on Wednesday, June 26, 1957, I was in a car driven by my husband. We were driving north on Route 40A toward New Hampshire. At the beginning of Easterville we saw a young man standing beside the road, thumbing a ride. I now know this young man to be Ernest Congdon of Ashendon, Mass. My husband stopped the car for Congdon and he got in and sat in the back seat. Congdon said he was going to Nashua, New Hampshire, a short distance away. After we drove through Easterville, we came to a deserted part of the road and suddenly Congdon pulled out a gun and pointed it at my husband’s head. He told my husband to stop the
car. My husband pulled over to the side and stopped. Then Congdon told my husband to give him the ignition keys. My husband did so. Congdon took the keys and threw them into the woods. He then asked my husband for all his money. My husband handed him his wallet. Congdon would not take it. He told my husband to remove the money and give it to him. My husband did so. I think it was almost a hundred dollars. After Congdon put the money away, he began making lewd remarks to me. My husband objected strenuously. Congdon struck him with the gun and my husband’s head started to bleed. Then Congdon got out of the car and ordered me out. My husband asked what Congdon was going to do, and Congdon said he was taking me into the woods to have relations with me. My husband got out of the car and started toward Congdon. Congdon fired the gun and my husband fell to the ground. Then Congdon grabbed me and pulled me into the underbrush and tried to remove my clothing. I struggled with him. He struck me on the head with the gun and I lost consciousness. I did not remember anything more until I spoke with Dr. Parmenter in the Easterville Hospital. That was early in the morning of Thursday, the 27th of June, 1957.
Chapter 18
Lieutenant Newpole’s pipe had gone out while he was reading. Now he put the paper down and relit it. He said to Congdon, “That’s what Mrs. Goodcliffe has to say. I’ve also been told the good news that Mr. Goodcliffe is going to live. Do you want us to take you back to Easterville tomorrow, or the next day, and have him identify you? He’s a very sick man. Is it necessary to bother him, Ernie?”
Congdon stared at the cell-block door for a long time. Then he looked in turn at Sergeant Boudreau and Lieutenant Newpole. He did not look at me. “No,” he said tonelessly. “You don’t have to bother the man, Lieutenant. And I’m pretty tired, too. I want to get it over with.”
He began to talk, hurriedly, in a fast, flat, expressionless monotone. Yesterday morning, he said, he had hitched a ride to the edge of Easterville. Nothing special in mind. He was restless. On the prowl. His ride had been with an elderly farmer in an old, dilapidated dump truck. Congdon did not think he would make a good strike with the farmer. At Easterville he got out and started to thumb again.
