Seven Steps East

by Ben Benson

  The phone clicked off. I said, “Hello, hello. Wait a minute.” I jiggled the receiver. There was now a steady humming sound. I hung up.

  I ran out of the room, down the corridor and into the duty office. I said to the duty sergeant, “What kind of a voice was it?”

  He leaned back in his chair and said, “Somebody holding a handkerchief over the mouthpiece and a ball of hard candy or something in the mouth. I could barely make it out.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I stood there. The sergeant leaned forward to his typewriter on the desk. The call was nothing new to him. Tips and anonymous bits of information and crackpot calls came into the barracks often. Disguised, muffled and unintelligible voices were taken in stride.

  I said, “Who do you think it was, a man or a woman?”

  He peered up at me and moved his shoulders. “I couldn’t make it out at all, kid.”

  I hurried back to the guardroom and told Lieutenant Gahagan about it. He stared thoughtfully at the floor. Then he said that Captain Dondera was in his room upstairs and he would telephone him to come down.

  We were sitting with Captain Dondera in the dining room, holding white mugs of steaming coffee. Dondera was half-dressed and his face needed a shave.

  “All right,” he said. “This is what you heard, Ralph, and this is what you think it was. You go down 151 to Willow Lake in Cornwall. In back of the Esso station is a dirt road. You ride to the end of it, get out of the car and go on ahead. You’re supposed to find a big oak tree. You pace off seven steps east of the tree. Then you’re supposed to find something.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Okay,” Dondera said, “I’ll furnish you with the compass.” He turned to Gahagan. “How about this, Sam? We go along with the kid but we’re ducked in back of the car out of sight.”

  “Captain,” I said. “Don’t you think I ought to go alone, sir? This might be a meet. Somebody else goes along and we might botch it.”

  “Sam?” Dondera said, looking at Gahagan.

  “The kid might be right,” Gahagan said.

  “Then let’s do it this way,” Dondera said to Gahagan. “Lindsey goes ahead. You and I follow in an unmarked cruiser, say a mile or two behind. Constant radio contact. I’ll have two bluebirds from Yarmouth cutting off Route 151 on either side of Cornwall.”

  Gahagan nodded. Bluebirds were the two-tone blue patrol cruisers with the State Police seals on the doors, white markings fore and aft, and the flashing red-and-blue dome lights on top. They were conspicuous and the best things for setting up roadblocks.

  “It’s real spooky crap to me,” Gahagan said, rubbing his jaw. “All right, we might as well go out there.”

  “Ralph,” Dondera said, “you take a strong flashlight and a black cruiser. Give us a 13 for signal strength. And be careful. You might be dealing with a nut.”

  Chapter 11

  I left my own car in the barracks parking lot and took out a black cruiser numbered 210. I flashed out onto Route 28, down through Wareham and Buzzards Bay and over the Bourne Bridge again. A big freighter was moving slowly through the canal far below. I had the shortwave radio on, testing for signal strength and clarity every few minutes with a Signal 13. The traffic was light in the opposite direction and there were no headlights behind me. Gahagan and Dondera would not follow in sight. I went down the road along Buzzards Bay watching the rear-view mirror to see if I had picked up a tail. I saw nothing.

  When I came through Sachem, one car did follow me out of town, but it turned off toward West Falmouth. I was alone.

  It was almost midnight now. I drove through the sleeping, almost completely dark hamlet of Cornwall. Beyond the town, to the left, the lake waters shimmered from the lights of an ice-cream stand on the shore. I saw a half-dozen cars parked there. Most of the cottages along the water’s edge were now dark. The breeze wafted in through the open window of the car and brought the fragrance of the pines and the fresh water. I slowed down.

  The Esso gas station was on the right. It was closed and dark, except for a small light burning at the entrance. I saw no road. From my previous experience in the area I tried to remember if there was one. I drove ahead slowly, another hundred yards. Now my headlights showed some dirt that had sifted onto the black macadam. I pulled over and parked.

  I got out of the car and walked ahead. There was a narrow dirt road that was almost obscured by overhanging branches of trees. I ran my flashlight over it. I could see the grooves of tire tracks in the sand. They seemed fresh.

  I went back to my cruiser and radioed Captain Dondera and Lieutenant Gahagan. “Cruiser 210 to 184.”

  “184,” Dondera’s voice said.

  “At the road, just beyond gas station on right. Going in.”

  “We’re near you,” Dondera said. “184 off.”

  I drove up to the road and turned in, my tires skidding on the loose earth. I drove carefully, my headlights on low beam, bumping and lurching over the narrow road. The car slewed and yawed in the sand.

  Suddenly, ahead, I saw the outline of a car. It was parked in the underbrush along the right side of the road. There were no lights.

  I stopped, keeping my headlight beams fixed on the car. Then I took out the short-barreled .38 S & W revolver from my leather hip holster. I put the gun on the seat beside me.

  I took up the radio receiver and pressed the button. “210 to 184. Signal 8. A quarter of a mile up the road on the right. Green Plymouth sedan. Registration, Mass. 013782. No lights. Go ahead, 184.”

  Dondera said, “Investigate with care. We’ll move in and take position at road entrance. 184 off.”

  I put down the radio, opened the door and stepped out of the car. In my right hand was my revolver. Gripped in my left hand was the flashlight.

  I went up along the left side of the road until I was opposite the green sedan. I raised and stretched my left arm out beside me as far as I could. When I turned the light beam onto the car, if somebody fired in its direction, the light would be at least two feet to the left of me.

  I snapped on the flashlight and focused it at the windows. There was a feminine shriek from inside the car. I saw two heads duck down.

  A weak male voice said, “Who is it?”

  Whoever they were, they were now hidden down out of sight. I said, “Open the door and come out.”

  The door yawned open. The girl came out first, blinking in the light. She was very young, not more than fifteen or sixteen, wearing a yellow cotton blouse and a green cotton skirt. She had a little snub nose, freckles, and light brown hair tied in a pony tail. The boy who slid out beside her seemed a year or so older. He was dressed in a striped short-sleeved sports shirt and lightweight chino pants. They stood facing me, both slightly cringing.

  I said, “You two here alone?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said. “Who are you, please?”

  “State Police. Where are you from?”

  The girl started to cry, bringing up her hands to cover her face. The boy reached out clumsily to comfort her. Then he said, “We have a cottage on Willow Lake, sir. Carol lives in Cornwall.”

  I studied them without moving. The boy had a scrubbed, shiny, freckled face. His mouth was smeared with lipstick. The girl’s blouse and skirt were badly wrinkled. They were both disheveled and frightened.

  “Relax,” I said, my light still fixed on them. “Anybody else here with you?”

  “No, sir,” said the boy. He hesitated. Then he blurted out, “I don’t see any uniform on you.”

  “Never mind. How long have you been parked here?”

  “Not long,” the boy said. His voice gained strength. “Look, sir. If this is private property we didn’t mean any harm. We’ve been here before and nobody said anything. So we thought—”

  “Did you hear anybody or anything since you’ve been here?”

  “No, sir. It’s been very quiet.”

  “Any car drive up or back?”

  “No, sir. You’re the first one here, sir.”
>
  “Have you made any phone calls during the past hour?”

  “No, sir. We were down by the lake at Corcoran’s, having some ice cream. Then we drove up here for some privacy. That’s all, sir.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Joseph Crowley, sir.”

  The girl had stopped crying now and had taken her hands away from her face. She had regained some composure and was brushing her wrinkled tight-fitting skirt.

  I said to the boy, “Step over here and hand me your driver’s license.”

  He fished in his pocket for his wallet, brought it out, fumbled and extracted the pale-blue license card. He walked up gingerly. I put my flashlight under my armpit as he handed over the license. I took it in my left hand and told him to step back. I read the card under the light.

  “Okay, Joe,” I said. “Which way did you come in here?”

  He pointed. “From the main road. 151.”

  I walked over to him and handed back his license. I said, “Swing your car around and leave the same way you came. When you get down to the main road there’ll be another police car. They’ll check you through.”

  I turned back to my car and got in. I put it into gear and pulled it over into the tangle of underbrush. The boy and girl got back into the green Plymouth. The lights went on. The car backed and turned several times as Crowley made his turnaround. Then the car’s headlights swept over me as it passed on its way back to the main road.

  I picked up the radiotelephone and said, “210 to 184.”

  “184. Go ahead.”

  “Reported car contained two teen-age parkers. Driver, Joseph Crowley of Worcester. Age 17. They’re coming through. I’m going up ahead.”

  Dondera said, “184. Okay. Off.”

  The dust caused by the car going by had hazed the road. I waited until the red taillights of the Plymouth joggled down the road and disappeared.

  I drove ahead. The road became poorer and more rutted, with clumps of weeds growing in the middle. As I drove on, the underbrush along the sides of the road began to thin and give way to patches of fields with a second growth of stubby little pitch pines among the many old stumps.

  The road ended abruptly. I came over a small rise. In front of me the headlights showed an old eroded turnaround. Beyond it was a grassy little plateau.

  I stopped the car and switched to the parking lights. Then I opened the door and got out, standing beside the car, listening and waiting for my eyes to become adjusted to the darkness. A million crickets seemed to chirp. The wind had died down until it barely rustled in the grass and bushes. Somewhere, far in the distance, was the mournful hoot of a train whistle.

  Now my eyes could see better. To the left, above me on the little plateau, the outline of an old sagging shed loomed against the dark blue sky.

  I walked ahead. The flashlight was tucked in my belt. My revolver was gripped tightly in my right hand and held down by my side. I climbed up the plateau, scrabbling in the dirt and sending small stones rolling. I was in a big field dotted with more tree stumps and small pines. I moved forward again. Ahead of me, to the right of the shed, was a huge tree.

  I came under it and waited, listening, hearing nothing now but the steady, rhythmic chirp of the crickets.

  Taking out the radium-dialed compass, I got my bearing north. Then I turned ninety degrees right. I took one step very slowly. Two—three—four—five—six—seven. I stopped.

  I looked down. I saw nothing. I felt around with my toe. Nothing. I turned left and walked three or four steps. Nothing. I went back to where I had started and turned south for seven steps. Nothing. I went back and walked seven steps north. Nothing. I tried seven steps west. Nothing.

  I began to circle from south to east. Now I saw a pile of old oak leaves mounded up. I went over and put my flashlight beam on it. The mound was about six feet long and a few feet wide. Just big enough to cover a human body.

  I bent down and brushed some of the leaves away. A pale whiteness showed. I touched it. It was flesh, cold and clammy, I put the flashlight on it. A human arm. I picked off more leaves very carefully. Above the arm was the half-sleeve of a checkered sports shirt, then a bare neck and throat. I brushed away more leaves. Now the face gleamed up at me, cold and stiff and dead. The mouth was frozen into distortion. The eyes were closed, the eyelids purpled and discolored.

  Kirk Chanslor.

  Chapter 12

  They had brought in an auxiliary power plant from D Troop Headquarters at Middleboro. Now the big floodlights lit up the entire area. Down at Route 151, the entrance of the old logging road had been blocked off. The technical men from D Troop were working quickly and quietly. Soon they would be augmented by more technicians and photographers dispatched from GHQ in Boston.

  By sunup the dirt lane was lined up with cars on one side almost all the way back to the main road. An early mist clung in long, low-lying streaks in the meadow and the sun was hazy. As the sun rose higher, a detail of ten troopers arrived and began to search the area in a tight skirmish line. Overhead a helicopter from the Air Force Base hovered low, its propeller churning like an old-fashioned ceiling fan.

  The body had been removed by the medical examiner to a small undertaking parlor in Sachem. There the medical examiner was waiting for a State Police pathologist to arrive from the Department of Legal Medicine at Harvard Medical School. Mrs. Chanslor had been taken to the funeral home and had identified her son in one brief, horrifying moment. She was then taken home and put under sedation.

  It was now nine o’clock in the morning and there was a conference near the old gray shed at the end of the logging road. Present were Captain Dondera, Detective-Lieutenant Gahagan, his assistant, Detective-Sergeant Bill Uhlberg, and an assistant district attorney named Mario deSilva.

  The point being stressed was very important. The person who had telephoned me at the barracks the previous night knew why I was in the area and whose body was covered by the oak leaves. We went over the list again. Mrs. Rita Chanslor, Iva Hancock, Chester Raynham, Jack Bellanca, Constance Ossipee, Wendell Starrett and Lawrence Pierce. Other people had seen me around the area but these seven were the only civilians who knew why I was there.

  “We’ll start gathering them up,” Gahagan said, “and bring them into my office in Barnstable for questioning.” Since the matter was now established as a homicide, the responsibility had shifted from the uniformed branch to the detective branch and Gahagan was now in charge of the investigation.

  “I don’t know about Wendell Starrett, Lieutenant,” I said. “He was leaving Sachem when I last saw him.”

  “We’ll see if we can get a line on him,” Gahagan said. “You got his car registration number?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gahagan said, “The trouble is we can’t be sure any of these people are directly connected with the death of Kirk Chanslor. As I said before, it’s like throwing a stone into a pond; the ripples get wider and wider. Any one of them could have talked to any number of people, and so on. And somebody remote could have telephoned you, Ralph. The only thing is that one of these seven could be the beginning link.”

  While we were talking, the preliminary report on the autopsy came in. Kirk Chanslor had been dead about three days. He had been struck on the head. The blow had caused some subdural bleeding but no skull fracture. The cause of his death seemed to have been asphyxiation. Also, the report stated that the post-mortem lividity of the body showed it had been lying face down for some time after death. When I found the body it had been on its back.

  They sent me to bring in Larry Pierce. On the way to the Barnstable courthouse with Larry, I noticed he was nervous and sweating. He tried to talk to me but I thought it would be better if there was no conversation. He complained he was needed at the used-car lot.

  When I brought him into Lieutenant Gahagan’s office, Detective-Sergeant Uhlberg was there. He started to question Larry Pierce. I sat and listened, trying to discern some inflection in the voi
ce that sounded like the caller of last night.

  Pierce’s feelings were hurt. He turned to me and said, “Haven’t I always leveled with you, Ralph?”

  “As far as I know, Larry.”

  “Sure,” he said, “you’re going to find out I know all about the old logging road in Cornwall. Sure, I’ve been there. I’ve brought girls there at night. But all the kids around here know about that road.”

  “So what?” Uhlberg asked.

  “So why pick on me, Sergeant? It doesn’t mean I had anything to do with Kirk getting killed. I liked Kirk. Everybody did.”

  Uhlberg didn’t say anything for the moment. He sat on the edge of the desk, swinging a leg, looking down on Pierce. Uhlberg was a medium-sized, stocky young man with a wide, strong face. He lived in Harwich on the Cape and I knew him only slightly.

  Uhlberg now said, “Larry, what have you been doing with yourself the last couple of days?”

  “I worked all day Saturday,” Pierce said, sitting erect in the hard, wooden chair. “Sunday I was home in the morning. In the afternoon I went swimming over to Willow Lake. Then Monday I went back to work again.”

  “What have you been doing with yourself nights?” Uhlberg asked.

  “Some nights I’ve been working. Other nights I’ve been dating a girl.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Greta Abend.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “She lives in Buford. She works at El Borosino’s in Hyannis.

  Uhlberg glanced over at me. It was something Pierce had not told me. Uhlberg asked, “What does she do there, Larry?”

  “She’s a waitress.”

  “Do you know any of the help at the Mount Puritan?”