“Shirley Benoit was stabbed,” he said. His red eyes told me the attack had probably been fatal. In a town the size of Sault Ste. Marie everyone knows everyone.
“She’s in the alley out back.”
27
You might think that working the police beat for a big city paper like the Times would cause you to be blasé about a murder scene.
You might think that, but you’d be dead wrong. Every murder scene has its own gristly personality: a bashed head, a knife embedded in the corpse, the exit wound of a bullet that makes you swear off eating for two days.
The difference in this case was the body: the corpse of my best friend lay sprawled beneath a canvas cover on the cement of the alley behind Blades LaRue’s. Yellow headlights from two police cars pushed their way through the darkness, illuminating the walls of the buildings on both sides of the alley. A sheriff’s deputy knelt beside Shirley’s body, holding up the edge of the canvas cover while a large, white-haired man who appeared to be in his late fifties held a flashlight. He seemed to be concentrating on her upper torso; from where I stood I couldn’t detect exactly what he saw.
The shock of seeing my friend that way hit me like a cement block dropped from a ten-story building, and I must have looked it. One of the deputies came over and took hold of my arm.
“You can’t stay here, Miss.” He motioned toward Shirley with his head. “There’s been a murder, and the area is off limits to the public.”
I tried to speak, but the words stuck in my throat. I fumbled around in my purse and pulled out the Morning News card. My hand shook as I held it up to him.
The deputy took the card and, shining his flashlight on it, examined it quickly and handed it back. “Okay, Miss Brennan, but you’ll have to stand over there.” He pointed toward a small crowd of people at the back doorway of Blade’s Saloon. “We’re waiting for Doc Larsen to complete his examination. I imagine he’ll make an official statement once he’s done over here.”
28
My mouth dry, my knees weak as straw, I managed to walk the twenty feet to where the crowd stood. The only light, beside the headlamps of the police cars, was coming from inside the bar. I guessed the people here were mostly locals who happened to be in the bar, a couple of them held half full glasses of beer. I noticed Blades looking somber and edged my way toward him.
“Poor Shirley.” He shook his head as he spoke. “No one deserves to die like that. Not the way she did.”
My thoughts were still reeling, but somehow the reporter instinct deep inside me began to fight its way to the surface. “Did anyone see it happen?”
Blades shrugged his shoulders. “We heard a scream, that’s all. It wasn’t Shirley who screamed; it was Ellen Popowitz, the other waitress on duty. She had just walked out the back door here for a cigarette break and saw . . . saw. . .” He pointed toward the dark shape on the pavement.
As he did, the man examining Shirley’s body stood up and ambled over to the deputy I had just talked to. As shaken as I was over the death of my best friend, I was also a reporter, and I decided to approach the two figures. The way the older man looked at me as I walked toward him told me I’d better introduce myself.
“I’m Kate Brennan, Doctor. I’m a reporter for the Soo Morning News. People are going to want to know what happened here tonight. Can you give me a statement for our next edition?”
Doc Larsen stood a head taller than me, and had the bulk to go with his big frame. Even in the darkness I could see he wore a tired look that said he’d rather be anywhere but in this alley conducting an examination on the body of a young woman who had grown up in the community and he had probably known well. His forehead wrinkled and his lips pursed as he began to speak. He obviously wanted to be precise in any comments made to a news organization. His words were crisp and professional.
“The cause of death was a knife wound to the throat,” he said. “A sharp blade severed her left carotid artery and thorax. Death came quickly . . . within seconds.”
The deputy spoke up before I had a chance. “So she was stabbed?”
The doctor shook his head. “The wound is not consistent with a stabbing,” he said. “The blade moved left to right across her throat. It slashed rather than stabbed. The killer most likely approached her from the rear, surprising her. From the angle of the wound I would guess he was several inches taller than Shirley and right handed.”
“How can you be so sure?” I asked.
“There are contusions on her upper torso consistent with being handled roughly. The blade entered the left side of her neck. If the killer held her from behind, and I’m convinced he did, he held her tightly with his left hand, while slashing her with his right.
“I’m sorry. I knew Miss Benoit well. She was a friend.” He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket as he walked away.
29
Claus Krueger sat alone in the darkness of his bedroom, the light from a solitary lamp casting its glow along the blue and yellow pattern of the papered wall.
He had gotten away cleanly. No one had seen him as he slashed the woman. He had watched her start to leave the restaurant through the rear door as he had seen her do every night for the past week. He followed just closely enough to grab her from behind as the door slammed shut in back of them. She had struggled, of course, but in the dark alley the kill had been quick and silent. A woman had passed him as he walked back through the restaurant and he had heard her scream from the backdoor. The patrons were too busy rushing toward the rear of the building to notice him stroll toward the front.
After that it was a simple matter to walk the few blocks back to his home.
He had been suspicious of the woman’s real identity almost from the time they met. It became obvious after awhile that she was equally suspicious of him and his reasons for being in Sault Ste. Marie. When she began probing deeper, she left him no choice.
Krueger got to his feet and turned the lamp toward him, looking at himself in the mirror above the dresser. The left sleeve of his black shirt was caked with blood. The woman’s struggle had forced him to hold her firmly while he sliced her throat. Blood had spurted immediately, but he had been clever in wearing the dark shirt. The restaurant light was turned low and no one noticed the blood stains as he walked back through the crowd of customers clamoring for the back door.
He removed the shirt as he walked to the bathroom. A twist of the tap started cold water running into the bowl. He dipped the shirt under the faucet, holding it in the stream of cold water. The water turned pink and then dark red as it left the shirt and ran into the bowl and down the drain. He wrung the shirt in his hands again and again, each time opening it to soak up more cold water. Finally the water was clear; the final vestiges of Shirley Benoit had disappeared down the drain.
The shirt would be discarded of course. The washing was a temporary, cautionary measure. Tomorrow he would bury the evidence in the backyard.
Satisfied for now, Krueger returned to the bedroom, removed his pants and folded them on a chair. He turned off the lamp and in the darkness pulled back the covers and climbed into the bed.
It had been an eventful evening.
30
Tuesday, June 22
I slept no more than four hours that night, tossing and turning in my bed. Why Shirley? Why did she have to die? Why my oldest and dearest friend in the Soo? I hoped somehow I’d wake up and find it had all been a nightmare.
Shirley’s parents had both passed away when she was young and she lived with her grandmother during the time I knew her. At one time she had also lived with an aunt and uncle somewhere in the Upper Peninsula, and the sheriff’s people were trying to track them down.
Tuesday morning I stood outside the sheriff’s office and Sault Ste. Marie jail. I clenched and unclenched my fists, a knot the size of a walnut twisting in the pit of my stomach. One part of me wanted desperately to turn and walk away. I didn’t cherish the idea of meeting the man who police said killed my best friend.
But the seasoned reporter inside me won out; I’d go in. I had interviewed dozens of accused killers back in Detroit and tried to visualize this as one more job.
The lobby was sparsely appointed: a wood floor, bare white walls and three desks that appeared as if they had been in place since the turn of the century. An American flag and the blue Michigan flag set on stands against the far wall, pictures of President Roosevelt and Governor Kelly adorned the wall between them.
The personnel had changed since I had lived here years ago. Sheriff Bergen had retired and a new man had taken his place. The deputy at the desk nearest the door looked up as I entered. He appeared to be in his early sixties, with a shock of white hair and a ruddy complexion. The belly that hung well over his belt challenged the buttons of his tan police uniform to their limits, and his pants had long ago lost their crease. His shoes looked as if he had shined them with a chocolate bar.
“I’m from the Soo Morning News,” I said. “I’m here to talk to the soldier you have in custody.”
“I’ve got a lot of soldiers in custody.”
“This one is here because of the stabbing.”
“You’re from the News?” He looked skeptical. “What happened to Jack Crawford and Ben Donaldson? They’re the ones usually show up here.”
“I’m new.” I reached into my purse for my press card. “My name is Kate Brennan.”
The press ID seemed to do the trick. “I’m Deputy Ericksen, Miss Brennan.” He stood up and reached for a set of keys resting on a hook against the wall. “So, you want to see the colored boy involved in last night’s stabbing?”
“The Negro soldier, yes. I’m here to interview him. It’s official newspaper business.”
“All right. This way, please.”
31
I followed Deputy Ericksen toward a door in the rear of the lobby. He looked back over his shoulder. “I can’t let you in the cell, but you can talk to him through the bars.”
“He’s not armed. What’s the danger?”
“Policy, ma’am. He’s under arrest for murder.”
He took a few more steps, stopped and turned to me, saying softly, “Don’t tell the sheriff I said so, but he don’t seem the type to be here. We see some of the same faces every week or so. But far as I can tell, this fella’s never been in trouble before.”
“Why is he here, then?”
“You heard what’s going on in Detroit? The rioting and all? Well, couple of the deputies thought the stabbing of a white woman might be some sort of retaliation for the arrests and beatings of the colored down there.
“They found him walking alone, after the Army curfew. They said he didn’t seem to know where he was or where he was going. Or care.”
“And that makes him a murder suspect?”
The deputy shrugged. “Well, he’s all we’ve got.” He turned and resumed walking.
We passed through the door at the back of the lobby and into a narrow hallway, my heels tapping against the wooden floor. Doors were closed on either side of the hall, but I could see a large room at the end. As we entered, my nose caught the smell of urine covered up with Spic and Span. There were three separate cells, one held four white prisoners, another five Negro soldiers. The third cell housed a single Negro soldier who sat on the bottom of a double bunk. He looked up as we neared the cell.
“Cummins, this lady’s from the Morning News. Wants to talk to you.” He turned to me. “I’ll give you ten minutes.” I watched as he retraced his steps down the hallway, shoes beating time, echoing against the narrow walls.
I turned to find the prisoner had stood. Roy Cummins was a light-skinned Negro just short of six feet in height. He wore a corporal’s uniform, wrinkled as if he had slept in it, which he undoubtedly had. But his shoes bore a mirror finish that reflected light. He approached me, putting his hands on the bars, but remained silent.
“My name is Kate Brennan,” I said. “I’m a reporter.”
His brow wrinkled. “Yes, ma’am. Do I have to talk to you?”
“No. You don’t.”
“Then why should I?”
“For openers, there’s a race riot tearing a city to shreds downstate. And there’s a whole town of people up here who think you murdered a young woman. If there’s a side to your story, this is your chance to tell it.”
“With all due respect, ma’am, I don’t care what your town thinks.”
This wasn’t going to be easy.
32
I reached into my purse and retrieved a pack of Chesterfields I had bought a half hour ago at the Red Owl. I offered one to Cummins, who took it, and I put one in my mouth. I lit mine and handed him the lighter.
I inhaled deeply and blew out a stream of smoke. “Sault Ste. Marie isn’t my town,” I said. “I came up here from Detroit.”
He lit his cigarette and handed back the lighter. “Detroit?”
“I was a reporter for the Times.”
“I know the Times. I grew up in Detroit.”
“You must have heard about the rioting going on down there?”
Cummins, looking at the floor, nodded his head. “Started on Belle Isle and spread all over town. The police seem to be arresting a lot of colored people; not many whites.”
It was true. “That’s what happens when most of the police are white,” I said.
Cummins looked up at me. “Just like this town.”
I decided to change the subject. I asked him which part of Detroit he came from, hoping the small talk would put him at ease. I pulled out a writing pad and began to take notes. Cummins was born near the downtown area, on Hastings Street. His father died when he was just four years old and he was raised by an uncle and aunt. His young mother was forced to work two jobs to support herself and Cummins’ two younger siblings. His mother insisted her children attend religious services regularly, and they were all members of nearby First Baptist Church. When he graduated from high school he accepted a football scholarship from Louisiana Negro Normal and Industrial Institute in Louisiana. He earned a three-year teaching certificate and stayed nearby, teaching at a colored high school and working as an assistant on the Institute’s football team under their new coach, Eddie Robinson.
“I figured I could do more good in the south,” Cummins said. “People down there seem more needful of good teachers than here in the north.”
The offer of the cigarette and the conversation had loosened Cummins’ tongue. His hands extended through the bars, folded comfortably in front of him as he spoke. He seemed a lot more relaxed than when we began and I figured it was time to pop the sixty-four dollar question. I tried to appear equally nonchalant as I took another drag from my Chesterfield and blew out the smoke.
“Why’d you kill that young woman?”
Cummins reacted as if he had been shot. He leaned backwards suddenly, arms motioning as he spoke. “I didn’t kill anyone. I swear it.”
“I’ve hardly ever interviewed a suspect who said he was guilty.”
His eyes tightened into a squint. It was as if the pleasant conversation of a moment ago had never taken place. “Look, ma’am. I don’t care what you think. Or what this town thinks. But I do care what the fellows in my regiment think. And I didn’t kill that woman.”
“Where were you around midnight last night?”
Cummins paused, looking down at the cement floor and then back up again to me. “I. . . I left Fort Brady just after 2100 hours. Went for a walk. The cops arrested me on Division Street. It was a little after midnight.”
“Three hours. That’s a long walk. Where did you go?”
“Here. There. It was just a walk.”
“Anyone with you?”
“I was by myself.”
“Anyone see you?”
“No, ma’am. No one I knew.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“That’s all I can tell you, ma’am. It’s what happened.”
It was clear he wasn’t going to say
anything further. But there was one more thing I needed to check out.
“Before I go,” I said, handing him the pad and pencil, “I need you to sign these notes to verify that the facts are correct.” He looked at me as if he recognized the lie, then skimmed through the words and signed with his left hand.
I was convinced the sheriff was holding the wrong man for murder.
But I was equally sure that Corporal Roy Cummins was holding something back.
33
The time I’d spent with Corporal Cummins had left me confused.
I doubted he was guilty of murder, but there seemed something beneath the surface, something he held close to himself.
As I walked back through the lobby, I found Carol Olson standing at the deputy’s desk.
“Hi, Kate, just getting released? Must have been a whopper of a night.”
I didn’t find the remark humorous. “Just doing a little research,” I said. “Talking with Corporal Cummins.”
“Why, that’s funny,” Olson said. “I hope you don’t plan on writing anything. I’m covering last night’s murder. Crawford gave me the assignment and I’m here to interview Sheriff Valenti.”
The words stung, but I tried not to show it. “Great,” I said, “I’ll be interested to read your story.”
When I got to the newsroom, I set my purse on my desk and sat down. I wanted to cool off before confronting Crawford.
I found Viola Brinkwater’s telephone number in my notepad and dialed her number. After some preliminary niceties, we agreed on meeting at her home at 10:30.
Dead Lock Page 6
