Dead Lock

by B. David Warner

  “And I need to find out who killed my friend. Sorry, Wells, I’d like to help.”

  Of all the times for Wells to call, this had to be the absolute worst. Two days ago I would have given my eyeteeth to be back in Detroit, reporting the story of the decade, if not the century. But I couldn’t go.

  Not now.

  40

  The evening sun was sinking slowly into Lake Superior’s Whitefish Bay, its light glittering out over the waters, turning their dark blue color to a brilliant, blinding white.

  I had driven to a spot outside of town where you can watch the sun descend into those icy blue waters and listen to the surf pound onto the beach. I left my car and walked to a spot where I sat cross-legged on a patch of grass near the edge of the sand. With a clump of trees and ferns behind me I felt totally isolated.

  I had found solace in this place many times as a high school student after I had done poorly on an exam or broken up with a boy friend. As a group, we girls had our “Toad Hall.” But this is where I came when I wanted to be totally alone.

  And right now, this is where I had to be, even though it meant a twenty-mile drive that burned a few gallons of precious gasoline.

  I had screwed up; done something a cub reporter wouldn’t do. I had felt so damn sure of myself, so certain of showing up the locals that I had disregarded the number one rule of journalism: I hadn’t checked my sources.

  More than that, though, I had forgotten the respect for small town people I had gained during my time in Sault Ste. Marie as a teenager. People in small towns are no dumber or smarter than those of us who happen to live in big cities. They’re simply people who have chosen to live their lives away from the noise, traffic and pressure of big city living.

  Maybe they’re smarter than city dwellers, after all.

  At any rate, I knew what I should have done. I should have insisted on talking to the mayor. I should have searched the archives at the library to verify names and dates. I should have done a dozen things that I simply didn’t do. Instead I rushed the story through my typewriter and took it to Jack Crawford, giving him the perfect opportunity to show up the big city reporter.

  The jerk. And to think I had found the man attractive when we first met. How could I have thought that? Even marginally? I despised the smug way he handled the whole affair. He could have told me the current mayor wasn’t Viola Brinkwater’s husband’s friend during Prohibition. You can bet your rear end he knew that. But he let me barge into G.P.’s office and make a fool of myself.

  He could go to hell for all I cared. I’d sit here as long as I felt like it, taking in a breathtaking view of one of God’s most beautiful creations. Alone.

  Just as I began to enjoy the solitude, I heard the crackle of leaves and twigs breaking underfoot and turned to see a tall, blonde-haired man making his way through the copse of trees behind me.

  It was Scotty Banyon, the man I had met at the locks.

  41

  I had wanted to see Scotty Banyon again, even if I hadn’t been able to totally admit it to myself. But I wasn’t eager to see anyone while I was wallowing in self-pity. I tried my best to smile as he approached.

  “I thought that was your car parked back out on the road,” he said. “I was driving home from the mine when I spotted it. I wanted to be sure you were okay.”

  “I’m just taking in the beauty of the sand and water,” I said.

  “I thought you said you were new in town. How’d you know about this place?”

  “I spent my senior year of high school in Sault Ste. Marie,” I said. “I used to come here quite fre . . . ah, once in a while.” Truth is, this was also known as the lovers’ lane for kids when I was in high school. I’d been out here my share of times that way, too. But Scotty didn’t need to know that.

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Sure, why not.” The way I said it, it came out more like a statement than a question. He sat down beside me, leaning back on one hand and brushing a lock of golden hair from his eyes with the other. His eyes were blue, dark blue. Blue like the water in the bay.

  “What brings you to the Soo?” Scotty asked. He was dressed in a short-sleeved blue shirt and even in the dim light I couldn’t help noticing some pretty fair triceps definition.

  “I’m up here on sort of a sabbatical, I guess you could say. I’m a reporter for the Detroit Times downstate. I decided it was time for a break.” I certainly didn’t want to go into the whole story. “You from the Soo?”

  Scotty shook his head. “I’m originally from the Upper Peninsula,” he said. “But farther west, toward Wisconsin. Actually, I live out in Arizona now. I have a home near Phoenix. But when I was young my family lived over in Copper Harbor.”

  “Arizona, huh? You’re a long way from home.”

  “I’ve been in the Soo for a few months . . . doing some exploratory mining near here.”

  “Mining? For what, gold?”

  “No.” A smile creased his face. “Copper.” He pointed west. “The western part of the Upper Peninsula used to be full of it.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.” Copper mining had been a huge part of the U.P. until the first part of the Twentieth Century. “I also heard the mines dried up. What makes you think you’ll find more copper now?”

  “There’s always been copper here, it just got too expensive to mine. The war has changed everything. Now the government needs the metal, and they’re willing to pay more for it. Suddenly, mining is profitable again. You just have to go deeper. And find new veins.”

  “You found one?”

  “About twenty miles west of town. We’ve been blasting out the side of a mountain, and the results look promising.”

  “How come you know so much about it?”

  “My family owned one of the largest mines in Michigan,” Banyon said. “When the vein they mined began to run out, my dad decided to close up shop. We moved to Arizona.”

  “Lucky he saw the proverbial ‘hand writing on the wall.’ I hear a lot of companies went bust in the Twenties.”

  Banyon nodded in agreement. He suddenly seemed distracted by his thoughts, looking out over the bay where the sun had now dipped below the horizon, leaving a hint of fire red in the dark sky.

  It was time to leave. Scotty stood and offered a hand to help me up. I ignored it and got up by myself. He took a flashlight from somewhere in his jeans and we followed its yellow path through the trees. We crossed the grassy meadow and I could hear crickets chirping everywhere as we approached the road where a gorgeous black Packard dwarfed my Ford.

  He seemed reluctant to go, standing in front of his car and running his hand through his hair. “Well, I’ll see you around town, I’m sure.”

  I told him we probably would see each other and we both got into our cars. His lights followed mine for ten miles or so and then turned off on a narrow dirt road.

  I didn’t realize just how much of Scotty Banyon I’d be seeing.

  42

  Sheriff's Deputies Nab Killer

  Sault Ste. Marie, Wednesday, June 23, 1943 – Sheriff’s deputies believe they have arrested the killer of a local woman who was brutally slashed in the alley behind Blades Larue’s Restaurant early Tuesday morning.

  “We’ve got the killer alright,” said Sheriff Carl Valenti. “My deputies arrested a young Negro soldier they found wandering aimlessly not far from the murder scene at two a.m. He had no excuse for being at that place at that time.”

  Arrested was Corporal Roy Cummins, 25, of the 100th Artillery Squadron stationed at Fort Brady. The soldier is currently being held without bail in the Sault Ste. Marie jail.

  The victim, Shirley Benoit of 875 Amanda Street, was born in the Soo, and had lived here until leaving to attend the University of Michigan. She had held a number of jobs downstate before moving back to Sault Ste. Marie.

  The two heroes who made the arrest are Sheriff’s Deputies Mel Kristensen and Douglas Hein. Both were extremely modest as they asked questions posed by a
Morning News reporter.

  Yes, they found the killer walking a dark, deserted street shortly after two this morning. No, they didn’t feel their lives were in danger as they approached the man with their guns drawn.

  “He made no move to resist arrest,” said Deputy Hein. “In fact, he came with us peaceably.”

  “He didn’t seem to know why we were apprehending him,” said Deputy Kristensen. “But that’s not uncommon among perpetrators who wish to appear innocent.”

  “We’re gratified to solve this horrible murder so quickly,” said Sheriff Valenti. “I credit it to outstanding police work on the parts of Deputies Kristensen and Hein.

  (Story continued on Page 5)

  43

  Thursday, June 24

  I couldn’t believe my eyes when I read Carol Olson’s story just after the News hit my porch the next morning. And I couldn’t wait to get to the office to confront her.

  When I caught Olson at her desk, I was ready with my sarcastic best.

  “Good morning, Carol. Say, I must have missed the trial.”

  She looked up from her typewriter. “What trial?”

  “Why, Corporal Cummins’ trial. From your article in this morning’s News, he’s already been tried and convicted.”

  Her face grew red. “What do you mean? The story reflected what Sheriff Valenti told me.”

  “Exactly. But what about Corporal Cummins? Did you speak with him?”

  “Well, no . . . ”

  “And did you speak to the coroner?”

  “What about?”

  “What about? What about?” Now I couldn’t believe my ears, either. “The coroner has said that Shirley Benoit was slashed by a right-handed assailant.”

  “So?”

  “Corporal Cummins happens to be left handed.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I interviewed him in his cell. When the interview concluded, I asked him to read over my notes for accuracy and sign them.”

  Olson frowned. “Whoever heard of having the subject of an interview sign the reporter’s notes?”

  “A reporter who wanted to determine whether the prime suspect in a murder committed by a right-handed killer was right or left handed,” I said.

  “And . . .”

  “Corporal Cummins is left handed.”

  “That proves nothing.”

  “Maybe not. But neither does arresting a person on suspicion of murder just because he happens to be walking in the wrong place at the wrong time. And also just happens to be a man of color.”

  “You think his race had something to do with it?”

  “Don’t you? What if he happened to be a well-dressed, middle-aged white man walking that same street?”

  Olson’s silence answered the question for her. I decided to let her down gently.

  “Look, Carol,” I said. “We all make mistakes. I made a doozey myself the other day.” I purposely didn’t elaborate, hoping she hadn’t heard about my blunder with Mrs. Brinkwater’s husband and the mayor.

  The Cheshire cat grin on Olson’s face told me she had heard; probably along with the rest of the Allied world.

  “You’re right,” she said. “That was a doozey.”

  So much for letting her down gently. I wanted to push her hair into the paper slot of her typewriter and turn the cartridge ten revolutions or so.

  But instead, I walked away.

  44

  It had been four days since the incident on Belle Isle ignited a firestorm, and the word from Detroit was that the situation had quieted.

  The rioting had taken a toll, especially on the Negro population. Twenty-five persons of color had been killed, compared with nine whites. The estimate of property damage stood at two million dollars.

  The news didn’t escape the Nazis. Vichy France radio reported that the riot characterized “the internal disorganization of a country torn by social injustice and racial hatred.”

  I desperately wanted to believe they were wrong. But I knew my country had a long way to go before the words “all men are created equal” applied to every man and woman.

  When I got to my desk after my little run-in with Olson, a handwritten message informed me that Scotty Banyon had called just before I walked into the office.

  I dialed the number on the message, wondering what he wanted. It didn’t take long to find out. He answered on the third ring.

  “How about joining me for dinner tonight aboard my boat?” he asked. He said he had purchased a fairly good-sized cruiser earlier in the spring, and it was moored at the Riverbend Marina in the St. Marys River a mile or so east of the locks.

  I had mixed feelings about joining Scotty on a “date”. It had been little more than a year since Ronny was killed at Midway and I still missed him. A day didn’t go by that I didn’t think of him.

  On the other hand, maybe Scotty was planning nothing more than a pleasant evening aboard his boat. The weather today was ideal, and the prospect of spending time on the water certainly sounded appealing.

  “What time should I be there?”

  “I’ll meet you in the Marina parking area at six o’clock,” he answered. “We’ll have a cocktail or two and dine fashionably late.”

  I had acted impulsively, and as I hung up, a flood of emotions ran through me – all mixed. I felt guilty as I thought of Ronny, but at the same time I was excited.

  The offer seemed harmless enough, and after a year maybe it wouldn’t hurt to spend a little time with a man I found attractive.

  45

  Staying up here in Sault Ste. Marie, I thought I’d left my problems with the mob miles behind. But a phone call that came from Detroit just five minutes later rocked my boat. The caller was Joe Sachs, a reporter who usually sat three desks from me back at the Times.

  “Heard the one about the two hoodlums who walk into a bar looking for a reporter?”

  “No.”

  “Well you should. The reporter they were looking for is you.”

  Sachs wondered why his humor often went unappreciated. He explained that two of the mob’s finest showed up at Thirty asking questions about my whereabouts. I wasn’t laughing.

  “Pap Cohen told me all about it a little over an hour ago. I was eating a late lunch at the bar.”

  Pap Cohen was the owner and often bartender of Thirty, the tavern where many a Times, News and Free Press reporter drank the workday to a close. The joint got its name from the signature mark of -30- that reporters traditionally type after the last paragraph of copy to denote the end of a story.

  I tried not to sound too alarmed. “What did Pap tell them?”

  “Just that you were out of town on assignment; and no one seemed to know where.”

  That was probably accurate. “Who else besides you and Wells knows where I am?”

  Sachs paused. “No one. Problem is: most people around here know your uncle is publisher of the Soo Morning News. Someone could slip in conversation and the hoods might put two and two together.”

  “I doubt Zerilli’s boys are smart enough to add two and two,” I said. “But let me know if they come poking around again. Keep your ears open.”

  “Speaking of ears, have you heard the one about the four-foot-tall hearing aid salesman who walks into a bar?”

  “Goodbye Joe.”

  Sachs’ call bothered me more than I let on. With nearly 300 miles between me and Detroit, I figured I’d be safe.

  Now I wasn’t so sure.

  46

  I pulled into the Riverbend Marina a shade after six o’clock and found Scotty standing beside his big black Packard in the gravel parking lot. He looked nautically suave in khaki slacks, a blue blazer and white deck shoes. I had on the same white blouse and black slacks I had worn earlier in the day, but had stopped by the house to feed Mick and pick up a pair of white tennis shoes.

  I laced up the shoes, and as we walked across the gravel toward the river, I could see that there were no more than fifteen boats moored at a series of docks
that could have held a hundred.

  “It’s the fuel shortage,” Scotty said. “Most of the people who dock here never took their boats out of winter storage. Even the ones you see here probably haven’t left the docks this season. Their owners visit on weekends, sleep on them overnight and spend the days sunbathing and partying around the marina.”

  The evening was gorgeous: temperature in the mid-seventies, with a refreshing breeze blowing in off the two-mile-wide St. Marys River. Seagulls flew overhead (not directly overhead, thank goodness), occasionally swooping down to the river to pluck a silvery snack from the surface. Most of the boats tied along the docks were cruisers, somewhere between twenty-five and fifty feet in length. But one beautiful white yacht stood out from the rest.

  “That one has to be ninety feet long,” I said, pointing to it.

  “Ninety six,” Scotty said. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

  We walked up the gangplank of the monstrous yacht and Scotty unfastened a chain he called the boarding gate and motioned me to follow him onto the deck.

  “This is your boat?” It was a rhetorical question; Scotty had intimated that he was wealthy, but this yacht had to cost at least two hundred thousand dollars.

  “Afraid so,” Scotty said. “With fuel rationing on, the former owner couldn’t afford enough diesel to run it across the river and back. He gave me a great price.”

  Scotty held a door open and I stepped into the main cabin. I’m not easily impressed by boats. Living near Grosse Pointe, Michigan, one of the country’s most affluent communities, I had been aboard some of the finest yachts on Lake St. Clair. But the interior of this one was nothing short of magnificent. I found myself standing in the center of a living area most Grosse Pointers would have been proud to have in their homes.