DEAD END
by Barry Friedman
Also by Barry Friedman
Assignment: Bosnia
Prescription for Death
The Shroud
Sleeper
Hyde
Non-Fiction
The Short Life of a Valiant Ship:
USS Meredith DD434
That’s Life:It’s Sexually Transmitted and Terminal
Acknowledgements
Lieutenant Robert Vega of the Canton, Ohio Police Department and the late Harold Hand, former Los Angeles Police Department Homicide Detective, gave me valuable technical advice concerning police procedures.
I gratefully acknowledge the help and encouragement given me by Bruno Leone of Greenhaven Press, and by Evelyn Bruyere. I am deeply indebted to Shirley Allen, Judith Hand, Phyllis Humphrey, Pete Johnson and Suzanne Middleton for their thoughtful reviews and constructive criticisms of the manuscript.
Brenda Griffing did a masterful job of brushing away the lint and clipping the loose threads.
Finally, but not least, this work could not have been completed without the encouragement suggestions and critiques of my wife Sue.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters and events are the inventions of the author and do not depict real people or events.
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
ONE
Almost six-thirty. The parking lot, dimly lit by a single spotlight suspended high on a pole. As he trudged to his Buick station wagon, Gibson glanced at his wrist watch again. The calendar on the face of the watch read April 7th. Tomorrow would be Harriet’s birthday, her thirty-sixth. He debated whether to stop and pick up the silver bracelet he had bought at Potter and Lemon. The engraving he had ordered would be finished. The store remained open until seven, but the hell with it. He’d do it tomorrow. This evening he was too tired. Just wanted to get home, have a drink and relax before dinner.
At the thought of food, his stomach growled and he remembered that he’d had no lunch. Nothing new. Half the time he went without eating from breakfast until he arrived home at seven or later.
When he turned the key to unlock the station wagon door, he discovered he had just locked it instead. Probably had forgotten to lock up in his hurry to get to the office. Wouldn’t be the first time. He unlocked the door, tossed his briefcase on the front passenger’s seat and sank into the driver’s seat. He’d relax for a moment. He closed his eyes for ten seconds, then put the key in the ignition.
While he was buckling his seat belt he felt sudden pressure against his neck. A bug? He reached behind to slap it. His fingers came into contact with metal. Startled, he glanced toward the rearview mirror, but it was tilted up so he was seeing only a dim reflection of light from the car roof. Gibson started to turn.
“Don’t turn around!”
“What the hell do you want?”
“Shut up and drive!”
It surprised him that he wasn’t frightened. He’d thought about being held up and wondered what he would do. Now he knew. He reached for his wallet. “Look, take what you want and get out. I won’t—.”
“Keep your fucking hands on the wheel!” The metal he’d felt now pressed firmly into his neck. A gun barrel. “Get this car moving!”
Gibson started the car.
“Left out of the driveway.”
The evening rush hour traffic had thinned out. Only a few cars passed in the opposite direction, there were no cars in front of his, no pedestrians in this part of the city at this time of day.
As he drove, Gibson prayed he’d come across a cruising police car. Ram it and duck down in the front seat. He dropped that idea quickly. He’d give the guy his money, watch, credit cards, whatever he wanted. He wasn’t ready to be a hero and die.
Now they were traveling south on Dueber, past Prairie College Road and were out of the city. At Fohl, a red, white and blue shield-shaped sign pointed to southbound Interstate 77. The gun barrel was pushed more firmly into his neck. “Get on the freeway here.”
Freeway? Who the hell was this guy and where was he taking him? He felt sweat pouring down the sides of his chest from his armpits. His throat tightened, he could hardly breath. Despite his grip on the wheel his hands began to shake. This had to be more than robbery. Gibson hadn’t spoken since offering the guy his wallet. But now he had to make another try. “For crissake, take the car. Let me out. There’s no one around. It’ll take me half an hour to get—.”
Shut up and drive!”
On the interstate, Gibson drove slowly in the right-hand lane hoping someone in another vehicle would look into his car, see what was happening.
The voice from the backseat ordered him to set the cruise control to fifty-five. Gibson did as he was told. His eyes moved side to side frantically, looking for something, anything. He pleaded, “Look, I’ve got a wife and two small kids. Jesus Christ, I’ll give you anything, I’ll do anyth—.”
“Shut up and drive!”
Gibson’s mind was racing. This fucking madman is going to kill me. “Please. PLEASE. PLEASE.” Half sob, half scream. The only response was increased pressure of the gun into his neck. Suddenly, fear turned to rage. Why me? WHY ME? Gibson’s jaws clenched. His hands squeezed the steering wheel so tightly his fingernails dug into the soft flesh of his palms. He wasn’t about to wait until the bastard decided where he was going to stop and do whatever he wanted to do. Even if the carjacker, or whatever the hell he was, was crazy, he wouldn’t shoot him while he had the wheel, barreling down the highway. Gibson floored the accelerator, the Buick shot ahead. The pressure of the gun was no longer on his neck. He flicked a glance back. The gunman, thrown off balance, had fallen backward into the rear seat. I’m gonna make it. I’m gonna make it.
Gibson jerked the steering wheel sharply to the right and the car skidded off the paved portion of the road, onto the berm, throwing up a shower of gravel and dirt. Momentarily the car balanced on its two left tires. He leaned his body left, trying to make the car roll over. It teetered, then, still speeding ahead, righted itself, fell back on to all four wheels and bounced against the guardrail for 100 yards. Steel ground against steel. Sparks flew. He strained, trying to swing the steering wheel in the opposite direction, still hoping to make the car roll over, but the violent maneuvering caused the motor to stall. With the power steering mechanism off, he could barely turn the wheel. As the car slowed, Gibson reached for the door handle. Before he could depress it, from the edge of his vision he saw the gun butt come crashing down on his skull. As darkness closed in he turned, saw a face he recognized.
* * *
CANTON MAN
FATALLY SHOT
CANTON. A 40-year-old Canton businessman was found dead in his car early this morning. The body of Henry Gibson, 3946 Gramercy Ave. was discovered between State Route 20 and Interstate 77
on a little-used dirt road that leads to the farm of Herman Schuler. Schuler found the car at 5:30 a.m. with Gibson’s body on the front seat. Stark County Sheriff’s Office spokesperson, Deputy Sheriff Karen Vandergrift said that preliminary reports by the medical examiner indicate that Gibson had suffered gunshot wounds and a probable skull fracture. He is believed to have died yesterday evening.
Vandergrift stated that Gibson apparently had been robbed. A wallet, empty of cash and credit cards, was found in the car. Papers in a briefcase left in the car confirmed the identification. Vandergrift stated that investigators have no suspects and are working on the theory that Gibson had picked up a hitchhiker who robbed and killed him. An investigation by the sheriff’s office with the help of technicians from the Stark County Crime Laboratory in Canton, is underway.
A longtime Canton resident, Gibson had been assistant sales manager of Sterling Wholesale Hardware Company. His wife, the former Harriet Remington and two children, Henry Jr., age 10 and Heather, age 7, survive him.
In what may be a related incident, Theodore Lambert, 36, of Sherryville, reported to the Ohio Highway Patrol that he had seen a station wagon, described as similar to Gibson’s, swerve off the pavement of I-77 at approximately 7 p.m. yesterday. The station wagon struck a guardrail and appeared to have stalled. Lambert, driving south on I-77 stopped to render assistance, but before he could reach the vehicle, it was driven away headed south. The incident occurred 3 miles north of the off ramp to U.S. Route 250 and approximately 12 miles from where the Gibson vehicle was found. Lambert could not see how many people were in the station wagon, nor could he see the driver.
* * *
Dr. Harry Hanson, medical examiner for Stark County, pulled up his rubber gloves as he walked to the autopsy slab and inspected the body. A photographer from the crime lab had already taken a number of pictures of the body from various angles. Phil Moore, the technician seated on a tall lab stool, cleaned his fingernails with the point of a nail file.
Hanson stood at the side of the autopsy table snugging his fingers into the gloves, peering down at the body of a man wearing a light blue blazer and gray slacks. The top button of the man’s striped shirt was open; the knot of his dark blue tie was pulled down. The dead man’s black shoes were highly polished; his hands were encased in clear plastic bags held with rubber bands at the wrists. The body lay on its right side, knees drawn up and the upper half bent forward in the fetal position. In other surroundings it could have been a man taking a midday nap on his office couch.
Hanson stepped on the foot-pedal switch of the dictating machine, his voice echoing off the cement walls and floor as he talked into the microphone suspended over the autopsy table.
“The body is that of a Caucasian male…” He described the corpse’s dress and position, then turned to Moore. “Okay, Phil, off your ass. Help turn him over.”
The men flipped the body onto its left side. Hanson bent to inspect two small round holes, one in the skin just below the man’s open shirt collar, the other about six inches lower, in the midline seam of the jacket. A circlet of black surrounded each hole.
“Tattooing around the bullet holes indicates near-discharge of the gun muzzle to the victim.”
He measured the diameter and position of each hole, reading his measurements into the microphone. Pushing a metal probe into each of the bullet holes, he recorded their depths and angles. He stepped back while the photographer moved in and took several close-ups.
Hanson said, “What do you think, Phil? A twenty-two?”
“Uh-huh. Either that or a twenty-five.”
With some effort, they straightened the dead man’s legs to undress him. Rigor mortis, Hanson knew, came on about five hours after death and lasted about thirty-six hours. He estimated that the man wearing a toe-tag that read “Henry Gibson,” had been killed around seven the night before. It was now four o’clock the following afternoon, the body rigid as a board. The technician kept pressure on the dead man’s knees to prevent them from returning to their flexed position.
The skin over the entire front of the body was a mottled purple, that over the back was lemon yellow. “Was he on his face in the car when you found him?” Hanson asked.
“Yeah, he was squeezed down between the dashboard and the front seat on the passenger’s side, resting on his elbows and his knees. When we got there he had already stiffened in that position. We had a hell of a job wedging him out of the door.”
Hanson then directed his attention to the head. He parted the thinning, dark brown hair and ran his gloved fingers over the scalp. With a hand lens, he carefully inspected the hair and underlying scalp. He snipped a few strands of hair with a scissors, placed them in a small plastic envelope. From another part of the head, he pulled a few hairs loose and deposited them separately into another envelope. Then he resumed dictating.
“Over the center of the occipito-parietal junction there is a hematoma measuring…” He gazed up at the ceiling while he pressed on the hematoma and felt in its depths a depression in the skull. The bony edges of the depressed area were sharp. “Depressed skull fracture,” he mused. “The size of the scalp hematoma suggests that there was an interval of at least fifteen minutes between the infliction of the depressed skull fracture and death.”
When he finished the autopsy, he stripped off his rubber gloves while he dictated his summary. “I conclude that death was due to penetrating bullet wounds with entry through the seventh cervical vertebra, and through the disk space between the seventh and eighth thoracic vertebrae. The cervical wound transected the spinal cord and extended through the esophagus and trachea. The bullet causing this wound was lodged in subcutaneous tissues of the neck, anterior to the trachea.
“The thoracic wound transected the spinal cord at that level and perforated the left ventricle of the heart. This bullet passed through the sternum and was found in the subcutaneous tissues of the anterior chest wall.
“Either bullet wound could have been the proximate cause of death.
“The depressed skull fracture and the underlying laceration of the parietal lobe of the brain were not necessarily fatal.”
He gazed at the two bullet fragments in the palm of his hand for a few seconds, then dropped each into a small cotton-lined cardboard box, which he handed to Moore. The lab tech had accumulated a carton full of material including the victim’s clothing, fingerprints and scrapings, a jar containing samples of his stomach contents and several vials of blood. He placed the carton on a small carrier. As he wheeled it out, he raised a hand. “So long, I’ve got enough work here to keep me off the streets for a while.”
* * *
GIBSON RITES HELD;
MURDER STILL UNSOLVED
CANTON. Funeral services were held in First Presbyterian Church yesterday for Henry Gibson, 40-year-old salesman, who was robbed and slain on April 7. The Reverend Lloyd R. Eaton gave the eulogy. Burial was at Plymouth Cemetery.
Gibson’s body was discovered early Wednesday in his station wagon on a dirt road near Interstate 77. He had been shot and assaulted with a blunt instrument.
Investigation by Stark County Sheriff Office personnel has so far turned up few clues. Ballistics tests on the bullets recovered from Gibson’s body have not matched those from other recent shootings in the area. The only fingerprints found in the murder vehicle were those of the victim. Authorities declined to comment on additional laboratory studies that were reported to be in progress.
Deputy Sheriff Karen Vandergrift revealed that Gibson had left his office in the Sterling Building, 3990 4th St. here, at about 6:30 p.m.. Tuesday, April 7, after phoning his wife Harriet that he was on his way home. Since his usual route passed by the West Tuscarawas ramp to I-77, Vandergrift said, “We are working on the assumption that he picked up a hitchhiker near the ramp. The assailant appears to have forced the victim at gunpoint to drive south on the interstate. There is evidence that Mr. Gibson tried to take control by maneuvering the car at high speed. The assailant ap
parently subdued him by striking him on the head, fracturing his skull. While Mr. Gibson lay unconscious, the assailant seems to have driven the car to the spot where the murder and robbery occurred.”
Vandergrift said that K-9 Corps dogs had traced the killer’s tracks from the station wagon. Several potentially important pieces of evidence were found, but the sheriff’s spokesperson would not elaborate. She said the killer probably walked back to State Route 20 and hitchhiked along that road. Since a hitchhiker on the interstate would be picked up by highway patrol, it was less likely that the interstate would be used as the escape route. A plea was issued for information from any witnesses who may have driven by the area during the evening of Tuesday, April 7.
Henry Gibson is survived by his widow the former Harriet Remington…”
TWO
ONE MONTH LATER. Al Maharos watched with distaste as Frank Fiala licked the fingertips of his left hand while he held the steering wheel with the other.
“Trouble with this shit,” said Fiala, “it gets everything sticky.”
Maharos gave him a look of contempt. “’This shit,’ you crude bastard, is baklava, a delicacy in the civilized world. Anybody else would die for it. You just passed it.”
“Passed what?”
“The building where we’re going. It’s 433, right?”
Fiala jammed on the brakes and made a U-turn, narrowly missing a truck. The truck driver yelled something and Fiala gave him the finger as he pulled in to a loading zone marked No Parking. He flipped down the sun visor with the PD seal.
Fiala squeezed his five-eight, two-twenty body out from behind the wheel. His bushy black hair came down to within an inch of eyebrows so thick that they almost hid his eyes. His nose had been fist-flattened against his face a dozen times during his forty-three years. As he got out of the car, he yanked both trouser legs down from where they had crept up on his thick thighs.
Another warm day, warmer than usual even for May. Maharos thought about leaving his hat in the car, but even after all these years he felt self-conscious about his baldness. He wiped the sweat from the liner and from his head and put the hat back on. At least the black hat didn’t show sweat stains.
Barry Friedman - Dead End Page 1
