Then there was all that money scattered around. Big money could make a criminal out of an ordinarily honest man. The bank's money could disappear if the wrong person stumbled across the massacre.
My solution was better.
We loaded into Lori's truck and found a pay phone alongside a store. I was pretty certain the police could not track a call in just a minute or two, but I wasn't taking chances.
I got ready while Lori found the Newport substation number. I stuck a smooth stone in each cheek and one behind my lower lip. When I spoke, I would hold my nose and have a layer or two of handkerchief over the telephone mouthpiece.
Lori dialed.
The connection was awful. Background noise sounded like fingernails on a blackboard. I hoped the reception was just as rotten both ways. My God, the distance was only about ten miles.
The phone answerer was a woman, or maybe a man with a high pitched voice.
I said, "If you want to know about the bank robberies up in Perry County, ask Spider Seeber from Duncannon and Jello Gorse from over in Steelton."
The police voice asked, "May I have your name and address ma'am?"
I loved it. I too sounded female. For the first and probably the last time I blessed the idiocy of the AT&T breakup that gave us lousy telephone service.
"Seeber and Gorse. That last one is spelled G - 0 - R - S - E. They also killed a girl and buried her in the Biker's Club backyard under some junk."
I couldn't understand the next words from the other end, and I wanted to get off.
I added, "Just ask Spider Seeber. He and Jello Gorse robbed the banks. Seeber's got a place somewhere up along the Juniata River. You can find him."
I hung up and spit out the stones on the way back to the truck. Lori wasn't with me. I looked back, and she was wiping off the telephone with her scarf.
She caught up and said grimly, "No fingerprints. I wiped down the directory page with the state police number, just in case." My kind of gal. If we ever turned to a life of crime, we could outdo Bonnie and Clyde.
We drove back to the cabin, deliberately talking about other things. We both needed relief from the tensions of knowing what lay just over my ridgeline. I reached across and took her hand.
"I said, "Thank you, honey. I'd have had a devil of a time alone." I kept hold of the hand.
Often when we were alone, Chris came into our conversations. He did again. After a bit, I said, "Chris ought to have a man in the house."
Old "smooth as silk" Gene Perry was making his first move. I squeezed Lori's hand.
She answered gravely, "It will have to be the right man, Gene." She squeezed back.
I figured that was enough for now. With so much coming down, this wasn't the best moment for romance.
+++
It was midafternoon before sirens started, but once they began, every police car in Pennsylvania must have gone into Spider's lane. It would have seemed phony not to appear. Who could resist next door sirens? Lori got me up, and we rode down my lane to see what was going on.
Spider's lane was closed off and the explanations we got were minimal. A trooper took our names and asked us to stick around. All he would say was that the blocked off road was a crime scene.
Jim Doyle walked up, and we speculated on what could be going on. We agreed that although we had heard no shots, there could be some kind of hostage situation. It seemed the only explanation for so many police cruisers.
We watched the goings and comings, including an increasing number of news persons, but we learned nothing more. Jim went home. So did we.
The phone was ringing in the cabin. It was Vonnie Doyle, wondering if we had seen Jim. Vonnie wanted details. We had none, beyond a lot of police vehicles, including some ambulances.
It turned out that the Quail Call had the better gossip. At the restaurant they said a whole bunch of people were dead over at Spider's. We asked, who? But no one knew, yet.
Because we were expecting police, I chose to sit outside in my rocker. Thoroughly codeine dosed, I was ready. Lori was just a casual visitor.
Two interrogators came. They were not as cool and collected as they strove to appear. This was a big one, and they knew it. Their enthusiasm crept through.
They could have been Smith and Jones for all I registered their names or their organization. I, too, was struggling for naturalness.
With our permission, the two used a tape recorder. They perched it on the porch railing and pulled up chairs.
We went through what great country Perry County was, and an obligatory bit about the weather. Then they asked what we knew about what was going on next door.
I told them that Jim and I figured it was hostages, maybe some kind of kidnapping, but that Vonnie said the word at the Quail Call restaurant was that some people were dead over at Seeber's.
One interviewer shook his head and said, "God." I took that to mean he could hardly believe how word spread.
Hah, he didn't know Perry County. By dark, the whole township would have the details, though some would be comfortably garbled. By bedtime, the entire county would possess more tortured, but basically complete versions.
Did I know Seeber?
Of course, since childhood. I blahed about how we'd always lived here.
Was I his friend or a close acquaintance?
That was easy. Hell no! Spider was mean, sleazy, and inhospitable. He wasn't welcome here, nor was I invited there.
Seeber's friends?
I doubted he had any, but he sat with the same men pretty often at the restaurant, and he had a job somewhere, so people said.
All the usual and reasonable questions were asked. When had I last seen Seeber? Did I ride a motorcycle? Had I seen a huge biker with or around Seeber? I didn't have to lie too much, and I did not have to invent any hard-to-remember stories.
Lori barely got in it. Of course she knew Spider, everyone did. He was creepy, and she hadn't spoken to him in fifteen or more years.
They began to leave, and I got up when they were watching their footing on the porch step. I accepted each offered handshake. Lori stood just in front of my left side, blocking their view a little.
One looked down the well, and I invited him to taste the best water in Perry County. He waved off, which I appreciated. Lori would have had to haul the bucket.
They drove out. I figured more would come after a day or two got the investigation organized.
+++
The next police official drifted down off the ridge. I was reading on the porch and saw him push into my clearing.
I guessed he was police although there were no outward signs. He was older and dressed woodsy, with corduroy pants and a chamois-looking L.L. Bean shirt. When I invited him aboard, his boots left Vibram sole prints on the porch floor.
It was Monday, almost three full days had gone by since Jello had bounced me off walls. I felt some better, but bad hurts don't heal in days. I moved easier, but for now, my left arm was nearly useless.
We sat, rocked, talked weather of course, and finally got around to the neighborhood. This one was no three piece suit desk jockey. I figured he had been brought in from somewhere because he was good.
I was, in fact, eager to discover how good he was. The more he and the others figured out, the more improbable it would seem that I was in any way involved.
He identified himself about as I guessed. New England was his usual stomping ground, but this case had experts in from everywhere.
He asked, "You ever go over to Seeber's hollow? I mean, any time this summer?"
"Yeh, I went over when I first got back. Until this summer, I only used this cabin a couple of weeks a year. I wondered if Spider was still around and if anything was different."
The officer seemed to accept the explanation. I went on. "Spider wasn't around, and the place looked even more run down than I remembered. I ran into Seeber in a restaurant a little later, and he reminded me that we weren't buddies and to stay away."
I laughed ligh
tly, to show my unconcern. "I didn't plan on visiting old Spider anyway."
I paused to hitch up a pant leg, so he could get a good look at the scar maze left by the sow grizzly. "I'm still getting over one hell of a grizzly bear mauling. I don't get around too good now, and back then, my walks were painful. I took them more for therapy than pleasure."
My bear story ate up a good half hour. I hoped it made me more of an interesting acquaintance and less of an object of suspicion.
The officer said, "Well, your neighbor set some trip wires and laid out a sand bed on the trail going over. It looks as though he wanted to know if you were checking on him. Don't go up on the ridge for a week or so, until all the investigating is done."
He looked closely when he said, "Did you know there are marijuana plants growing on your land?"
I am sure my wonder appeared legitimate, because I was surprised. I believed I had scouted my woods and Spider's quite thoroughly. Gene Perry, the veteran Alaskan tracker, blows it again.
"Yep, your former neighbor put in plants on his own land, and didn't mind his borders too closely."
I had to laugh again. "No wonder Spider didn't make me welcome."
My visitor's forehead wrinkled in curiosity. "Why was Seeber called Spider? No one has addressed that."
I explained it and enjoyed the old tale. In story form, Spider sounded like an amusing character. The next time I described Seeber, I would emphasize his nasty ways.
I hoped that when the press explored Seeber's background, they would not glamorize him.
I could just imagine some story hungry reporter calling him "The Perry County Wildman" or "The Crazed Perry County Mountain Man." Seeber was a sorry specimen and should be remembered that way.
Other policemen came and took formal statements, but they were obviously just rounding out the investigation. I added nothing to what they already knew. In their minds I was not involved.
Another agent of some kind came to tell me that the marijuana plants had been removed and that various traps placed along the ridgeline, probably by Mister Seeber, had been taken as contributory evidence.
To me, the interesting part of the last report was that Spider was, for the first time in my presence, elevated to Mister. Certainly, that was more professional than just Seeber, but I hoped Spider wasn't gaining status.
+++
The press really hummed on the Seeber/Gorse crimes.
Of course they did. The names were made for TV. Spider and Jello, how could you top those?
It turned out that one of the poisoned robbers was called Smoke, another answered to Chopper, and a third was known as Dumbo. A reader or listener might almost welcome a Harry, Frank, or Charles.
For five days the slaughter made network prime time news. Local stations and papers worked the story for another ten days. It was a long exposure for America's petite interest span.
For another two weeks, odd paragraphs appeared.
Thereafter, new crimes and professional football relegated Seeber and company to history's trash pile.
I could not rid myself of the terrors quite that quickly. I repeatedly woke, sweating and straining from nightmares where Gorse again had me in his grip or where Spider was kicking me into a pit cluttered with bodies.
It looked for a while as though I had new memories to add to those the Vietnam War had permanently imbedded.
+++
EPILOGUE
All of that was more than two years ago. Spider Seeber is now a name rarely mentioned. It is not that the world forgets, but we do move on to newer, more shocking, titillating, or adventurous incidents.
An incident was all the multiple robberies and murders were to most of the nation. Perry Countians were closer to the excitement of course, but even among us, few were personally touched.
No one ever associated Gene Perry with Spider, beyond a half-interested, "Don't you live over near where that outlaw bunch killed each other?"
1 usually answered, "Yeah, that was down the road apiece." It was normally enough, and I was always pleased to change the subject.
Our antique business does surprisingly well. Despite ever spiraling prices, customers find us and return with their friends. We buy what we can and spend customerless time refinishing significant pieces.
Significant, as antiquers use the word, is supposed to indicate historical or styling importance. All it really means is that we can get a lot of money for the thing.
We have incorporated many of the basic tricks of the antiquer's trade. We stock a large room full of junky stuff. There is small but steady money in sad irons, old bottles, and wooden or tin kitchen gadgets. Visitors like to buy something. If nothing else strikes their eye, they will still spend a few dollars on knickknacks.
There is still a macabre market for souvenirs of the Seeber massacre. A fellow showed me a nail he said he had picked up right at the site. On impulse, I offered him fifty cents for the souvenir. As I hoped he would, he turned me down and pocketed his nail. The entrepreneur in me was wakened.
I went over the ridge to Seeber's and poked around in the sheds. That was many months after the killings. The place had been severely vandalized. If the house looked shabby before, it was now thoroughly wrecked. Windows were out, doors hung, and the porch roof had collapsed.
I didn't go indoors. I wasn't ready for that yet. In fact, I found it hard to look at the slumped in, empty pit that had once held Seeber's victims.
There had to be a can or bottle of old nails lying around. Every home has some of those. I found a number of cans. The nails were mostly rusty and were of assorted sizes. I brought them home.
In our business's junk room there is a display of photos and newspaper clippings about the Seeber/Gorse crimes. There is also a notice that for one dollar you can purchase a nail taken from the crime scene that is accompanied by a certificate of authentication.
For us, the nail was free and the printed up certificate (authenticated by PERRY ANTIQUES) costs about a nickel. We profit, and I enjoy the irony of making a buck off Seeber's tired leavings.
Of course we have postcards of the "Seeber Murder House." Every shop in Perry County has those.
+++
Our marriage is a good one. The details remain personal. Lori is rock steady and willingly leaves me enough slack to burn out any remaining hunger to roam.
In August Lori runs the business and Chris and I fly to Alaska. Chris took a moose with my .44 Magnum at about seventy-five yards. I got almost as excited as he did.
I haven't been interested in personally taking game for many seasons, but having Chris to teach and enjoy has revived my earlier enthusiasm. Chris is a square shooter and has the makings of a good man. Thanks to his mother's strong example and firm discipline, the boy is off to a good start, which is a lot more than many kids get these days.
+++
I choose these moments to tell the story because the Jello and Spider incident has ended with something of a bang.
A few weeks ago, I bought the Seeber place at Sheriff's Sale. Bidding didn't amount to much. The place was so littered it looked expensive to clean up. Its reputation as a human slaughterhouse undoubtedly turned away some prospective buyers. I got the house and few acres for a song. Tying our place and Spider's together created a pretty decent hunk of woods.
I am sure that if I had applied for permits, cleaning up the Seeber's generational refuse would have involved state and federal environmental approvals. I didn't try.
I did it the Perry County way.
I got a local man, who just went at it. His dozer pushed everything into a huge pile against a steep bank where some Seeber had once taken out shale. He pushed dirt from higher up onto the pile until the debris was deeply buried. He cleared the yard of brush, pushed it into Spider's hole, and leveled everything up.
Then it was time for the house to go. New Buffalo fire department would burn the decrepit ruin while practicing their technique.
After I used my magnet to salvage "authentic"
nails for selling, my operator would bulldoze the ashes and bury them near the major pile.
Before the house burned, we went through it. I figured it would be healthy to face any subconscious fears that might be lurking somewhere within me. Quite naturally, Lori wished to see, with me, where it had all happened.
I have always wondered why people trash places. The Seeber house had really been gone over. I had seen the same thing far out in the Alaskan bush. Passersby junked cabins because, I guess, no one was there to protect them.
The Seeber floors were strewn with broken glass. In the dining room even the bloodied plaster was gone from where the bullet had penetrated Jello's thick body. The table, minus the leg I had used, was scattered about. A door lay on the sofa's remains, ripped from a small hanging corner cupboard.
Hanging cupboard? Lori was feeling it before my newly developed antiquer's eye locked on.
Holy Cow ... wide thick boards with handsome beading. I fingered old fashioned plane marks. There were spoon racks on two shelves. This was not junk. The door had a raised panel and darned if it wasn't pinned together.
Under all the old paint lay one nice piece of primitive furniture. Big bucks had hung right there in plain sight, while ignorant looters dug out bloodstained plaster.
The cupboard was nailed in place with old cut nails.
I carefully pried it loose and placed it and the door outside. We would gently work down the finish. The original paint could be worth saving.
We looked through the rest of the house without seeing anything remotely worth keeping. After finding the cupboard, I had hoped the attic floorboards would be wide and old. That kind of lumber was essential for repairing old furniture. We never had enough.
No luck, the Seeber house wasn't that old, and it had not been built of the best materials.
Not expecting any finds, we had walked over to Spider's. Lori tramped back over the ridge to bring our truck around, to carry the valuable cupboard.
I used the time for a last look at the dining room that had known such brutal violence. Whew, that had been close. My mind had surrendered to the inevitability of death. Only Seeber's greed saved me.
The Sweet Taste (Perry County) Page 15
