Dead Lock (11 page)

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 100
^th
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.

“Welcome to the Caiman’s main salon,” said Scotty. I know my mouth must have been hanging open.

The floor was highly polished teak and the couches and chairs mirrored each other in the same brownish red shade of soft, rich leather. A fireplace graced one end of the cabin, a gleaming mahogany bar the other. There were windows all around, affording passengers a spectacular view of the river.

“Just a little touch of home,” Scotty grinned.

“Wow!” I finally managed to say. “Some home!”

“C’mon, let me show you around.” We paused at the bar toward the back of the salon, where Scotty poured a Scotch and water for me and a bourbon and water for himself. Then, glass in hand he led the way down a narrow staircase positioned just beside the bar.

Once below, we walked along a narrow hallway with staterooms on each side. We ended up at the open doorway to what was obviously the yacht’s master stateroom. I leaned in and took in the view: a large double bed, covered with a rich, light blue comforter, polished wooden cabinets and a shining wood floor covered by a colorful oriental rug.

Was it my imagination or did Scotty hover there behind me a second too long? “Let’s take a look at that back porch upstairs,” I said quickly.

“Sure,” Scotty said. “But if you’re going to be a boater, you’ll have to learn the terminology. It’s not a back porch, it’s the fantail.”

We went up the stairs again to the main salon where Scotty opened the door to the fantail and we walked out onto it. The area resembled a large, covered porch, and ran some 25 feet from the rear of the main salon to the boat’s stern. The deck was the same polished teak; the furniture, wicker couches and chairs, were covered with matching thick, blue patterned cushions.

In the center of it all was a white cloth-covered table set for two diners. Standing next to it was a smiling chef, holding a bottle of red wine.

It turned out to be just the beginning of the surprises in store this evening.

47

“I’ve imported Chef Joseph from the Park Place Hotel downstate in Traverse City,” Scotty said. “He’s going to chef a party I’m having aboard in two weeks. He’s here today and tomorrow making preparations, so I talked him into creating a special meal just for us.”