by Ben Benson
Algeria blinked again. “Somers, huh? No, I don’t remember nobody by that name.”
“A green Chrysler sedan,” Constanza prodded. “Middle-aged guy with gray temples.”
“No,” Algeria said. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“What kind of cigarettes do you smoke?”
“Any kind I can get.”
“Luckies?”
“Sure.”
“Chesterfields?”
“Sure. I ain’t fussy. I smoke anything that comes along.”
“We found a pack of Chesterfields on you.”
“I know it. So what, Sergeant?”
“You’ve seen the papers, haven’t you, Algie?”
“No.”
“You’re contradicting yourself, Algie. You just told us how you watched for news to see if your victims reported anything.”
“I know,” Algeria said. “But the last couple of weeks we weren’t doing so much. We’ve been staying in a rooming house in Lowell. Top and I were on the booze and we were sending Betsy out alone to see what she could do. She didn’t do much. Our money just about run out last night. That’s why the three of us went to pull the job this morning.”
“Somers was murdered off Route 25 in Baycroft,” Constanza said. “The trooper here asked Top about it in the car. Top said yes. You remember that?”
“Yeah, I recall something like that. But Top was bragging. He didn’t know what he was saying. He was trying to act heavy.”
“You think again,” Constanza said. “Take your time, Algie.”
Algeria shook his head vehemently. “I don’t even know where Baycroft is. I’ll bet we were in jail in Providence on the seventh. I’ll bet anything, Sergeant.”
“Let’s start all over again,” Constanza said. “Friday, June seventh—”
Chapter 12
An hour later Constanza had made no progress with Algeria. Algeria denied steadily being in Baycroft on June seventh, or of personally committing any crimes in Massachusetts. It was then that Detective-Lieutenants Edward Newpole and Sam Gahagan arrived at the barracks to take over.
I took the tagged .32-caliber Harrington & Richardson revolver and its six cartridges, put them in a box and drove to General Headquarters in Boston, to the ballistics laboratory on the fourth floor. There was a surging hope in me that we had come to the important break in the Somers case. If it had come, it had arrived, not in any bizarre or spectacular fashion, but by the usual information and routine plodding.
There would be no report from Lieutenant Dexter in ballistics for several hours, so I didn’t wait. I drove back to Concord by the roundabout way of Ashendon, reminding myself of what Bob Littlefield had said about Karen Morgan, but hoping to catch a glimpse of her anyway.
I didn’t see her in Ashendon. Outside the town I stopped at the diner. There was no Volkswagen parked outside but I went in—just in case.
The only patrons were two truck drivers, sitting at the counter, arguing baseball. I sat down a few stools away and ordered a cup of coffee.
As I drank it, I knew I didn’t want it. I tried to think of one logical reason why I should have driven the roundabout way to Ashendon. There had been no encouragement from Karen Morgan. As for Billy Nesbit, there was no particular feeling of kinship. I admired certain qualities of his. His taste in clothes. The way he handled people—especially girls, with whom I felt so inadequate. His good manners and his smooth speech, and the many other things I could probably learn from him.
But it was not enough. And there was no satisfactory answer. I stood up, pushed away my half-finished coffee, threw a dime on the counter and got out of there.
Chapter 13
1010 Commonwealth Avenue, Boston 15, Mass.
June 22, 1957
From: John H. Dexter, Lieutenant and Supervisor
Ballistics Bureau
To: Edward Newpole, Detective-Lieutenant
Subject: Supplementary Report—Fatal Shooting Eugene L. Somers—Baycroft—June 7, 1957
1. On June 21, 1957, Trooper Ralph Lindsey of A-3 submitted the following weapon to this bureau for consideration, in connection with your investigation of the above captioned case:
.32-caliber Harrington & Richardson revolver, “Premier Model,” bearing serial number 1963174.
This weapon was reported to have been recovered by Trooper Ralph Lindsey, presently stationed at A-3, from the person of Henry Topp.
2. Firing experiments were conducted and test-specimens obtained for microscopic examination. As a result of these examinations, it is my opinion that the fatal bullets recovered from the body of Eugene L. Somers, on June 12, 1957, were not fired from the .32-caliber Harrington & Richardson revolver, serial number 1963174.
3. Be further advised that these test-specimens were checked against the unidentified-ammunition file, with negative results. The serial number of the weapon was checked against the stolen-gun file as well as the files at the sales record bureau. No previous record was found.
4. The weapon will be held at this bureau pending further word from your office regarding the disposition of same.
Respectfully,
John H. Dexter, Lieut.
Detective-Lieutenant Edward Newpole watched me as I read the report. I handed it back to him. We were sitting the next evening in the guardroom of the Concord Barracks.
“No good,” Newpole said. “And these three hitchhikers, the Topps and Algeria, have an ironclad alibi besides. They were in jail in Providence, Rhode Island, the day Somers was murdered.” He stared at me with pursed lips. “Didn’t Algeria tell you and Sergeant Constanza that?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “But Algeria wasn’t very certain. He said he was too drunk to remember.”
“Well, it’s all washed down the drain,” Newpole said, “and we’re back pretty near where we started with the Somers case.” He paused to light his little black pipe and blow acrid smoke toward the ceiling. “Not that you didn’t make a hell of a good pinch on those three people. You did. And we’ll wipe it off quick. They’re going to plead guilty to attempted extortion and armed robbery. There won’t be much of a court appearance for you.”
“But there’s always the paper work,” I said.
Three days passed. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Topp and Arthur Algeria were arraigned in the district court and, in lieu of bail, were held over for indictments by the grand jury.
I went back into uniform. The Somers case had all but disappeared from the newspapers.
A few times I came through Ashendon on my patrols. And once, when I drove through, I saw Karen Morgan outside the Ashendon Superette. She saw the cruiser and waved. I pulled over and stopped.
She seemed troubled. People were knotting up along the sidewalk and looking at the cruiser. She threaded through them, came close to the window and said, “Don’t get out, please. I hate to bother you.”
“You’re never any bother,” I said. “How’s Billy?”
“Oh,” she said with a sigh. “I wish he was more like you.”
“That’s a laugh,” I said. “I don’t know of anybody I envy more than him.”
“I want Billy to be clean and square with everything.”
I took off my sunglasses. “Isn’t he, Karen?”
“Oh, yes,” she said in confusion. “But it’s this trooper business. I wish it was over, one way or another.”
“What about it?”
“I mean in the exam, they check his references and associates, don’t they?”
“Yes, very carefully.”
“And if he’s been associating with Ernie Congdon, they’ll hold it against him, won’t they?”
“Yes. But Billy knows that.”
“I’ve told him so myself. But he has a distorted sense of loyalty to Ernie. Can’t you talk to him?”
“No,” I said. “He knows.”
“Don’t you care anything about him and his future?”
“I don’t think Billy has to worry about his future. And why do you bring me into it
?”
“You know how he feels about you, Ralph. He’d listen to you.”
“He has to make his own choice. He has to stop running the easy way—downhill. I can’t tell him. He has to know himself what’s right and what’s wrong. Otherwise he’ll never be worth a damn.”
“Thank you,” she said, stepping away from the cruiser window. “I suppose I’ll have to find somebody else who’s willing to help him.”
She turned abruptly and went into the store.
It was the day following, Wednesday, June twenty-sixth, when I got the Signal 16. 11:10 A.M. I was in Forge Village investigating a complaint of carnal abuse of a child. It was a sordid, ugly story and the house was sordid and ugly, too. I had come outside into the clean, warm air, had turned up my radio and given the Signal 5 that I was back on the air. The dispatcher answered immediately with my cruiser number 33. “Signal 16,” he said. “Assist Cruiser 31. The four corners at Easterville.”
“33 to K,” I said. “On my way.”
I was three miles from there. I rang off and heard the dispatcher calling Corporal Gillis in Cruiser 30, sending him to the same location. Gillis was in Lincoln about ten miles away, and it would take him at least fifteen minutes to get there.
I raced north to Easterville, using the siren whenever I had to get through a jumble of traffic. Cruiser 31 was Dan Tompkins, older than I, a senior man close to thirty, and a serious-minded bachelor. Whatever it was, the quiet and efficient Tompkins was unable to handle it himself.
I came onto Route 40A, swinging into the outskirts of Easterville. At the four corners, cars were lined up on both sides of the road. People were milling around the center of the macadam, blocking the path. My siren growled at them and they twisted around, peered and gave way.
I parked the cruiser, slid out and pushed through the people. Dan Tompkins was down on his knees on the shoulder of the road. There was a woman sprawled in front of him and he was applying a bandage to her head. Although the blood had run down over her face, and her blond hair was partly stained with blood, I could see she was young and pretty.
In the grass, a few feet from the woman, was a young man. He was flat on his back and his breathing was shallow and uneven, and apparently he was unconscious. Tompkins had covered him with the blue State Police blanket. The man’s face was streaked with blood, and his jaw was queerly askew and slack. I took a quick glance at a black sedan parked on the grass about ten feet ahead, doors open. It did not seem to be damaged.
I bent down next to Tompkins and he looked up gratefully and said, “Ralph, get rid of the rubbernecks first. We want to be ready to move.”
I rose and began driving the crowd back, snapping at them because they were not trying to help, but, in their avid interest, were acting like ghouls. “Break it up,” I said. “Break it up and go home. This is no show. Come on, move.” They edged back and, from the pack, I picked out two husky men. I told them to keep the road open for me. They did.
When I came back to Tompkins, he was standing up. The woman’s blond head was now bandaged like a turban. He said, “Their names are Grace and George Goodcliffe. You take the wife in your cruiser. I’ll take the husband.”
“Easterville Hospital?” I asked.
“That’s the nearest,” he said.
I hurried back to the cruiser. From the trunk I brought out the portable stretcher. We lifted Mrs. Goodcliffe onto it gently and covered her with the blanket. She lay with her eyes closed. I did not know if she was conscious or not and had no time to find out because I was fixing the front seat of my car to make room for the stretcher. We slid the stretcher in lengthwise.
“She’s all set,” Tompkins said, stepping back. “Now help me with the man.”
I went back with him and looked at the man. “Maybe you want to wait, Danny. What if he has a back injury?”
“This wasn’t a car accident,” Tompkins said, taking out his own stretcher. He brought it over beside the man and we slid him onto it.
“The woman spoke a few words to me,” Tompkins said as he strapped the man in. “She said they picked up a hitchhiker and he robbed them. Then the hiker made a play for Mrs. Goodcliffe. She and her husband fought back. The hiker used the gun.”
“Both shot?”
“Just the husband. A bullet in his jaw. The woman was clubbed with the gun butt.”
There was no time for further talk. I helped put the man into Tompkins’ cruiser. It was just then that Corporal Mike Gillis’ car came barreling down the highway. Gillis came out of the cruiser very quickly, breaking up the crowd with that curt, efficient, no-nonsense air of his. An Easterville police car came up as further reinforcements, and the crowd melted away.
Gillis sent us off, saying he would take over and guard the scene of the crime. I set off for the small hospital in Easterville, followed closely by Tompkins. It was a short run. We were there in a few minutes.
The small hospital staff was wonderfully efficient with the victims. A short time later we had a chance to take a quick smoke while Tompkins reported in to the Concord Barracks on the hospital telephone. We were ordered to remain at the hospital, close to the Goodcliffes. Detective-Lieutenant Newpole was being notified.
Leaning against the wall, in the antiseptic-smelling corridor outside the emergency room, I said to Tompkins, “How did you find this thing?”
He took a deep drag on his cigarette, and the tense, strained lines in his face began to soften. “I came by the four corners,” he said, “and saw both of them lying there beside the road near a pine grove. The car was a few feet away, the doors open. No motorist had stopped, so I don’t think they’d been there too long. The girl, you could see, was badly beaten and her clothes torn. The man was shot through the head, but still alive. I saw that fast. There didn’t seem to be much help for him, so I began to work on the woman.”
“Was she able to say much to you?”
“Not too much. She started out crying wildly and hysterically. Then she went under. She came to in a few moments and recognized who I was. That quieted her down. She told me their names and that she and her husband were traveling up to Laconia, New Hampshire, to visit her mother.”
I said, “She sounds like she was able to talk pretty well.”
“For a little while, yes. She kept talking while I was bandaging her head. I told her it would be better if she was quiet. But she thought she was going to die and she wanted to be sure we caught her murderer. What had happened was they had stopped to give this young fellow a lift. He was a good-looking boy and they thought he was okay. He got into the back seat of the car and they drove a couple of miles and the young fellow suddenly poked a gun in the husband’s back and told him to pull over beside a pine grove.”
“Did she give you a description of the hiker?”
“No,” Tompkins said. “I tried to ask, but she was starting to feel pain. It looked like she had a skull fracture.”
“So you couldn’t ask her about the gun, either.”
“No. She’d had a very rough time and the shock was getting to her. I was busy pasting her head together and she kept going under. That’s when you came.”
“Let’s hope she lives,” I said.
“I think she’ll make it.”
“How do you think the husband’s going to make out?”
“You heard the doctors,” he said somberly. “They’re not too happy about him. But I’ve seen worse pull through.” He took a long drag on his cigarette. “Those things you can never figure, anyway. The human body can take a lot of punishment. How many times have you come across an accident where the car is wrapped around a tree? You expect a fatal. And what do you see? The driver is sitting beside the road, nursing a broken crystal on his wrist watch.”
Just then a telephone call came through from the barracks. It was an order for Tompkins to remain at the hospital and for me to return to the scene of the crime.
Chapter 14
When I came back to the edge of the pine grove, there were
a half-dozen troopers there from the Concord, Andover and Topsfield Barracks. Traffic was being shunted along, and Corporal Gillis and the others were carrying on a systematic search of the area.
When I reported to Gillis amidst the pine trees, he showed me a set of car keys. “From the Goodcliffe car,” he said. “Found them about fifteen feet away in the underbrush.”
“The hiker must have heaved them there,” I said. “Just like—”
“Like in the Somers case,” Gillis said. “All right, take it easy, kid. It’ll all come in due time. Right now your job is to go down to the next intersection.” He pointed. “There’s a farm about a half-mile south. Ask them if they saw or heard anything. There’s an outside chance they did.”
Midday had come and passed. I completely forgot about lunch. I went to three farms in the area and asked questions. I got no results.
When I came back to the pine grove, it was after 3:00 P.M. Lieutenant Newpole was there, in a rumpled, gray tropical suit, sucking on his little black pipe. He had already been to the hospital to see the Goodcliffes, but they were both under anesthesia and could not be questioned. Newpole stuffed tobacco in the pipe bowl as he watched the troopers and the technical men at work in the area. He lit the pipe with a common table match. Then he said, “You comparing this with the Somers case, Ralph?”
“It looks very similar, sir,” I said.
“So did the Topps. And another thing, the Somers murder took place in Baycroft, which is twenty-one miles from here.”
“You have to take a radius, sir.”
“What radius?”
“From Ashendon,” I said, “Baycroft is eleven miles. From Easterville to Ashendon it’s ten miles. Ashendon could be a focal point, sir.”
“So?”
“Mrs. Goodcliffe told Dan Tompkins it was a single hitchhiker who did it. A young one. Good-looking. He tried to molest Mrs. Goodcliffe.”
Newpole’s pipe had gone out. He relit it. “And who do you have in Ashendon that’s so hot? Ernie Congdon?”