“And Sam didn’t jump at that?”
One eyebrow went up. “He was seriously tempted. But that would mean never practicing medicine again, and implicitly admitting guilt for a crime he didn’t commit. He asked me if I could guarantee that I’d get him out. I told him no, but just the same, he said, ‘I’ll hang on.’”
“A tough call.”
“Sure as hell was. The prison chaplain has been passing along messages saying if Sam filed a plea for clemency, it would be accepted and he could avoid retrial. After Sam didn’t take the bait, the chaplain told him the state would commute his sentence to manslaughter, and let him out with time served—and all he had to do was fire me as counsel.”
That got another smile out of me. “Sounds like Gerber isn’t the only nervous one.”
“No—another old friend, Louie Seltzer, is now suddenly compassionate, and the Press has suggested editorially that the penal authorities should match Dr. Gerber’s ‘compassionate objectivity.’”
A brunette bunny whose name badge ribbon on her hip was Dolly stopped by to dip and deliver a fresh Scotch to Bailey and another vodka gimlet to me, and smiles to each of us. We thanked her.
I sipped the fresh drink and asked, “Where do I come in?”
He gestured with cigarette in hand. “Now we’re not thumbing through law books looking for loopholes. Now we have a second trial. Suddenly new evidence of Sam’s innocence is paramount. That’s where Nate Heller comes in. You can pick up where you left off for Gardner. You have insights into this case that no other investigator has. I want you back in Cleveland and anywhere else that will be helpful.”
I shrugged a shoulder. “Both Sharon Kern and Lucas Hardmann are in California, or they were.”
“They still are. But my office did some checking on their availability, and both Kern and Hardmann will be in Cleveland, visiting relatives, over the coming July Fourth holiday.”
Fittingly enough.
“If you’re willing and available,” he said, as he lighted up a fresh Pall Mall, “I’ll have a packet sent over to your office with various addresses and a few interesting facts my investigators have turned up—investigators not in your league, of course, but useful nonetheless.”
One PI was a blond beauty who Lee liked to exit his planes with, for the reporters. He would take off his aviator’s jacket and put on his mink topcoat first.
“Now you’re blowing smoke,” I said, which he literally was.
Half a smile now. “Flattery is always the cheapest bribe, even in Chicago. Did you recall that Hardmann’s alibi that night was that he was away visiting a friend?”
“I do.”
The biggest smile so far—still not terribly big, if awfully sly. “But are you aware that his alibi is another doctor who had been Sharon Kern’s fiancé prior—actually, initially, during—her affair with Sam?”
“I did. But I don’t know that anybody’s looked into it seriously.”
“Also,” he continued, “I have some interesting leads to share with you where the Dodges are concerned. They’re divorced now, by the way, Mildred and Marshall. I won’t insult you by telling you how to do your business, but I think putting your focus on the Dodges makes the most sense. I’ve built a theory around them that I hope to introduce in court, and create reasonable doubt.”
“I’d rather hear about that theory, Lee, than read about it in a report.”
His smile was a curtain that lifted only slightly above his teeth. “Good, because I haven’t put it in writing yet. Try this out.”
* * *
With no sign of forcible entry, we know that the doors at the Sheppard house were either unlocked or the killer had a key. In any case, no evidence indicates a strange intruder. The downstairs disorder seems more a cover than a search for valuables—only worthless things taken, and what burglar, what stranger, would hit a woman twenty-five or thirty times?
And if that were somehow the case, what stranger—having murdered Marilyn after she interrupted him—would pause before fleeing, solely to find a thing or two of value? It’s also likely a stranger would take in the entire first floor, upon entering, before going to the second. He would almost certainly notice Sam sleeping on the daybed, in which case he’d hardly climb to the second floor to look around, or attack Marilyn, without disposing of Sam first. More likely he’d slip back out and find another objective. On the other hand, someone familiar with the floor plan, who entered through the Lake Road door and the kitchen, might go up the stairs, if he already knew where Marilyn slept. With the lights out, and the avenue of approach, this individual very possibly might not have seen the sleeping Sam.
It’s reasonable, then, to say that the killer or killers demonstrated familiarity with the home. Both Marshall and Mildred Dodge were familiar with the layout of the Sheppard home, including Marilyn’s bedroom.
Now let’s consider motive. A frenzied killer of this nature is either a psychotic with an urge to kill anyone he came upon, and vent his mindless rage; or, more likely, a person who was angry as hell at Marilyn for personal reasons. The circumstances speak out against some wandering psychotic homicidal sex maniac.
So Marilyn was killed by someone she knew—who hated her.
The first trial focused on “the other woman,” and in a roundabout way, I think they may have been right—but Marilyn Sheppard was the other woman! Mildred Dodge may very well have killed Marilyn when she caught her husband, Marshall, in the act of sexual intercourse, or in a manner indicating he and his willing partner were about to engage in such an act.… Yes, one more Scotch, Dolly. Thank you, dear.
In an eight-month period preceding her death, and probably for longer than that, Marshall Dodge was having an affair with Marilyn. This seems to be more than a lust-driven tryst—Dodge may well have been in love with her. We have a new witness, Nate, who you will read about and interview yourself, who saw Dodge with Marilyn, when her nightgown was off her shoulders and below her breasts, in the front hallway. Dodge was kissing her breasts. This new witness also saw Marilyn hand Dodge a key.
Another new witness, a young woman who you will interview, Nate, was a close friend who visited Marilyn every morning. And also every morning, Dodge would drop by for coffee … and probably something more. A routine was established where, when Dodge arrived, the young woman would leave.
As you might recall, Dodge served Marilyn breakfast in bed, at least once. So he clearly knew the short route to Marilyn’s bedroom. He had a key to the house, we now know. He was also aware Sam left a night-light on across the hall from the bedroom when he went out on nighttime calls. He would have known that the houseguest, Hardmann, was not there, because Hardmann’s car was not in the driveway, where during his stay it regularly was. Dodge might have assumed Hardmann, also a doctor, had gone to the hospital with Sam.
Now, you’ll recall that Marilyn’s pajama tops were pushed up over her breasts.… Thank you, Dolly. Nate, did you want another…? You’re fine? Fine. Again, Marilyn’s pajama top was pushed up, her pajama bottoms down around one leg. This is not consistent with a sex maniac ripping away his victim’s clothes—it does indicate hurried sexual intercourse.
Marilyn was a lovely young woman. Mildred Dodge was not. Would it be fair of me to describe Mildred as an unusually unsightly female? Unkind perhaps, but accurate. Such women are understandably resentful of female beauty, and often are insecure in their own romantic relations, shall we say. Almost certainly she suspected what was going on between her husband and their attractive neighbor.
If on the night in question Mildred discovered at some point her husband had left the house, she might well know where to look for him. She would likely walk there, and it would be natural for her to take along a flashlight. That flashlight would have been in her hand when she arrived at the house. Whispers and noisy bed springs from the second floor could have easily encouraged her to climb the stairs. If she turned the flashlight beam on Marilyn and Marshall, what she saw could be cause for murder�
��the kind of frenzied murder the physical evidence tells us took place.
The wounds inflicted upon Marilyn could well have been inflicted with a metal flashlight, and by beating with fists. Mildred, by the way, is left-handed. Marilyn’s fatal injuries are consistent with the strength of a woman—more so than a man. And the number of blows is consistent with the act of a woman flooded with jealous hatred.… Oh, thank you, Dolly. What a darling girl you are.
Sam Sheppard’s spontaneous reference to Marilyn’s killer was ‘they,’ indicating the presence of more than one person. Marshall Dodge, ashamed and shoved aside by his wife, was in a position—when Sam charged to the top of the stairs—to deliver that blow to the back of Sam’s neck.
The aftermath, with Sam unconscious upstairs, was a hurried approximation of a robbery, probably after Marshall sent his wife home to dispose of her bloody clothing. Then came Sam down the stairs, and the pursuit to the beach, with the attendant struggle, followed.
But out of all these incriminating facts, the behavior of the Dodges, after they received Sam’s frantic call, is the most damning. After hearing Sam—’Marsh, come quick, I think they have killed Marilyn!’—does he call the police? No. Does he grab a weapon? No. Does he leave his wife at home behind securely locked doors? No. Does he respond immediately? No.
Instead, he gets up and gets dressed. His wife does the same—he waits for her to do so. He takes no weapon. He doesn’t lock his doors. He gets in his car and drives the one hundred yards to Marilyn Sheppard’s home, a trip he’s made on foot countless times. He enters the Sheppard house taking no precautions, with his wife at his side.
As for Mildred, she did not hesitate to accompany her husband. She showed no fear. She did not lock her home, even though ‘they’—killers—could have been in the area. Without being told by Sam where Marilyn was, Mildred made a beeline to the second-floor bedroom, in spite of any dangers that might await.
If guilty, the couple would have known there was no danger. Marshall would know that Mildred was responsible for this tragedy, in which he was now an accomplice, and likely ordered her to come along and help him do whatever might need doing. Both would know where the body lay, without being told. They would have their car handy, if they needed to run. They would be in a position to kill Sam or Marilyn, should Sam have come to realize who had done this to him, as Marilyn, if still alive, surely would have. They would have killed her then. They placed no calls to the police until the situation had fully presented itself.
“It’s a workable theory,” I said.
“I believe it’s more than a theory,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I’m convinced the Dodges are responsible.”
I sipped my gimlet as he lighted up yet another Pall Mall. “Lee, I don’t work it out that way. It’s trying to prove a conclusion you’ve already come to, which tends to exclude any evidence that doesn’t fit. Frankly, it’s the way Gerber and the rest of that Cleveland crowd railroaded Dr. Sam Sheppard.”
He twitched a smile and smoke curled from his lips.
“You’re right, of course,” he said. “And if you can find a better murderer or two, by all means do so. You are going to take the job?”
“Yes.” I grunted a laugh. “But I have to tell you, going back to Cleveland holds little appeal.”
“Who really does relish going to Cleveland?”
I shook my head. “For me, it’s just got too many ghosts.”
His laugh was barely audible and nothing to do with humor. “Your friend Eliot,” he said. “And Flo—she accompanied you on those Cleveland interviews in ’57, didn’t she?”
I nodded.
He chuckled. “You know, I may owe a good share of that Supreme Court win to you, Nate.”
“How’s that?”
“You advised me to talk to Flo. To remind her that Judge Blythin was dead, and any responsibility to protect him was past. I had no idea what you were talking about.”
“I figured she’d do the right thing.”
“And she did. I’m just relieved she gave me that deposition before we lost her. Did she really take her life?”
I sighed. “She was working on a book called Murder One, Lee. Due to be published next year by her friend Bennett Cerf. One of the key chapters is the Sheppard case, open-ended of course. But the big finish? She had the inside dope on the JFK assassination. She got Jack Ruby to talk. She was a wonder. So, no. She didn’t really take her life.”
He lifted his tumbler of bourbon. “Here’s to Flo. Let’s see if you can finish that Sheppard chapter for her.”
CHAPTER
13
I lured Flo Kilgore back to Cleveland—in January 1964—on one of two jobs relating to the Sam Sheppard case I took on for F. Lee Bailey, prior to the investigative work in ’66. Flo was eager to make the trip—what good reporter wouldn’t have gone to far worse places than Cleveland for an exclusive like this?
After picking her up at Cleveland Hopkins International Airport, I shared with her what I’d learned from a private detective agency in Düsseldorf, West Germany. She already knew some of the background, but you may not, so here it is.
In December 1962, Lee Bailey received a letter postmarked West Germany. Folded up in red stationery, with “Ariane” printed in white at the top, was a check for one thousand marks—$253 American—the biggest donation to date from a single person for the Sam Sheppard defense fund.
Bailey learned from brother Steve that Sam had been exchanging letters with Ariane Tebbenjohanns for several years now, a jailhouse romance having long since blossomed. Snapshots sent to Sam showed a gorgeous blonde in her late twenties, striking various sultry poses. Maybe in reality she was a homely Brunhilda hiding behind somebody else’s pictures. But somehow Lee didn’t think so, considering the fancy red stationery with the white “Ariane” letterhead.
Checking on her for him, I called the A-1’s Düsseldorf contact and soon had a report. Seemed Ariane was the well-known daughter of a deceased wealthy inventor of water purification systems. Purification must have been in her blood, because she appeared to be swapping the French Riviera and Swiss Alps for a prison romance in Marion, Ohio, at the minimum-security facility Dr. Sam was transferred to in ’61.
The sort-of English-speaking operative told me on the phone, “She is what you call vild. Can drink good vodka all night long. Svears like a beer-barrel transporter.”
I guessed that was the German equivalent of swearing like a sailor.
In ’57, after a rocky six-year marriage, she’d divorced steel-manufacturing magnate Olaf Tebbenjohanns, with whom she had an eleven-year-old daughter named Iris who lived with Ariane’s mother in Düsseldorf. Recently she became so bored with high society and fast living, she’d flown to Ohio to meet her soul mate. Or was that cellmate?
Somehow Ariane had wangled a visitor’s pass, based on the already approved communications between her and Sam. She had arrived in mink, slinky dress, emeralds, dangling earrings and high heels—a prisoner’s platinum-blonde dream-come-true. For four and a half hours, Ariane and Sam sat and talked at a table in a dreary cement-block room, guards behind glass looking on at a respectful distance—Sam was, after all, a model prisoner. By the time she left, wearing a non-emerald necklace with a dove pendant Sam had fashioned for her, they were engaged.
“A romance for the ages,” Flo said.
We were on Route 10, traveling east from the Ohio Turnpike, seven or eight miles from downtown Cleveland. The weather was cold, snowy but not snowing. I had the lining in on my Burberry coat, worn over my gray Botany 500, and was sporting a fedora, which these days I only did during the winter. Private eyes post-JFK mostly went hatless. Flo was in a mink coat over a pink suit with a leopard blouse, pearls at her throat, hot pink pumps on tiny feet.
I said, “Come on, kid. You’re a veteran crime beat reporter. You know these jailhouse romances are nothing out of the ordinary—convicted killers are flypaper to lonely women with ink, paper, postage, and low self-esteem. Basking in
reflected notoriety, playing the mother role, ready to redeem and reform. Putting the pen into pen pal.”
“That’s cynical even for you, Nate Heller.”
“Do you disagree?” I was turning onto Lorain Road, heading to Fairway Park.
“No,” she said with a shrug. “But it makes for great copy.”
The Buckeye Motel was a low-slung L-shaped flat-roofed two stories with a modernistic, Frank Lloyd Wrightish look, unless you knew something about Frank Lloyd Wright. Its fifty-two units had air-conditioning, TV, phone, and wall-to-wall carpeting. I had stayed in worse, but I wasn’t sure about Ariane Tebbenjohanns. These lodgings were not quite what one might find on the Côte d’Azur.
Her room was on the first floor, her front door facing the parking stall where a baby blue Lincoln Continental roosted, looking no more out of place than a flying saucer.
I knocked twice and the door opened, nightlatch in place; a very dark brown eye—in what appeared to be an attractive if rather thin-lipped female face, topped by platinum hair that startled against tanned flesh—regarded me and my companion.
“Mr. Heller? Miss Kilgore?” The German accent was thick but the words perfectly pronounced.
We said yes.
The door closed for the unfastening of the latch, then opened wide. She was quite pretty, eyes large, nose pert, face oval with some sharp but attractive angles—she resembled Kim Novak, right down to the stingy but explosive smile. Her platinum hair had bangs in front and a ponytail in back. She wore a dark suit with white mink collar and cuffs and hemline trim; her heels were high enough to make her petite, gently curvy figure seem more formidable.
“Do come in,” she said pleasantly, her voice a nice alto and not guttural, despite the heavy accent.
Our hostess took our hats and topcoats, folding the latter gently, depositing everything neatly onto a chair by the front window, then gestured with a red-nailed hand to the drably modern motel room. Two chairs had already been pulled around to face the side of the double bed in anticipation of our arrival. On the dresser, their reflection in the mirror looking back at them, were a bottle of Smirnoff, an ice bucket, a twenty-eight-ounce bottle of Canada Dry ginger ale, and some bathroom glasses, all but one wearing its paper crown.
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