Dead Lock

by B. David Warner

  Five minutes later I was on the phone to Shirley’s counselor, a Mr. Tyson.

  “I’m sorry,” Tyson said. “There’s nothing on Miss Benoit’s transcript that indicates any type of job placement after she left the University. We do have a placement center, though. You could try there.”

  I did.

  Dead end.

  59

  Wednesday, June 30

  My investigation into Shirley’s murder had run up against the proverbial brick wall.

  I was disappointed; but I felt even worse about not being able to help prove that Corporal Cummins was innocent. He seemed willing to face a life sentence in prison rather than call on Felice as the only person who could convince a jury that he hadn’t killed Shirley Benoit.

  That’s when the idea of a second option struck me. Maybe the weight of the Soo Morning News could be directed at the sheriff through its news and editorial pages.

  I didn’t know how much support I could get from Crawford, but it was worth a try. And I was willing to go over his head to my uncle if I had to.

  Fortunately, I found both men in G.P.’s office the next morning. Without mentioning Felice’s name, I laid out the story as I now knew it: that an unnamed source had confided that she had been with the corporal at the time of Shirley’s murder. I ended my comments with a suggestion that the Soo Morning News champion the corporal’s cause.

  “I’m against it,” Jack Crawford said almost before I had finished. “It’s too risky right now. The whole damn situation could blow up right in our faces.”

  I wasn’t going to let go that easily. “What do you mean, risky?”

  “Don’t you know what’s going on downstate?” Crawford said. “Detroit is still recovering from a race riot that left the city practically in flames.”

  “But what’s that got to do with Corporal Cummins?” I asked. “This is Sault Ste. Marie, not Detroit. And an innocent man is being held in jail.”

  G.P. weighed in. “There’s some history you need to know about, Kate,” he said. “When the army announced that troops would be sent up here to guard the locks, the townspeople were ecstatic. Most of our local boys are in the service, many serving in the artillery. The natural assumption was that they would be coming home.”

  “Yes?”

  “Instead, the army sent a battalion of soldiers from New Orleans, most of them colored.”

  “How does that justify holding an innocent man in jail?”

  Crawford frowned. “If Cummins is released now, it could rub the townspeople the wrong way. There could be trouble. Maybe a race riot right here.”

  I turned to my uncle. “G.P., you’ve always stood for what’s right, no matter what the circumstances were. And right now the circumstance is that an innocent man is in jail.”

  He paused, his lips pursed. “Maybe there’s a way to do the right thing, and still keep the peace among the townspeople.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Crawford.

  “Kate, I want you to write an editorial. But don’t go so far as suggesting Corporal Cummins’ outright release. Instead, let’s suggest he be turned over to his superiors at Fort Brady. I know Colonel Woods, the Fort Commander, and he’s an honorable man. He’ll hold the corporal accountable, but if he feels Cummins is as innocent as you do, he’ll do the right thing.”

  Crawford started to object, but G.P. cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I understand the risks, Jack. But the Soo Morning News has a tradition of taking a strong position on human rights issues like this. We’re not going to play dead on this, no matter what the repercussions might be.”

  I could have hugged my uncle, but thought better of it. I couldn’t help smiling, though.

  G.P. looked my way. “Kate get busy on that editorial. And I want you to write any follow up stories that might be needed.”

  My smile got brighter. “Thanks, G.P.”

  “That’s on top of your assignment to cover the progress of the new lock.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  I left the office in a hurry, already writing the editorial in my head.

  60

  Thursday, July 1, 1943

  A Soo Morning News Editorial:

  Our Jail Holds An Innocent Man

  The people of Sault Ste. Marie are all too familiar with the tragic murder of Shirley Benoit, one of our town’s most popular citizens. The young woman, who worked as a waitress at Blades Larue’s Restaurant, was struck down by a ruthless killer last Thursday morning.

  But there is a second tragedy that has risen out of Miss Benoit’s murder of which we believe our town’s residents should be aware. It is the arrest and incarceration of U.S. Army Corporal Roy Cummins. Corporal Cummins has been charged with Miss Benoit’s murder.

  The Soo Morning News believes that Corporal Cummins, a Negro, is guilty of nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was arrested by sheriff’s deputies later that same morning two blocks from Blades Larue’s Restaurant.

  Miss Benoit was slashed with a sharp blade, causing a great loss of blood. Yet, when apprehended a short time later, Corporal Cummins had no blood on his hands or clothing.

  Dr. Kenneth Larsen, Sault Ste. Marie’s coroner for the past 20 years, states that the wounds on Miss Benoit’s body point to a right-handed assailant. Corporal Cummins is left-handed.

  The Soo Morning News believes strongly that Corporal Cummins is being held in our city’s jail simply because Sheriff Carl Valenti lacks any other suspects in the case.

  Further, it is our opinion that Sheriff Valenti should either show that he has more evidence of Corporal Cummins’ guilt than he has produced so far, or turn the soldier over to the army at Fort Brady immediately.

  61

  Thursday, July 1

  10 days before the dedication

  I had expected a reaction from my editorial, but what happened surprised even me.

  “You missed all the fireworks,” Andy Checkle said as I arrived around ten o’clock Thursday morning. I had stopped at the Army Corps of Engineers to check on the progress of the MacArthur Lock.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  Sheriff Valenti paid Crawford a visit early this morning,” Andy said. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear the shouting way over at the locks.”

  “Fill me in.”

  “Valenti wanted to know who wrote the editorial. Crawford stonewalled at first, saying whatever appears on the editorial page is the opinion of the entire Soo Morning News editorial staff. He told Valenti to forget it. He said it didn’t matter who the individual writer was.”

  I wondered how long that lasted. I wondered how long Crawford kept it up before he caved in and told the sheriff I had written the opinion piece.

  “So he finally broke down and told Valenti who wrote the editorial?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  I shook my head. It was just a matter of time before the sheriff came looking for me.

  “Crawford admitted that he wrote it,” Andy said. “And then dared Valenti to do something about it.”

  Crawford? Jack Crawford? The same Jack Crawford I had been on the verge of telling to go to hell more times than I could count? That Jack Crawford?

  “Yeah, Crawford really stood up to Valenti,” Andy said. “Of course Valenti couldn’t really do anything about it. Legally, I mean. But I wouldn’t want to be in Crawford’s shoes driving around town. Valenti will have his deputies on the alert. Why, as little as a mile an hour over the speed limit and Crawford will probably find himself paying a ticket.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said.

  “Why would he write that editorial anyway?” Andy asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought Crawford was a smart guy. Why would he put his neck in a noose like that?”

  “Maybe because he stood up for what he believed in,” I said. I turned on my heel and walked to Crawford’s office.

  He was at his desk.

  “Jack?”<
br />
  He looked up.

  “Thanks for sticking up for me.”

  He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Andy Checkle described your bout with Sheriff Valenti.”

  Crawford smiled. “I’m afraid that bout wasn’t much more than a two rounder,” he said. “Our good sheriff is a lot more bark than bite.”

  “Still, I appreciate it. And I’m sure Corporal Cummins would, too.”

  “Speaking of the corporal, I talked to his commanding officer, Colonel Woods.”

  “Yes?”

  “The army’s stepping in. They’re going to demand custody of the corporal. And I think once they see the evidence, or lack of it, he’s going to be a free man.”

  I found Andy Checkle waiting for me just outside Crawford’s office.

  “Say, about that editorial. . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “Why. . .uh. . .you. . .you didn’t. . .”

  “Yes I did.”

  I left Andy scratching his head.

  62

  Friday, July 2

  Finding G.P. alone in his office the next morning, I inquired whether the Canadian authorities had reported spotting anything suspicious during their air searches of northern Canada.

  If the Germans were planning an air raid on the locks, their operations wouldn’t have to be large, just big enough to assemble a few planes brought in by submarine in pieces. That and a strip long enough to take off.

  “Sorry,” G.P. said. “There’s nothing so far. But I’m talking to my contacts in Washington every day. They can’t say anything directly, of course. But I do get the impression that the British are still intercepting reports of an attempt on the locks during the dedication.”

  “What about calling off the ceremony?” I asked. “Has anyone considered the fact that thousands of lives will be at risk?”

  “Of course they have, Kate,” G.P. said. “You’ve seen the precautions the army is taking. They’ve set up four radar sites over in Ontario and places like Cochrane and Hearst. They’ll give us an early warning, should the Nazis try anything. And with all those barrage balloons blocking the way, it would be darned near impossible for a plane to get within a half mile of the locks.”

  “And if one should?”

  “The artillery will be waiting. I’ve talked with some of the soldiers manning those weapons. They’re actually hoping the Krauts make it through. They’re ready to blast them out of the sky.”

  I felt a little better after talking with G.P. He seemed convinced an attack couldn’t possibly be successful.

  Still, I couldn’t get the picture out of my mind: thousands of innocent men, women and children being strafed by German dive bombers.

  Later that afternoon, I got what I considered a fairly bright idea.

  My investigation into Shirley’s history had run into a dead end in Ann Arbor. Maybe I could find out more about Shirley by starting here in the Soo and tracking backwards. It was a long shot, but I had nothing else to go on. I decided to pay a visit to Blades Larue.

  63

  It was mid-afternoon when I reached Blades Larue’s and with the lunch rush over, I found the place nearly empty. I saw Felice Miller back in the kitchen and waved to her. She came out to greet me.

  “Kate, I want to thank you for all you did to get Roy freed,” she said.

  “He’s not being held anymore?”

  “When the sheriff turned him over to the army, Roy’s commanding officer took one look at the so-called evidence and told him to report back to duty. He’s manning one of the guns at the locks right now.”

  I glanced around the room at the few occupants. No one was listening to our conversation. “What’s in the future for you two?”

  She looked down at the floor. “We’ve decided to go separate ways,” she said. “Roy was right. After the war he’s going back to the South to teach. He knows he’s needed there. And . . .” She paused. “There’s no future for what they call a mixed marriage.”

  Blades Larue walked in the back door from the alley. “Hi, Kate,” he called. “You here for an early supper?”

  I told Blades what I was looking for: any references Shirley might have provided when he hired her last January.

  “Let me look,” he said. “Seems to me she had worked at a restaurant over toward Wisconsin.”

  I said goodbye to Felice and followed Blades back through the kitchen, into his small office. Papers were scattered everywhere. They littered the top of his wooden desk. He sat in the chair after clearing a pile of papers from it and reached down into the bottom drawer of the desk.

  He retrieved another pile of papers and began to leaf through them. This was obviously a routine he went through often. “Pay dirt,” he said triumphantly, holding up one sheet. “Shirley worked at a place called The Stop Inn over in Negaunee. Owned by a Mr. and Mrs. Wilson.”

  “Is there a telephone number?”

  “Sure. Call from here if you’d like.”

  Blades must have been feeling generous; it was a long distance call. I made it a point to place it station-to-station so it wouldn’t cost as much.

  “Hello?” It was a woman’s voice.

  “Mrs. Wilson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Wilson, I’m calling about a woman who worked for you up until last December. Her name was Shirley Benoit.”

  There was silence at the other end of the line.

  “Mrs. Wilson? Mrs. Wilson, are you there?”

  “Yes. But I don’t know any Shirley Benoit. I’m sorry.” There was a click on the other end of the line and she was gone.

  64

  I got back to the Morning News just in time to find Jack Crawford leaving for the day.

  “Jack, can I see you for a minute?”

  He did an about face and walked back into his office. I followed and closed the door.

  He turned to face me. “What’s this all about?”

  “I need a couple of days off.”

  “Days off? With the July 4th weekend and Wednesday’s special historical edition coming up? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Jack, I may have found a clue to Shirley’s murder.” I went through my findings with Crawford, ending with the call to the woman at the Stop Inn. “So you see, I’ve got to go to Negaunee.”

  “Look Kate, you’re a reporter not a private detective. Leave these matters to the professionals. The sheriff, for instance.”

  “Professionals? You mean the sheriff who locked up the wrong man? The sheriff who kept him in jail for days even though it was probable that he was innocent?

  “That’s the professional you want me to trust with finding the murderer of my best friend?”

  Crawford headed toward the door. “Kate with the dedication coming up I need you here at the Morning News. And I need you every day. That’s final.”

  With that, he walked out and closed the door, leaving me in his office.

  I ran to the door, but when I opened it, Crawford was already heading down the steps and out the front door.

  65

  Saturday, July 3

  I woke up the next morning looking forward to my single day off. With the dedication near, we were all expected to work through the following week and weekend. But I vowed I would celebrate my freedom today.

  The radio had the latest news from Europe: RAF bombers had raided Trapani, Sicily and Olbia, Sardinia.

  I had just finished dressing when I heard a knock at the front door.

  I was surprised to see Jack Crawford standing on the porch. “I, uh, I just came over to talk for a minute,” he said. It was the first time I had ever seen him fumbling for words.

  “Come in, Mr. Crawford.” It was back to “Mr. Crawford.” I still felt miffed from his attitude the day before.

  I invited him to sit on the couch in the front room; I took one of the two overstuffed chairs. As we sat, Mick entered the room, and to my surprise, walked over to Crawford and hopped up on the couch next to him as i
f they were old friends.

  Traitor!

  Crawford placed a hand on Mick’s head and began scratching him behind the ears. Again, I found myself amazed at the size of his paws – Crawford’s not Mick’s. His hand covered Mick’s huge head like a yarmulke.

  For his part, Mick seemed to relish the attention, closing his eyes and soaking it all in.

  “I’m sorry if I seemed a bit gruff last evening,” Crawford began. “It was a tough day at the office and I’m afraid I took it out on you.”

  He looked at me as if he expected some sort of commiseration, but damned if I was going to give him any quarter.

  He went on. “You really want to carry out this investigation of yours?”

  “Shirley Benoit was a special friend,” I said. “I think I owe her memory the courtesy of finding out why she died, and if possible, who killed her.”

  “And you think that necessitates taking time off for a drive to Negaunee?”

  I went back over what I had told him the evening before. “Mrs. Wilson, the woman who owns the Stop Inn, the restaurant where Shirley claimed she worked, says she never heard of her,” I said. “That just doesn’t’ wash. Shirley’s not the type who would falsify her resume.”

  Crawford nodded, his lips pursed. “Alright, I’ll give you three days off.”

  I suddenly felt much better about Crawford. Maybe Mick had him pegged right after all. “Thank you, Jack. I won’t let you or the newspaper down. I know there’s a story here.”

  He held up a hand. “But, there’s a condition. This is the Independence Day weekend and I need your help. I also need you on the Lock History Edition due out Wednesday. If you’ll work from today through Monday, I’ll give you the next three days off immediately afterwards.”