by Daniel Kamen
“Was he a cop?” asked Marsha, leading Benny to the kitchen away from the kids.
“Yes, a cop,” Benny said as he opened the refrigerator, grabbing two ears of corn that were already cooked.
“What did he say?” Marsha asked, handing her husband a napkin.
“You know, he asked me if I still knew Tommy and Murphy. He probably looked up their files and noticed the 1973 beating. That’s all.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Well, I told him I never kept in touch with them, which I haven’t and that was that. Oh, he did ask me where I was the last two Tuesday evenings.”
“And where were you?” Marsha asked anxiously.
“I told him where I was--at the track. Balmoral,” Benny said while eating off the cob like a buzz saw. “You know how I sometimes keep the losing tickets for tax purposes. I had them from both nights and I showed them to him. That was the end of it.”
All of Marsha’s stress drained out of her face at once. She was convinced her husband had nothing to do with the murders. But she still wasn’t sure if he knew about Tommy.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Saturday, May 23rd, 1992. The weather was getting nice. The students from Wirt along with hundreds of adventure seekers swarmed around Pete’s to talk about the murders. Just off Pete’s property, a souvenir hawker from Chicago set up a stand selling T-shirts depicting grotesque images of a beheaded man that read “IT’S MILLER TIME!” The local politicians weren’t amused.
Benny stayed away from the area that weekend and took his family to see the White Sox play the Blue Jays at U.S. Cellular Field. The Sox won, 5-2.
The “Cell” was no Comiskey Park. Even though Benny was a devout Cubs fan, he still had fond memories of going to the old south side ball park as a kid and cheering for the likes of Hoyt Wilhelm, Tommie Agee, Wilbur Wood, Bill Melton, and Carlos May. Geographically, he was a southsider and should have been a Sox fan. But the first time he set foot in Wrigley Field at age eight and saw the ivy on the outfield walls, he was hooked. This is in someone’s neighborhood, he thought as a kid. It didn’t matter if the Cubs won or not--mostly not. It was where Babe Ruth called the shot and pointed to the center field wall in the fifth inning of game three of the 1932 World Series and hit a home run right in that spot. Being a Cubs fan also added to his character. He learned to live with heartache, especially after that 1969 fiasco when the Cubs led the Mets by nine and a half games on August 14th then took the dive of the century, finishing eight games back and missing the playoffs. It is safe to assume that all Cubs fans are at least eighty-five percent scar tissue.
The next morning, Sunday, May 24th, 1992, Lt. Jefferson decided to pay Gerald Hill and Frank Stram a surprise visit. It was Lt. Jefferson’s day off and he didn’t live far from them--just a couple miles. He drove his blue Lincoln down Tyler Road. He thought he’d stop at Frank’s house first. God, look at this shit hole, Lt. Jefferson thought, shaking his head as he parked in front of Frank’s dilapidated residence. He got out of the car and closed the door behind him. He cautiously approached the house, peering over the fence to see if anyone was in the backyard. He noticed the dog feces and the doghouse but didn’t see any animals. His service revolver was in plain view as he knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again, harder, still no answer. Frank’s truck was parked on the curb so he assumed someone was home. After waiting a full minute he decided to take a peek in the back. He climbed over the chain link fence. His polished boot immediately sank into a pile of dog dung. Is this place filthy, he thought. I don’t see how a rat could live here. All of a sudden he heard loud barking and saw three vicious Pit Bulls charging towards him, gnashing teeth and all. “HOLY FUCK!” he yelled, reflexively pulling his gun out of his shoulder holster. He managed to fire off five quick shots, instantly killing two of the dogs and wounding the third. Though injured, the wounded beast was able to leap onto the Lieutenant and latch onto his left arm with his steel jaws, pinning the officer to the ground. Lt. Jefferson valiantly fought him off by pounding the dog on the head several times with his gun until the ferocious animal retreated. Upon hearing the commotion, Frank bolted from his house carrying a loaded shotgun, and like an insane man, ran outside to help his pets, pointing the barrel directly at the Lieutenant’s face.
“GET UP NIGGER!” Frank demanded, maintaining a firm grip on his weapon. “I said GET UP NIGGER!”
Lt. Jefferson’s sleeve was torn to shreds and his arm bloodied as he retrieved his ID from his inside pocket.
“I’m Lt. Otis Jefferson of the Gary Police Department. Put the gun down, NOW!”
Frank didn’t believe him.
“I said GET UP NIGGER. DROP THAT FUCKING PISTOL AND PUT YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD!”
Lt. Jefferson had no choice. He dropped his gun to the ground and did what Frank asked.
“If you would just look at my ID,” Lt. Jefferson pleaded. “I am an officer of the law.”
Frank looked around and saw a squad car screech up in front of his house. And then two more. Frank’s neighbor across the street called the cops when he heard the shots go off. Four officers rushed to rescue Lt. Jefferson. Outnumbered, Frank lifted the butt of his shotgun and pointed the barrel to the ground, then dropped it when the other cops drew on him.
“I was just protecting my property,” Frank explained, while being handcuffed.
A minute later an ambulance arrived--on their tail, a reporter and photographer from the Post Tribune. Lt. Jefferson walked to the ambulance on his own power as the paramedics tended to him.
“Let him go,” Lt. Jefferson said to the other officers. “I really do believe he was protecting his property.”
Frank rubbed his wrists after being released from the cuffs.
“What are you doing snooping around my yard?” Frank demanded.
Lt. Jefferson brushed off the paramedics’ attempts to help and escorted Frank to his house to talk in private. The wounded Pit Bull expired.
The inside of Frank’s house was worse than the outside. There was even more dog shit and an overwhelming stench of urine. Garbage everywhere and broken toilets. Lt. Jefferson pulled a handkerchief out from his back pocket and covered his mouth and nose while he talked to Frank.
“I’m here to help you,” Lt. Jefferson said, almost gagging on the odor. “I knocked on your door first but you didn’t answer.”
Frank looked gaunt and filthy. His stubbly brown beard was sprinkled with dried food particles. His sweat shirt was stained with who knows what. Amongst the debris were dozens of empty malt liquor cans.
“Hey, my dogs are legal. I didn’t do anything.”
Lt. Jefferson cleared his throat, somewhat getting used to the smell.
“I’m not here about your damn dogs. I came here to ask you about the recent murders in Miller. You must have heard about them.”
Frank dropped to the floor, displacing a dozen beer cans, then sat himself up on a badly worn couch.
“ME?” Frank shrieked. “ME? You think I did it?”
Lt. Jefferson, still holding his left arm from the dog bites, motioned to Frank with his right hand.
“No, we don’t think you murdered anyone,” he assured Frank. “We do know that you knew the two deceased men. We don’t have any suspects yet, but we are pursuing a lead. We also know you know who that is--Benjamin Weinstein.”
Frank pushed himself off his worn out couch and stood up straight next to the lieutenant. The Post Tribune reporter had his ear pressed against the front window. Lt. Jefferson escorted Frank to the kitchen--out of the reporter’s earshot.
“When was the last time you saw either one of the deceased?” Lt. Jefferson asked.
Frank opened his refrigerator door and took out an already opened can of Colt 45, offering the first sip to the officer who politely declined. He downed the rest of the can in one pull.
“Aaaarrrrrrp,” Frank burped while wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “I haven’t seen Tommy Gunther for quite s
ome time,” Frank said. “Ever since he got all important and rich with that tire shop of his he stopped calling me. Ten years maybe. Probably afraid I’d borrow some money.”
Lt. Jefferson made a mental note of that, unable to scribble in his notebook.
“What about Murphy Spevacek?” asked the cop.
“Murphy?” Frank beamed. “I see him every day. He works at the mill with me. Good friend of mine. When I heard he was killed I figured he pissed off someone at a bar. Hell, he doesn’t hang with too many people aside from Chrissy and his kid.”
“Chrissy. Who’s Chrissy?” Lt. Jefferson asked, suffering a brief memory lapse. He had seen her name mentioned in a report.
“The mother of his boy, Chad,” said Frank. “He’s a good kid. Real close to his dad…..I guess not no more.”
Lt. Jefferson reached for his notepad from the inside of his torn jacket and tucked it under his armpit. He was still too lame to write.
“Okay, thanks,” said the Lieutenant as he made his way out. “That’ll be all for now. Sorry about your dogs, but I had no choice.”
Frank was relieved he wasn’t arrested for anything. Those dogs, in fact, were illegal. He and a few other workers from the mill staged dog fights every two weeks.
“I’m going to send the city a bill for my mutts,” Frank said as he saw Lt. Jefferson leave. “You think I’m joking?”
Lt. Jefferson knew Frank had to make it look good. What else would he be doing with those dogs? They were obviously trained to kill.
“Do that,” Lt. Jefferson insisted as he walked out the door. “I’ll send you a bill for my arm.”
Frank looked out the window as the Lieutenant tried walking passed the persistent reporter, who sensed what was going on. The photographer snapped a picture of Lt. Jefferson holding his bloody arm.
“LIEUTENTENT!” the reporter shouted. “Is this man somehow connected to the lakeside murders?”
Lt. Jefferson brushed him off with “No comment.” The other cops gathered the dead dogs and put their carcasses in the ambulance. They had to be tested for rabies.
“I’ll drive myself to the hospital,” Lt. Jefferson said, waving off the medics. “I’ll be at Mercy in twenty minutes.”
The scene in front of Frank’s house cleared, but Frank was scared. He called Gerald as soon as the last squad car pulled away.
“Hey Skunk,” Frank said, calling Gerald by his more familiar name. “I think the police are on their way to your house. Get the fucking dogs inside. Mine almost killed a nigger cop and the nigger shot ‘em all.”
There was a moment of hesitation.
“What do they want with me?” Gerald panicked. “Someone tip them off about this Friday’s fight?”
“No, no. Don’t ask too many fucking questions. The phones could be bugged. The nigger just wants to know about our murdered buddies. We’re in the clear. We don’t know who did this. But he mentioned our old friend Benny Weinstein. Benny! Can you fucking believe this? Benny, that wimpy piece of shit. Can you imagine him having the balls to do something like that?”
“All right. All right,” Gerald yelled. “I’ll put the dogs in the house. But why did the nigger tell you about Benny? Does he think we’re next?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Monday morning, May 25th, 1992. The last thing Lt. Jefferson wanted was publicity. He didn’t plan on shooting Frank’s dogs and alarming his neighbors. But the Post Tribune’s bold headline on that day read “OFFICER MAULED WHILE INVESTIGATING MURDER LEAD.” Worse, the story mentioned Frank by name and street. That’s all Benny had to see. He knew he had to work fast if he were to finish off Frank and Gerald. He knew the world was looking at him. He needed help.
After seeing his last patient that day at 4:30 p.m., Benny called J.J.’s from the payphone inside Harley’s Bowling Alley, which was about three miles from his office. Rings answered.
“Rings?” Benny said softly.
“Yo!”
“This is Benny. I need you to do me a favor.”
“Sox? Is that you?”
“Yes, yes, Sox. It’s me,” Benny assured him. “Listen up. I need you to deliver the stuff I ordered last week to me. Now, if you can. I’m at a bowling alley on Cline Avenue. Harley’s. You probably know where it’s at.”
It was hard to hear in the busy bowling facility. The senior leagues were already under way. Every few seconds the thunderous sound of pins crashing against the boards could be heard, that, along with dozens of screaming teenagers who came directly from school to chill for a spell.
“I need to talk to you too,” Rings said. “About some serious shit that’s going down. I can be there in forty-five minutes.”
“Okay, thanks,” said Benny. “I’ll be sitting across from lane nineteen.”
There were cops everywhere in Harley’s. They had better donuts at their coffee shop than most of the donut shops around town. And it was open 24 hours. None of this bothered Benny as he casually walked up to the snack counter, past the cops, and ordered a large cup of coffee--one cream, one sugar. Why not smoke a fat cigar and have a cup a coffee while I’m waiting? he thought. He also thought he’d have a nice relaxing wait--that is until a few patrons chimed in about the murders.
“I heard it was a jealous boyfriend who killed those guys,” one bowler said.
“A jealous boyfriend?” said his buddy. “His girlfriend was seeing both of them? That poor schmuck doesn’t know how lucky he is. I’d give anything to dump my old lady.”
Benny tried not to smile and puffed on his cigar a little more ambitiously.
“I wonder if the guy who did it also kills women,” said the buddy. “I could give him a lot of referrals.”
The first bowler laughed like he could relate. Benny could relate, too. His sweet, devoted wife, the wonderful Marsha, the mother of his two darlings, as it turned out, had two-timed him--with his sworn enemy no less. For the first time during his marriage he felt like a free man. Even freer since he was ridding himself of almost twenty years of angst. His mind had been constipated for nearly two decades and he finally found a laxative.
Benny sipped his coffee and savored his thick Punch cigar for almost forty minutes. There he was, just sitting, puffing, and relaxing while watching the amateur bowlers gyrate, and using body English in an effort to make a spare. A predictable high pitched shrill always followed a successful roll. Suddenly, there was a hard rap on his shoulder.
“Sox!” said Rings. “Wake up!”
Benny’s eyes shot open.
“Oh, fuck, Rings. You scared me.”
Rings took off his cap and wiped his eyes. He was carrying a wrinkled brown lunch bag--Benny’s stash.
“Jesus, man,” Rings said. “You seem a little jumpy.”
Benny regained his composure then tapped the thick ash off his stogie. He drank the last of his coffee and motioned for Rings to follow him. Rings put his cap back on and followed Benny outside.
“What’s going on Sox? Are you in trouble too?”
Benny didn’t expect that.
“What do you mean, ‘too’?”
Rings looked both ways then handed Benny the bag.
“Look, Sox,” Rings continued as they walked to Benny’s car, “J.J. said he can’t get this stuff anymore.”
Benny unlocked his car. Rings got in the passenger side. Benny buckled up and asked Rings to do the same.
“Why not?” Benny asked as he started the motor and pulled out of the parking lot.
“The guy J.J. is gett’n this from is worried. He read in the newspaper about the murders down by the lake and this guy’s afraid we’re the ones supplying him.”
Benny pulled off to the side of the road next to a laundromat. He plucked his half smoked cigar from the ashtray and lit it with his Cub’s lighter then took a few hard pulls, quickly clouding up the interior.
“You are!” Benny revealed.
Rings just sat there with his mouth open. Benny had just confessed that he was the murderer eve
ryone was looking for.
“Give that to me again,” Rings nervously said while tightening his cap on his head.
Benny didn’t hesitate.
“I did it,” Benny confessed. “And I’ve got two more to go.”
Rings wiped his face with his right hand and held onto the dashboard with his left as Benny peeled onto the street, making his way to Balmoral Park for the evening.
“Why did you tell me?” Rings nervously asked, not knowing for sure if he could trust this white guy he met not long before.
“Because I need your help,” Benny said. “I know I’m being followed. I know they already suspect me. A cop came to my house the other day then paid a visit to one of the other guys who’s gonna get it soon. I need your help.”
“Whoa, man! Whoa. I don’t know about this. J.J. and me are in deep enough as it is.”
Benny looked at Rings and read the terror on his young face.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Benny said while giving Rings a fatherly pat on the arm. “I wouldn’t hurt you any more than I would hurt your dear mother or your deceased father. Eddy was a dear, dear friend of mine. I’m doing this just as much for him as for me. I know Eddy wouldn’t do the thing I’m doing. His heart was too good, rest his soul. These motherfuckers tormented me as well as your father all through school. They beat the shit out of me after my high school graduation. They murdered your father. They were the ones. They raped your mother. You think I can just forget it? Just like that? Eddy was great. Your mother is an angel. Eddy was the best friend I ever had. I’m doing this for him too, Rings. And for Twila. They murdered your father. They raped your mother. Do you understand? They were the ones. They murdered Eddy, Rings. They cut him bad. I’m doing it for him.”
Rings immediately calmed down and felt at ease with Benny and agreed to help any way he could. He now had a second father to look after him. At that moment he could almost hear his daddy’s voice he never knew. Eddy was telling him, “Everything is going to be all right.” Rings felt he owed it to his late father and his disabled mother to go along with this. Nineteen years wasn’t too late.