Lobster Boy

by Fred Rosen

  Willette and Fig looked at each other.

  “What arrest?” Fig asked.

  “My daughter’s boyfriend was shot and killed by Grady in Pittsburgh in 1978. He’s currently on probation for that.”

  Not anymore, Willette thought. But that made things interesting. A murder victim who was himself a murderer. And he shot a guy in Pittsburgh. How? He didn’t have hands.

  “I wasn’t married to Grady at the time of the murder,” Teresa added. “We were married the first time for fifteen years and then divorced in 1974. We remarried again in 1988.”

  “Did your husband have a life-insurance policy?”

  She nodded. “But I don’t know the amount.” If they wanted that information, they could call the agent, Walter Neff. She gave them his phone number.

  “Think she killed her husband for the money?” Fig wondered aloud when they were alone.

  “Maybe. But she’d have to hate him awful bad.”

  “Or love him,” said Fig and added, “Maybe the son-in-law can tell us something.”

  The detectives went on back to the travel trailer to interview Tyrill Ray Berry, Cathy’s husband.

  Tyrill hails from Kansas. In the Stiles family, he takes a lot of ribbing for coming from the “Land of Oz.” He’s been down South so long that his flat, Kansas twang has been enhanced by a slow, Southern drawl.

  A tall, heavyset man with sad eyes and an inquisitive face, Tyrill remembered that on the evening of the murder, at about 10:45 P.M., he was out on the street in front of the brown trailer.

  “I was picking up flea-market stuff that I had on display, when I saw a pickup truck with no headlights on, just parking lights, cruise on down the street very slowly.”

  Light blue or silver in color, the pickup truck drove by and went to the mobile-home park at the end of the street. Then the pickup made a U-turn and traveled back down the street, passing the brown trailer again.

  “See who was inside?”

  “No.”

  “How about the license plate?”

  “It was too dark.”

  After the suspicious pickup faded from view, Tyrill went on back to be with his wife and daughter, Misty.

  Willette wondered what kind of relationship Tyrill had with his father-in-law.

  “I worked with Grady on the carnival circuit,” Tyrill volunteered. “I run an oddity museum of rare animal species.”

  Tyrill said he and Grady got along well, but they’d had verbal arguments in the past. “Nothing that would cause me to want to kill him,” Tyrill added.

  “Would you know of anyone who would?”

  “I know of no one who would want to kill him.”

  Investigators know that some communities are more open than others about offering information. In some wealthy communities, the residents are forthcoming because they are less afraid of the consequences of involvement with the police. In poorer communities, people can tend to be less forthcoming because they fear any contact with law enforcement officials.

  Gibsonton falls into a different category. It’s a carny town and carny folk keep to themselves. Partly because they know how difficult it is for the non-carny world to understand their peculiar lives. Partly because their world is so deeply rooted in presenting illusions as “real life” that they can often lose sight of simple facts in favor of something more interesting.

  Always vigilant for the hard truth, Willette and Figueredo knew they had to be particularly careful about the information they gathered during their interviews in Gibsonton.

  Every community has its good ole boy who made good, a guy who made it but never forgot his roots. The residents of Gibsonton looked to Chuck Osak to fill that role.

  Osak’s parents were in the carnival; he was raised on the road. He remembers his parents being so desperate for money that when he was a child they once sold his toy boat for gas money. Today, Chuck gets carny people license tags for their show vehicles. He estimates that he has 105 accounts.

  Osak works out of a trailer off Highway 41. The trailer is actually an office, with a bank of desks and phones stretching its considerable length. It also doubles as a Western Union office, where residents can come and wire or have wired to them money from anyplace in the country.

  Osak is a prosperous man. Adjacent to his office/trailer was another property that he owned: Showtown USA.

  Chuck Osak told Willette and Fig that he’d been a booking agent for Grady Stiles, booking him into various carnivals throughout the country. He also got license tags for the vehicles Grady took with him on the road. The latter were necessary because of the numerous states that the carnival troupe would travel in.

  “What was Grady Stiles like?” Willette asked.

  “Grady Stiles was a very rude individual. He was rude to his wife and to his employees,” Osak answered.

  That afternoon the serological tests on Dennis Berger’s pants came back negative. The blood did not match Grady Stiles’s. The boy had been telling the truth when he said he’d cut his elbow skateboarding. Berger, though, was never really a suspect. He had no motive and had an alibi in Ardry for the time of the slaying. No, the answer, the detectives were now convinced, lay closer to home.

  Why was it that out of all the people in the Berry trailer at the time of the murder—Teresa, Cathy, Tyrill, and Glenn—Glenn was the only one who stated that he’d heard at least one gunshot? Yet, in fact, there were a total of four.

  And the reason he went with his mother to check on his niece’s well-being was because there’d been a shooting in the neighborhood the previous night? And he just happened to leave with his mother moments before the shooter burst in and killed Grady?

  Clearly, it was time to talk to Glenn Newman again.

  Willette and Fig drove back to the brown trailer.

  “Glenn, you know, we’re having some problems with some of the things you said.”

  Glenn looked at them anxiously.

  “Yeah,” Fig continued casually, “but we think we can get a lot of answers if you’d come with us to police headquarters at the Buchman Plaza building in Ybor City to take a lie-detector test.”

  Most citizens are not Constitutional scholars. They are not aware that unless they are formally taken into custody, they do not have to accompany the police. Glenn Newman readily agreed to accompany them “downtown.”

  Soon after arrival at Buchman Plaza, headquarters of the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office, Glenn was taken to an innocent-looking room, where a polygraph machine sat on a table. Glenn was introduced to the polygraph operator, Herb Metzger, a former detective who is an expert in the administration of polygraph tests.

  Glenn was told that the questions were going to be brief, that he was to answer simply “yes” or “no.” Glenn nodded and Metzger strapped him in. The examination began.

  “Is your name Harry Glenn Newman, Jr.?” Metzger queried.

  “Yes,” Glenn replied.

  “Do you live at 11117 Inglewood Drive in Gibsonton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you nineteen years old?”

  “No.”

  “Do you go to high school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is your mother Mary Teresa Stiles?”

  “Yes.”

  Alone with Metzger in the room, he was strapped into the machine, staring straight ahead, concentrating on the questions. Metzger, meanwhile, was concentrating on the needles that played out over a graph. Sharp rises and falls of the needles would indicate a “blip,” that the person was being disingenuous, or at worst, lying.

  “Glenn, did you know Grady Stiles?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he your stepfather?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No.”

  “Did you have anything to do with killing him?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Yes or no.”

 
“No.”

  After the test was over, Metzger unstrapped Glenn. He tore the graph paper with its myriad of lines out of the machine and went out to talk to Willette and Fig.

  “How’d he do?” Willette asked.

  Metzger was studying the graph paper. He looked up.

  “I feel this man is being deceptive,” Metzger responded. “Especially on the questions where I asked him directly if he had anything to do with the murder or he knew who had killed his stepfather.”

  “Thanks, Herb.”

  Willette and Fig walked into the room.

  “How’d I do?” Glenn asked eagerly.

  “You blew up the machine,” Willette answered.

  Glenn looked puzzled.

  “You lied when asked certain questions,” Willette translated.

  “About who was responsible for killing Grady,” Fig added.

  Glenn’s head sagged and his whole body followed. They ushered him to a green, washed-out interrogation room, furnished with a desk and some cheap chairs. They sat down to talk, Glenn on one side of the table, the two detectives on the other.

  “Glenn, we have a big problem we think you might be able to help us out with,” Willette said in a gentle voice.

  “Look, Glenn,” Fig continued, “why don’t you tell us what really happened and get it off your chest. You’ll feel better.”

  “A lot better,” Willette added.

  “We know you didn’t mean to kill anybody.”

  “I didn’t kill anybody!”

  “Then why don’t you tell us who did.”

  “Why should you take the fall for them?” said Fig.

  Glenn began to cry. After a long time, he looked up.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Glenn signed a “Consent to Interview” form, in which he agreed to be interviewed by the detectives without an attorney being present.

  It was Figueredo’s turn to take the lead. With Willette present, he would be the principal officer during questioning.

  A tape recorder was set up.

  “Today’s date is November 30th, 1992. Present for this interview is Detective Mike Willette, Detective Rick Figueredo, and Harry Newman, age eighteen. Harry, do you understand that this interview is being recorded?”

  “Yes,” Harry Glenn Newman replied.

  “Do you have any problem with us recording this interview?”

  “No.”

  “Okay,” Fig continued, “I’m going to read you something and please listen closely and ask any questions if you have any. Okay, you understand we’re investigating a murder?

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, you understand the following: I hereby consent to be interviewed by the below listed Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office Law Enforcement officials concerning the above listed incident and I further understand that I have the right to remain silent and can invoke this right at any time during questioning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  Fig wasn’t taking any chances that a judge would throw out what he hoped would be a confession on some technicality like the suspect was not properly advised of his rights.

  “Do you have any questions about what I’ve read so far?”

  “No.”

  “If you make a statement it can and will be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, do you have any questions?”

  “No.”

  “I have the right to the presence of an attorney during questioning. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any questions about that?”

  “No.”

  “If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you without charge and before any questioning if that’s your desire. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I wish to make a statement I may invoke my right to an attorney or remain silent at any time during the questioning. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any questions about that?”

  “No.”

  “I understand these rights and no one has threatened me, coerced me, or tricked me, or promised me anything in order to induce me to make a statement. I presently wish to make a statement and answer questions without an attorney being present.”

  “Yes,” answered Glenn.

  “Okay,” said Fig. “I ask you to initial this box here and sign your name right there.”

  Glenn did as instructed.

  “Okay, we’ve spoken for the last hour or so …”

  “Yes.”

  “… Another detective, Herb Metzger … here on the death of your stepfather … what’s his name?”

  “Grady Stiles.”

  “Where does Grady Stiles live?”

  “11117 Inglewood Drive.”

  “What part of town is that?”

  “… Right off Symmes … about the same … down in Gibsonton.”

  “Do you have a phone number there?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is that number?”

  He stated the number.

  “What I’d like for you to do at this time is to go back as early as you can remember the plot, for a lack of better words … Tell us how this all came about.”

  “Well, this happened about a week ago. I talked to this one kid Chris that my father’s been abusing my mom, beating her up. He had threatened to kill her. Things like that. He’ll lay in bed at night when he’s drunk, says ‘I should just kill you to get it over with.’ He’s turned around and threatened to kill my sister. Beat her up already, he has, made her jaw swell up.”

  “When you refer to your family member, could you be more specific and mention which sister, first and last name?” Fig asked for clarification.

  “Cathy Berry is the one that got beat up at one time. He punched her in the jaw, made her jaw swell up. And Mary Teresa Stiles is my mother. That’s the one that he used to get drunk and lay in bed and say ‘I should just kill you. Get it over with.’ He knocked her down. Choked her, beat her in her head, hit her mouth with his forehead. He killed a man in 1978.”

  Part Two

  The Family

  Five

  In 1937, Edna and Grady Stiles already had two children. On a carny’s salary, it was hard to make ends meet.

  Grady Stiles worked in the carnival, where he exhibited himself as one of life’s human oddities. Grady was born with a birth deformity that gave him fused hands in the shape of lobster claws.

  “Hurry, hurry, hurry, and see the Lobster Man,” the bally man would shout to the throng assembled on the midway. “Hurry, hurry, hurry.”

  They would pay their nickel and step inside a tent. On a raised platform sat Grady Stiles.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I am Grady Stiles, the Lobster Man,” he said, holding his claws up proudly. “I am a product of a genetic condition, which has run in the Stiles family since 1840. In scientific circles it is known as ectrodactyly.

  “Ectrodactyly is a genetic condition. Affecting one in ninety thousand at birth, a baby is born with the absence of the third digit and the fusing together of the remaining fingers and toes into claws. Sometimes it affects all four limbs, sometimes two. In my case, as you can see, I have normal legs.

  “Once the gene has latched onto a family, every child born has a fifty-fifty chance of getting the condition, which is also known as ‘lobster claw syndrome.’”

  He never bothered to add that the only way to get rid of the offending gene was not to have children, a choice the Stiles family had rejected.

  Since Zachary Taylor was president, the Stileses bore children. Their attitude was “Hell, if a child was born a freak, it was the child’s problem, the child’s and God’s. Besides, fifty-fifty weren’t bad odds.”

  Grady and Edna Stiles had had three children. Big sister Margaret was born normal, but her life came to a tragic end. One day
while selling tickets at the carnival, she keeled over and died of a cerebral brain hemorrhage, only weeks before she was to be married.

  Their middle child Sarah was born with the “lobster claw syndrome,” in her case, with a lobster claw for one hand, and one stunted foot with lobster claw for toes. She later had the foot amputated and an artificial leg made. A marriage to an alcoholic ended in divorce, but the products of the union, one boy and two girls, grew up to marry and have normal lives.

  Then came Edna’s third pregnancy. Grady, Jr., who came into the world on July 18, 1937, was born with ectrodactyly. The condition was so bad that not only did he have claws for appendages, he had legs whose growth was stunted and ended at the knees.

  On the north side of the Ohio River, which cuts the city of Pittsburgh in two, is a series of slums. It is the place where those without money and those without hope settle. Every city has a place like that and in Pittsburgh it’s called, not coincidentally, the North Side.

  Edna and Grady, Sr., rented an apartment on the North Side. As a toddler, Grady, Jr. crawled on his back and on his stomach on the apartment’s bare, wooden floors. Without legs, he could not stand; without hands, he would gradually have to learn a special type of manual dexterity.

  In the eyes of the residents of the tough North Side, he was a freak, constantly pointed at whenever he appeared on the street, constantly made fun of and demeaned by children and adults alike. Grady, Sr., was always on the road with the carnival, traveling throughout the forty-eight states, so Grady, Jr., had no father to teach him what it meant to be a man, to teach him how to weather life’s adversities, of which there were many for a child who was called “freak” to his face.

  Parents held their children tight and pointed with mixed awe and revulsion at the freak with lobster claws. Silent prayers of “There but for the grace of God go I,” superstitious women spitting to ward off the evil eye, and taunts from schoolmates of “Hey, freak” accompanied him wherever he went. The world did not accept him. And then, fate gave young Grady a reprieve.

  The Stileses had already discovered the Gibsonton area. It was the place to winter when the carnival shut down for the cold weather. Real estate was cheap in Florida in those days and from his carnival wages, Grady, Sr., was able to buy a house on Marconi Street in the Palmetto Beach area, across the bay from Gibsonton proper. In 1944, Grady, Sr., settled his family for good in their new Florida home. But young Grady, then seven years old, had little time to enjoy his new locale.