Stagecoach Road Read online

  “This is for Eddy!” Benny audibly mouthed as Tommy lost consciousness.

  Benny wasn’t finished. He erected an oar in the boat by wedging the end in a handle slot, then hung his bright lantern on top of the paddle. He got a large sewing needle and thread out of his backpack and sewed Tommy’s lips around the drained cock. The needle broke off in Tommy’s cheek. Benny left it there and grabbed his knife and slit Tommy’s throat until he saw the back of his vertebrae. Tommy’s head fell to the side. Benny shoved the corpse in the steel cage and closed the door. He got out a marker and a piece of yellow construction paper and with huge letters wrote “THAT’S ONE!” He taped the note with duct tape to Tommy’s blood soaked jacket and shoved the cage in the murky red lagoon--then took another picture with his Rolleiflex. Tommy’s shocked eyes glowed in the light, like a Halloween jack-o-lantern. A snapping turtle waddled by and looked at the cage as it sank about two feet, the top still visible. Benny left it that way. He wanted someone to find it.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  This isn’t going to be easy, Benny thought to himself, looking at the mess he made while committing the murder. His first step was to put on a new pair of latex gloves and clean everything he touched with rubbing alcohol. He wiped off the tranquilizer gun, the Sucostrin and epinephrine containers, the duct tape, knife, and some things he used previously, his pistol, for one.

  It was a few minutes past eleven. Benny had to clean up the blood in the boat the best he could before hitching it back onto his car and getting the hell out of there. He took off his bomber and sport shirt, then put his bomber back on and used his shirt as a rag. He then put on another fresh pair of latex gloves. Using water from the lagoon, he wiped everything off the best he could, including his face and arms, then pulled the boat back up to his car, hitched it up and drove back to Stagecoach Road. A few disinterested cars passed, thinking nothing of someone puling a boat that late at night. While driving, Benny pushed in a cassette tape which played a loud, creepy instrumental version of the 1966 television comedy Family Affair. Good night Buffy. Good night Jody. See ya, Mr. French.

  The rest of Benny’s clothes were also covered in blood. He anticipated that by bringing an extra set of identical apparel, including the shoes and brown bomber. After driving back to the tree to ditch the boat, he changed in his car and put his dirty clothes in a large black plastic garbage bag after meticulously cleaning the pockets, then headed for his parents’ house in Miller, just two miles away. On the way, he turned into the newly constructed National Shores beach house next to Lake Michigan, and stuffed the bag deep into a massive green dumpster, then pulled away.

  He arrived at his parents’ house on Tippecanoe Court around midnight. His mother Mildred was still up doing a crossword puzzle. Harry, his father, who recently retired from the clothing business, was fast asleep upstairs. His parents weren’t expecting him.

  Mildred and Harry, now in their late sixties, doted on Benny and his two children. Benny was an only child and they were happy to have grandkids. So it was never an imposition if Benny, or for that matter, Marsha, stopped by, especially with the kinderlach as Bubby Mildred affectionately called her grandchildren.

  “My Benny!” Mildred exclaimed when seeing her son at the door. “Come in. You look tired.”

  Benny looked very tired, but his clothes looked as fresh as morning. His mother didn’t notice.

  “Do you want something to eat?” Mildred asked after giving him a hug. “I made an eggplant today and mandel bread.”

  “No thanks. Nothing now. I was out looking at some new therapy tables today in Michigan City. I picked up some dinner on the way. I have an early day at the office. I just want to get some sleep.”

  “Marsha called and I told her you would call if you stopped by.”

  “Yeah, I almost forgot.” Benny called home and left a message on the answering machine.

  There was no hint and no way Mildred could have known what had just happened. Benny had no dark side--at least none visible to the outside world. When he was a child, Mildred used to tell him ghost stories. They used to read about murders in the Gary Post Tribune and the Chicago Papers. In 1966 they read, as did the whole world, about mass murderer Richard Speck who killed eight student nurses from South Chicago Community Hospital. Horrible stuff. The sort of thing that only happens to other people. But here, in her living room and soon to be sleeping his old childhood bedroom, a monster as big as any but not of his own making. Not a random or glory killer, but a tormented man who desperately needed therapy. There was only one elixir--revenge.

  He reclined in his childhood bed for an hour with his eyes wide open, looking at the ceiling--dazed at his deed. He then drifted off to sleep. It was a sound sleep. In his dreams he planned his next move. He had work to do.

  Benny woke up at 6:00 a.m. and left his parents’ house a half hour later. No one else was up. He inspected his car before driving off and noticed a small blood spot on the back bumper. He saw an old McDonald’s napkin in the back seat and dampened it in a rain puddle then carefully rubbed it off. Jesus, he thought to himself, I wonder how many more stains I left behind.

  He got into his car and drove down Tippecanoe and headed towards County Line Road. It was about forty minutes past six. He turned right on County Line then stopped just ahead, waiting for a South Shore commuter train to pass. The morning rush hour was just beginning. A short line of cars, already in queue, were also waiting as the loud orange electric locomotive rushed by, paralleling Route 12. The train finally passed, freeing up the early risers on their way to work. Gunther Tire & Auto Supply was less than a mile up the road and wasn’t due to open for another hour and change. Benny was about twelfth in line to cross the tracks and barely made the light, narrowly missing a car turning left in front of him. He shook his head at his near misfortune and continued down County Line Road. Stagecoach Road was coming up on his left, and in the distance he saw the tall Gas ‘N Go sign to his right. Benny looked out the passenger’s side window and didn’t expect to see anything as he approached Tommy’s store. Suddenly the unexpected--four squad cars in full strobe were flashing in the Gunther Tire parking lot. Several policemen with sticks were combing the grounds for something.

  “Oh shit!” Benny screamed. “They discovered his body!”

  Benny composed himself and stopped at the Gas ‘N Go for some coffee, but mainly to get the scoop. Dozens of gawkers were already inside the gas station and talking amongst themselves. “What do you think happened?” asked a man in painter’s clothes while looking out at the bevy of blues. “Don’t know,” said another. “Someone probably broke in during the night.”

  Benny nervously paid for his coffee, looked around, and almost spilled the cup while walking back to his car--his eyes fixed on the scene. It was early yet. He had planned to go home for a half hour, check on his family as they prepared for the day, then arrive at his office by eight o’clock. Instead, he doubled back down County Line Road, turned left onto Oak Street and cruised by the Pavilion. It wasn’t long before he saw another group of squad cars, about seven, some in the Pavilion parking lot and a few on Lake Street Beach. There wasn’t any doubt. They had found Tommy.

  He was confused. His only prior offense was a speeding ticket he got during college after driving back to his apartment from a Hoosier’s football game. And now murder. But in his mind it wasn’t murder. It was justifiable homicide. He had waited and suffered a long time to get even. His main concern was for his family if he got caught. Yet somehow he was energized--a strange new feeling of power he never had. He liked it.

  Benny only had time to drive to his office and begin seeing patients. He pushed the A.M. 74 button on his radio to get the news. “The outbound Kennedy is clear,” newscaster Bart Jones belted out in his smooth, deep bass voice. “Watch out for Loop construction between Lower South Water Street and Lower Wacker Drive. From Higgins and 53 it’s about 15 minutes to the airport. At O’Hare, the temperature is thirty-three degrees. Midwa
y, thirty-four. Thirty-three at the lake. In local news we have a report of a gruesome killing in Miller Beach, Indiana. Officers on the scene said they recovered the body of a thirty-seven-year-old Caucasian male under the Lake Street Bridge who was beheaded and his genitalia mutilated. According to observers, the dead man’s body was stuffed in what appears to be a dog cage. Police said they spotted a rope dangling from the bridge sometime this morning and thought it was left behind by workers repairing the bridge earlier this month. The victim’s identity was not released. We’ll keep you updated on this story later in the day. In national news, President Bush arrived………...”

  OK, Benny thought to himself, turning off the radio, I’ve got to think. I’ve got to stay calm. No one in a million years would suspect me. Not me.

  Benny pulled up in front of his office, taking his coffee with him even though he knew Tracey always made a fresh pot in the morning.

  “Scary, isn’t it?” Tracey remarked as she greeted her boss that crisp Wednesday morning.

  Dr. Weinstein grunted while hanging his new but identical brown bomber on a coat hook, not realizing at first she was talking about the murder in Miller.

  “Sorry, I was thinking about something,” Dr. Weinstein said, his mind elsewhere. “What did you say?”

  Tracey handed Dr. Weinstein the morning edition of the Post Tribune. Benny’s hand shook as he read the huge headline: BEHEADING AT LAKE. The large dark picture underneath showed two policemen hoisting up the cage by the rope. Only a faint image of the body was visible. But a separate picture showed a close-up of the yellow card taped to Tommy’s chest that read “THAT’S ONE.”

  Benny scanned the article, marveling at the stealth of the story. The cops must have arrived just minutes after I left, he thought. I have to be more careful next time, he contemplated, nonchalantly plunking the paper on the magazine table in his waiting room.

  “I’m frightened,” Tracey said, somewhat sarcastically. “I hope I never cross paths with the lunatic who did this.”

  “Me too,” said Dr. Weinstein. “Is Carla coming in today?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Benny knew he had to keep a low profile for at least a few days. Not that this thing was going to blow over any time soon, rather, to conspire a less messy modus operandi. The exact same method of execution could not be repeated for the remaining three. And the alibi, if needed, had to be the same. This is something he didn’t plan until after he left work on Wednesday. So after work he drove to Balmoral Race Track in Crete, Illinois and rummaged through their garbage bin for discarded betting slips from the night before. Luckily the second bag he pulled out from the huge green bin contained hundreds of tickets from Tuesday night’s simulcast. He brushed away a myriad of old disgusting cigarette butts and pop cups and got about six hundred dollars worth of losing tickets plus that night’s racing form. He sorted them to make sure they displayed the right times, and not for earlier races. He hid the tickets in his Camry’s sunglass compartment. If anyone asked, they were for ‘tax purposes’.

  It was 8:30 p.m. Thursday evening, May 14th, 1992. Benny had just arrived home from the office and Marsha was out with the kids. He was clutching a standard sized manila envelope containing two pictures. Earlier in the day he went to his clinic’s x-ray room and developed the two black and white pictures he took of Tommy. Photography was one of Benny’s childhood hobbies and it came in handy. He knew exactly which developer and fixer to use. Then he got the shock of his life.

  There, blinking on the kitchen counter, was the new beige and yellow answering machine Marsha bought at Sears a week before. As Benny was making a peanut butter sandwich he went over to the counter and pushed the play button. It rewound for almost thirty seconds. Someone just left a hell of a long message, he thought. It wasn’t a message. It started in the middle of a conversation between Marsha’s friend Stephanie and Marsha, who apparently didn’t realize their exchange was being recorded.

  “Yeah,” Stephanie said. “I just heard on the news the murdered guy’s name was Tommy Gunther!”

  Marsha inhaled deeply. This was quite a shock for her.

  “You never told Benny what happened, did you?” Stephanie continued.

  There was a long pause. It was all Marsha could do to digest what she just heard.

  “No, no, no, I didn’t,” Marsha confided. “That affair was over five years ago and it just lasted a month.”

  “A month?” Stephanie knowingly said. “More like three.”

  Benny listened another minute and found out plenty.

  * * * * *

  Marsha met Tommy quite by accident while taking an evening accounting course at the I.U. extension in Gary one summer. By that time, Tommy’s tire business was taking off and he took the course just so he would understand his own accountant. Marsha already knew a lot about bookkeeping and wanted a refresher for when she did work for her husband. Benny and Marsha were having some marital problems then, mostly over her lack of personal time and the stresses of raising two small children. Benny didn’t think it was anything serious, but it was a difficult time for Marsha who was very pretty and attracted a lot of male attention. Marsha was thinking divorce or at the least, having an affair--which she did. But Benny didn’t know all the sordid details. If he had he would have killed Tommy sooner.

  Late one Thursday evening at the I.U. accounting class, Tommy walked up to Marsha, not knowing she was the wife of the man he tormented in high school. Both had just completed a particularly strenuous test. Tommy recognized the name Weinstein when the instructor asked Marsha a question, but didn’t put it together right away.

  “My name’s Tommy Gunther,” he said, introducing himself to his potential conquest. “I know your name is Marsha Weinstein. I heard when the teacher called you. I own a small tire store on County Line Road. I’m glad I’m taking this course. Lots of stuff my accountant didn’t tell me.”

  Marsha glanced at Tommy and smiled, then walked down the hall on her way to her car.

  Tommy was 32 years old and looked a whole lot better than he did in high school. Very fit and wore nice clothes. He cleaned up his act big time after his sentence was up and decided to make something of his life. He worked at another tire center before he saved enough money to buy his own. He wasn’t married, but he fathered a son with a stripper he met shortly after his release. His son’s mother moved to California with the kid. He rarely saw them. At the time he was taking the course he just ended a three-year relationship with a woman he had intended to marry. Just before Benny killed Tommy, he got back with his ex-fiancé and they had planned a June wedding.

  Tommy followed Marsha down the hall.

  “If you’re not too much in a hurry, would you like to go out for a drink?” Tommy asked in a lost Who’s On Third puppy-dog, sort of begging way.

  Marsha stopped to answer.

  “I’m married.”

  That didn’t deter Tommy.

  “Oh, I don’t mean anything by it,” he said. “There’s a place just two blocks from here. Come on. You can follow me in your car.”

  Marsha liked Tommy’s charm. And really liked the attention. She was extremely pissed at Benny and was sure the big D was imminent. And she looked really good that night. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore the sexiest lavender lipstick and tight fitting jeans and a yellow blouse that accentuated her large breasts, with no bra. She had on Estee Lauder’s Pleasures perfume. Her figure was perfect, even after having two kids. She worked out a lot. Tommy noticed.

  “Okay,” said Marsha. “I don’t see how one drink can hurt. But just one. Benny’s expecting me home by eleven.

  Tommy stopped in his tracks. It can’t be! he thought to himself. This is fucking perfect!

  “Fine. Good,” he eagerly agreed, suppressing his excitement. “One drink and I’m gone. I have to be at the store early tomorrow anyway.”

  Who’s On Third was a new sports bar but already had a decent following. For that part of town i
t was fairly up to date, with a large screen TV and several smaller sets every five feet hanging from the ceiling.

  Tommy slowly drove his cargo van out of the school’s parking lot, waiting for Marsha to catch up to him. It was two blocks away just like he said. They parked their cars and walked into the place.

  “Pretty nice,” Marsha said, looking around as Tommy pulled out a bar stool for her as she sat down.

  “I like it,” Tommy said. “This place has only been open a couple of months, but I’ve been here at least a half dozen times.”

  They talked about their class for a few minutes as Marsha sipped a margarita. Tommy had a rum and coke, served up by Curly, the balding twenty-something-year-old bartender. Tommy ordered two more drinks in spite of Marsha’s half hearted protests, but she drank another anyway. All the televisions flickered with the White Sox-Angel’s night game as some of the other patrons talked about the Sox’s chances that year.

  An hour went by with Marsha having four drinks in all to Tommy’s five.

  “I better get going,” Marsha said as she held her head, looking a little woozy.

  Tommy got up to hold the chair for her. Marsha grabbed her purse and headed towards the exit. Tommy threw seventy bucks on the counter for a fifty dollar tab then winked at the bartender. “Keep it!”

  “Thanks,” said Curly.

  Marsha, not used to drinking, staggered to her car, fumbling with her keys, and made five or six unsuccessful stabs at the lock.

  “You’re in no shape to drive home,” said a somewhat inebriated Tommy as he put his hand on her shoulder. “And neither am I. You wouldn’t want to get stopped by a cop this late at night with four drinks in you. Better lay down in my van for a while.”