Stagecoach Road Read online

  There was light traffic on I-94 as he made his way back to his home in Hammond. He looked at his waterlogged watch which still worked. “My it’s late, almost one,” he murmured. “I’ll get up in a few hours and scavenge Balmoral’s garbage bin in the morning, but I’ve got to dump these wet clothes off somewhere now. No, fuck, I’ll do it when I get the tickets.

  Wednesday, May 20th, 1992. Benny only got four hours of sleep, leaving the house at 5:30 a.m. to get in some fishing before seeing patients at 9:00 a.m. He told Marsha, who was half asleep, that he was going to fish at the Calumet River on the shore, no boat. This made more sense to her since the river was just four miles away. Again, no questions.

  In the light of day, Benny inspected his car, front and back, inside and out. What a mess. There were dried blood drops on the back and front upholstery. The interior smelled of urine. So his second stop after dumping his wet clothes, and plucking out a bunch of losing tickets from the garbage bin at Balmoral, was to make a trip to K-Mart and buy some salt, hydrogen peroxide, club soda, towels, and sponges. He got to the store by 7:30 a.m. and scrubbed his car for an hour, leaving enough time to grab some coffee and get to his office by nine. His mind was elsewhere.

  Seeing patients had become an exercise in making money. Benny didn’t get the joy he once did treating back pain and carpal tunnel syndrome. He hoped his enthusiasm would return once his mission was over. He didn’t think what he was doing was murder. It was self-help--the only way he could clear his mind of the past. But that’s not how others see murder.

  It didn’t take long for Murphy’s body to be discovered. At 5:30 a.m. that morning, the same time Benny left his house, two teenage boys, both fourteen years old, had the same idea--to go fishing before school. These two friends were just innocent lads with bamboo poles resting on their shoulders and a can of worms in their hand. The kids, Jason Wertheimer and Dale Polumczyk knew each other from their freshman class at Wirt and often fished together in the morning. Jason was short and chubby with sandy brown hair, a small nose, and wore wire rimmed glasses. Dale was taller, with dark brown hair, a long face, and exuded a pleasing Midwest charm. They were just out to have fun.

  The two buddies had less than an hour to fish. It was Dale’s idea to fish under the Chinese bridge since he heard big bluegills were biting there. It didn’t make any sense to Jason why the bluegills would be bigger under the bridge, but it didn’t matter. The two walked down from Oak Street to the water then towards the bridge. Dale spotted something in the distance, a thicket of moving black objects.

  “Look Jason, it looks like something beat us to the fish.”

  The two lurched a little closer.

  “HOLY SHIT!” Jason screamed. “Look at all the crows? Hundreds of ‘em!”

  “JESUS!” Dale yelled. “WHAT IS THAT?”

  The two-hundred bird flock swooshed up and scattered in a deafening flutter when they heard Dale shriek.

  Murphy’s swollen legs were bobbing up as the birds picked at the carcass under his clothes. His face was blue and pruned. His left eye was plucked out. The muscles around his neck had been eaten away, the rope, dangling from his neck bones. Had this happened a few months earlier it would have been mistaken for a morbid Halloween prank. But it was real.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here and call the police,” Dale gasped, retching in his worm can.

  It didn’t take long for the cops to arrive. By 6:00 a.m. there were about fifteen squad cars from all over, two fire trucks, and an ambulance. Newspaper and television reporters from every surrounding city and state converged on the scene as did a thousand or more curiosity seekers. Word quickly spread. Wirt and the surrounding elementary schools cancelled classes for the day due to all the absentees watching the horror unfold. Benny got the news at his office from his lawyer friend, Steve, at about 9:12 a.m.

  “Hey, Benny,” said Steve. “They got another one.”

  Benny just finished up with one of Steve’s new referrals and thought he called about that.

  “Who?” asked Benny. “What are you talking about?”

  Tracey walked into Benny’s private office with an armful of files. “Oh, doctor?” she said with the devil in her voice, and clueless about the early morning news, “Guess who just walked in? Guess whooooooooo?” she sang.

  Benny knew it was Gail, but wanted no part of her that morning. He just wanted to adjust and get out.

  “I’ll be with her in a minute,” Benny said, covering up the receiver so Steve wouldn’t hear. “What were you saying?” he asked Steve.

  “I just heard on the news they murdered Murphy Spevacek. Some kids found his body not far from Tommy’s in the Marquette Park lagoon--all cut up and everything. That makes two. Two of the guys who beat you up long ago, remember? My guess it’s drug related.”

  Benny hesitated for a few seconds. “That wouldn’t surprise me. Those rats were always in trouble.”

  “Hey,” Steve continued, “how’s the new injury case working out?”

  “Which one? You’ve sent me so many this month.”

  “You know, the one who has the hots for you.”

  “Yeah, right,” Benny said sarcastically. “The hots for me. Yeah, sure. She has the hots for everyone it seems.”

  “I don’t know big boy. That’s not what I heard!”

  “I assure you, counselor, I have no interest in Gail other than collecting a check when her case settles.”

  “Okay, Benny. Gotta run. I just thought I’d tell you about the lagoon murder.”

  “Alright, I’ll talk to you later,” Benny said as he was about to put the phone onto the receiver.

  “Just a second,” Steve interrupted. “If I didn’t know you so well, I would have thought you hired someone to kill those guys. Ha, ha, ha!”

  “Ha, ha, yourself,” Benny cackled. “Later, man.”

  “Later.”

  Gail did have the hots for Benny, mostly because he rebuffed her advances. That never happened to her before. He was a challenge. But Benny didn’t have time. He had other things on his mind--like staying out of jail or the electric chair. He also needed to pick up his latest order of Sucostrin, but that wasn’t until Monday. He had to wait at least that long.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Thursday morning, May 21st, 1992. There wasn’t anyone in North America who didn’t know about the murders. And it looked like all of North America was there. Throngs of reporters converged on this otherwise non-descript fishing hole. The Associated Press, UPI, and every television network were jockeying for position around the crime scenes. Not only did they bring their TV news vans complete with satellites, but campers too. Enterprising residents set up makeshift hotdog and pop stands around the perimeter of the lagoon and Pavilion. Dozens of portable toilets were donated by the city. Not that the city wanted the press, rather, they just wanted to keep the park clean. And Pete’s was doing a booming business as well. “People love bad news,” Pete said to a reporter during an interview. Crime, it appeared, does pay. Still, no one had any idea who did this or why. Each victim was leading a normal life, then dead, suddenly.

  Thursday evening, same day. Lieutenant Ivan Mitchell just got back from a golf outing near his house in Miami Beach. Now 66 years old, he was retired from the Gary police force, and had been for seven years due to a bad heart. He walked into his small beach front home, fixed himself a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, lit a halfway smoked thick cigar, then went to the back patio and plopped himself on a well worn lounge chair. Helen, his wife of forty years, walked back to greet her relaxed husband, lovingly padded his Buddha paunch, and handed him the afternoon paper. The lakeside murders made the front page of the Miami Herald.

  “Did you see this?” Helen asked while pointing to the story.

  Lt. Mitchell put his drink down on the armrest and dunked his cigar in the ashtray.

  “Let’s see,” Lt. Mitchell said, taking the paper from his wife, intently studying the newsprint.

  Helen pulled up a
chair next to her hubby and rubbed his arm. From the look on his face it was plain he was deeply distressed.

  “What’s wrong,” Helen asked, reading the rest of the story over his shoulder.

  Her husband shook his head. “Oh boy, ooooh boy,” he uttered in concern.

  “What? What?” Helen asked. “Did you know them?”

  Lt. Mitchell grabbed the glass and chugged the rest of his drink, ice and all.

  “I’ve got to make a phone call,” he said while walking back into the house, setting the empty glass back on the armrest. “They might need me back in Gary for a week.”

  Helen followed her husband in the house as he dialed a number. “Can I go with you?” she asked.

  “If you like,” he said. “But it might be longer than a week.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Helen. “I’ll use the time to visit our old friends.”

  Lt. Mitchell dialed police headquarters in Gary and asked to speak to Lt. Otis Jefferson, the new boss.

  “Hello, Otis? It’s me, Ivan. Fine, just fine. Yes, I’m spoiled by the weather. What? Yes, Helen’s spoiled too. But she loves it. How about your wife, Florence? She doing all right? That’s good.” There was a two second pause. “Listen, does the name Benjamin Weinstein mean anything to you?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Friday, May 22nd, 1992. Benny and Marsha woke up at 6:00 a.m. Marsha took a shower while Benny turned on the bedroom television to watch the network news. The kids were getting ready for school. Coverage of the lakeside murders was the story after the Indian satellite launch. Benny turned up the volume when Marsha walked into the bedroom after her shower.

  “The gruesome details of the murders in Miller Beach, Indiana are still emerging,” announced the voice of a regional reporter on the scene. “What we do know is the genitalia of the first victim, Tommy Gunther, was severed and sewn into his mouth. What’s obvious to police is this was not some random killing. It was personal. There are still no leads, but early reports point to a drug deal gone bad. Chuck, back to you.”

  Benny shook his head and sighed deeply upon hearing the report.

  “Wow,” Benny said to his wife as she buttoned her blouse. “Isn’t that amazing? Two of the guys who beat me up are now dead. And they made national news. I always knew they’d be famous.”

  No remark from Marsha.

  “Oh, gag me,” Benny groaned. “Tommy’s prick was sewn in his mouth. What a sick thing to do. Imagine having that filthy cock down your throat.”

  Marsha’s eyes widened for a second, not knowing if her husband just dropped a hint.

  “I can’t imagine,” she said. “I’m going to 7-11 to pick up a few things. Want something for the office?”

  “No, I’ll grab a bite on the way,” he said. “But imagine that,” continuing, not letting Marsha change the subject. “Imagine having that filthy cock in your mouth.”

  Marsha quickly finished dressing and drove off to get some bagels. She sped down the road and sloppily parked her minivan next to a payphone in front of the crowded convenience store and called Stephanie.

  “Hi Steph, Marsha,” she frantically uttered, burying her mouth in her hands so no one else could hear her. “I think he knows.”

  “Knows what?” asked Stephanie. “Who?”

  “Benny,” she said. “He was watching the news about the murders and he kept on referring to Tommy’s penis being stuffed down his throat. He mentioned that a couple of times.”

  “Well, Steve never mentioned that Benny knows anything about you and Tommy. I think this is all in your head.”

  “I don’t know,” said Marsha. “I’m worried--about a lot of things. I had a dream Benny is somehow involved in the murders.”

  “What?” Stephanie shouted in disbelief. “Benny? A murderer? Come on!”

  “I’m not saying he did it, but maybe he knows who did. It’s more than a strange coincidence that two of the guys who beat him up are dead.”

  “Doesn’t mean a thing,” Stephanie reassured. “Do you know where he was the night of both murders?”

  “I think so,” Marsha said. “He was taking someone to the track--I think both times, not sure.”

  “Well, see if you can find out for sure,” Stephanie said. “I gotta get Steve off to work and the kids ready for school. And don’t worry. I won’t mention anything to Steve unless you want me to.”

  “Thanks. See ya,” Marsha said as she hung up the phone.

  Benny had a lot of work to do after seeing patients that day. He sensed someone might be questioning him and had to hide everything connected to the murders. Except for his boat, everything was kept in the trunk of his car--that, and the hitch on his bumper.

  At about 6:00 p.m. that evening, he drove to Stagecoach Road and gathered his pistol, tranquilizer rifle, Sucostrin, epinephrine, masking tape, scissors, everything, including the trailer hitch, and loaded them into his Jon boat which was hidden way off to one side in the woods. On the way home he stopped to have his car interior cleaned again. Okay, I think I’m covered, he thought. I wonder if Marsha has some dinner for me.

  Now 7:30 p.m., it was light enough to drive with just the dimmers. As he pulled onto his street he saw a late model navy blue Lincoln Town Car with police plates parked on the street in front of his house. An officer was inside talking on his radio.

  Oh shit, he thought. How do they fucking know?

  Benny slowly parked in his driveway and got out of his car. He was immediately met by Lt. Otis Jefferson.

  Lt. Jefferson was a large black man, about 6’ 3” with a short afro, and weighed close to 250 lbs. He was all business, but had an easy smile to break the tension if necessary. He loved working for the Gary Police Department and brought compassion to his job. Not an ounce of ego in the man.

  “Yes sir?” Benny uttered, clearing his throat as the bulky cop, dressed in a sharply tailored blue suit approached.

  Lt. Jefferson took out a note pad. No one else was with him, so Benny didn’t think he was going to be arrested. It embarrassed him, though, to see his kids peeking out the window. Marsha’s car was in the drive so he knew she was home. A neighbor across the street pretended to be reading his paper on the porch.

  “Mr. Weinstein?” Lt. Jefferson asked, flashing his badge as he walked up to Benny.

  “Yes?” Benny said without the slightest hint of trepidation.

  “Lt. Jefferson from the Gary police,” he said authoritatively, extending his hand. “I suppose you heard about the two recent murders in Miller Beach.”

  Benny locked his car with the remote as he shook the lieutenant’s hand and motioned for him to follow him into the house.

  “No, thanks anyway,” said Lt. Jefferson. “This won’t take a minute. I’d just like to ask you a couple of questions outside if you don’t mind.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” Benny said. “Sure, I heard about the murders. Who hasn’t?”

  Lt. Jefferson looked at his notepad, flipped over a few pages then took out a pencil.

  “I understand some twenty years ago you had a run-in with the two deceased men….uh, Thomas Gunther and Murphy Spevacek. According to my notes they, along with two other men, Gerald Hill and Frank Stram, assaulted you in the spring of 1973.”

  “That’s right,” Benny said, pulling up his left shirt sleeve to show the cop a scar from that event. “That’s one night I’ll never forget.”

  Lt. Jefferson made note of that scar.

  “Tell me, Mr. Weinstein, have you had any contact with these gentlemen since their release from prison in 1975?”

  Benny shook his head. “No, nothing. I was lucky to escape with my life that night. But no, they never bothered me since nor have they contacted me. I want nothing to do with them. For all I knew they were already dead or had moved away.”

  “Okay,” said Lt. Jefferson as he flipped his notepad and placed his pencil in the metal spiral ring. “That’s all I wanted to know. Sorry to have caused you any concern. But we have to check all
bases.”

  “I totally understand,” Benny said, releasing his tight facial muscles.

  Lt. Jefferson was about to get into his car when he remembered something. He approached Benny again.

  “Just one more question. Can you verify your whereabouts for the last two Tuesday evenings?”

  “My whereabouts? Yeah, sure,” Benny said. “I usually go to the track after work on Tuesdays to bet the buggies.”

  “Was anyone with you those nights?”

  “No, just myself. Sometimes I go with friends, but mostly by myself.”

  “Which track was that?” asked the lieutenant.

  “Balmoral Park in Crete, Illinois.”

  “Oh, yes. Nice track. Been there myself a few times. No luck, though,” Lt. Jefferson said, laughing at his last remark. “Do you ever keep the programs?”

  Benny reached in his jacket for his car keys.

  “Sometimes, not always. I should keep all of them for tax purposes. I’ve had a few signers this year--won over three grand. But I lose more than I win so sometimes I keep the losing tickets.”

  “I see,” said Lt. Jefferson. “Do you have the tickets from the last two Tuesday nights?”

  “No, I don’t think I…..wait, yes I do,” Benny said, mustering up his best acting skills as he unlocked his car with the remote and fished out the tickets from the sunglass compartment. “I think these are them,” he said as he handed over the evidence.

  Lt. Jefferson studied the time and dates on the tickets. They matched up. He handed them back to Benny.

  “Good enough,” said Lt. Jefferson. “Again, I apologize for the inconvenience.” Then he left.

  Benny put the tickets back in his car and went into his house. Josh and Rachel wanted to know what that man wanted. They already knew of the beating and Benny explained he was a man who was interested in some of the details. The kids were satisfied with that, but Marsha wasn’t.