Stagecoach Road Page 3

“H-h-he just wants to g-go home,” mocked Frank. “W-w-well you are home,” Frank continued. “This is our home. And what are you doing driving on my r-r-road?”

  His buddies got a kick out of that.

  There was nothing Benny could say to talk his way out of this horrible situation. Tommy, who was driving Frank’s Camaro, got out of the car and joined the other three who were now busy punching Benny in the face. Benny tried to scream but there wasn’t anyone around to hear him. By now Murphy covered Benny’s mouth and all four started to beat him. They pulled him from his car and kicked his ribs with all their might then began stomping on his legs, then his arms, then two or three kicks to his face and head. Benny felt his teeth crunch then he passed out. Not satisfied, the four beat him for another minute before they picked him up and propped him in his car behind the wheel. They then put the Mustang in neutral and pushed it four feet in front of a large oak tree. The four then took the tire iron out of their trunk and made a bunch of gashes in the tree to make it look like Benny had an accident, rather than the beating of his life. They also had the presence of mind to knock some dents into the front of the Mustang and knock out one of the headlights.

  The Mustang continued to idle as the four degenerates hollered some obscenities, tossed a couple of beer cans out the window, got back into their hood-mobile and drove away. It was at this place, in front of the tree, where Benny remained unconscious for a couple of hours until Steve and Stephanie just happened by.

  * * * * *

  The ambulance arrived at about ten minutes to three. Steve and Stephanie had already called their parents as well as Benny’s to tell them what had happened. A couple of squad cars pulled up and within fifteen minutes, there was a small crowd gathered around the scene, including Mildred and Harry Weinstein, Benny’s mom and dad.

  “Who did this to my son?” screamed Mildred, watching in horror as an officer picked up Benny’s broken teeth from the ground.

  The paramedics were busy tending to Benny.

  “It looks like your boy had an accident,” said the cop, pointing to the gouged out tree and the broken headlight.

  The attending medic, Harvey Stillwell, examined Benny. “This was no accident,” said Harvey. “There’s no damage to the inside of the car. But he’s still alive.”

  Benny’s jaw was broken, but he was able to talk in short whispers.

  “What did you say, son?” asked Harvey.

  Benny could barely breathe. His ribs were broken and every breath was a chore.

  “The guys did this,” he labored.

  “Who?” asked Harvey.

  Benny couldn’t talk any more. It hurt too badly. The medics placed him on a stretcher and rushed him to St. Mary’s Hospital. The caravan of Steve and Stephanie, Benny’s parents, and the cops followed the ambulance. Benny was rushed into the emergency room. A long period of pain, healing and contemplating was to follow.

  Chapter Two

  Benny was admitted to the intensive care unit. He had tubes coming out of every part of his body. He wasn’t on life support, though he could not breathe comfortably on his own and needed a ventilator. They sedated him, primarily to conserve his energy. The police weren’t able to take a statement until two days later. After a long 48 hours, Benny was finally able to give his account of what happened. The police took down the names of his attackers and went to work rounding them up. The first one on the list was Frank Stram.

  Frank lived near the housing projects not far from the lake--the tough side of town, but still Miller Beach. The Stram family lived in an old frame house that had seen better days. Much better days. The place was unkempt and in need of repair. It was a white, dirty little house that was situated on Lake Avenue, a busy street with little privacy.

  Two officers walked up to the door and attempted to ring the bell. It was broken. They knocked several times and waited for two minutes until a worn out looking woman, Frank’s mother, Anita, finally answered.

  “No, officers,” said Anita, “my husband ain’t home. He don’t live here no more.”

  Frank’s father, Marty, was always in trouble with the law. Naturally, Anita thought the officers’ visit had to do with her husband.

  “No Ma’am,” said Lieutenant Mitchell, the burley caucasian head crime detective in Gary, Indiana, “we’re not here to see your husband. We’re here to see Frank.”

  “Frank? Why do you want him?” Anita muttered defensively.

  “We want to see him about his possible involvement in the beating of Benny Weinstein. He used to go to school with Frank.”

  Anita took a long drag on her unfiltered cigarette. She hadn’t tapped the long ash off the end of it and the glowing butt was nearing her yellowed fingers.

  “Frank didn’t beat up no kid, man. Go bother someone else.”

  Officer Mitchell produced a warrant for Frank’s arrest and demanded to see him.

  “Well, he ain’t here,” said Anita in a hoarse smoker’s growl.

  “Do you mind if we look around?”

  Anita threw her cigarette on the cluttered lawn and motioned for the officers to enter. They searched her insanely filthy house and saw no sign of Frank.

  “Do you know where we might find him?”

  “He said he was going out with his friends and he’ll be back later,” Anita grunted as she forced the door, almost smashing the officer’s fingers.

  “That’s fine,” said Lt. Mitchell. “We’ll wait in the car for him.”

  They didn’t have to wait long. Anita hurried back in the house and tried to call Frank at Gerald’s house. But Frank was already on his way home. The police knew about Frank’s Camaro and saw it coming down Lake Street. Frank could see the squad car in front of his house and made a U-turn towards the beach. The officers sped off after him, sirens blaring. They radioed for backup and the chase was on. A short chase at that. Frank ran out of room in the Lake Street Beach parking lot and the cops blocked the only exit. By this time three more squad cars arrived. Frank stopped his car and waited for the officers to approach. With guns drawn, four officers walked towards the Camaro and saw three others in the car with Frank, like a nice neat little package. His buddies, Murphy, Gerald, and Tommy were all inside, planning another night on the town.

  “All right,” demanded Lt. Mitchell, “everyone get out of the car and put your hands on you heads.”

  The four friends glanced at each other. Tommy was the runt of that disgusting litter. He looked up to Frank, worshiping his every move. As the hoodlums got out of the car Tommy whispered something to Frank. Frank shook his head and looked straight at the officers.

  “I SAID HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!” shouted Lt. Mitchell.

  The punks responded and did as they were told.

  “What’s this all about?” asked Frank, as he quickly glanced at Tommy with a worried expression on his face.

  “We have an assault warrant for your arrest. These charges might expand to attempted murder.”

  “We didn’t beat up anyone,” Frank grunted.

  “Well,” continued Officer Mitchell, “we have a young man in the hospital who would strongly disagree with you. He gave us the entire account of the beating.”

  “You’ve got nothing on us,” said Frank. “I want to see a lawyer.”

  “You’ll need a lawyer. We found two beer cans at the scene. It’ll be interesting to see whose finger prints are on them.”

  Lt. Mitchell read them their rights and the cops hauled them off to the station in separate cars.

  There was more evidence than the beer cans, which in fact did bear Murphy’s and Frank’s fingerprints. Gerald was still wearing the same shoes he had on the night of the assault. There was dried blood on the soles. Evidence like that started to pile up, and since the four thugs were eighteen years old, they wouldn’t be charged as minors.

  Chapter Three

  The Gary, Indiana police lockup was a dingy and badly maintained facility. But it was no stranger to Frank and Tommy, who had the pleasure o
f spending a few nights there early in their juvenile careers. The lockup was intended to be a one night holding area for criminals on their way to a bigger joint, like the Michigan City Pen. In fact, for a few days in 1972 it was closed down altogether because it didn’t pass even the most liberal state inspection. Most of the toilets didn’t work. There were rats everywhere, day and night. Feces and urine were never cleaned off the old, decaying mattresses, and there was no food service to speak of--white bread with pancake syrup and bitter black coffee. That was all the prisoners had to eat even though some guys were there for as long as a week. But by 1973 the jail had somewhat cleaned up its act when the health inspector shut it down. At least the prisoners had decent food. The city contracted with the Hardees restaurant across the street to serve hamburgers and french fries three times a day. The lockup also got new mattresses plus the toilets were fixed. Still, it was a holding cell and not a pleasant place to spend a night. The rats continued to squeak.

  The police brought the gang there at 3:30 that afternoon for questioning. None of these young men had enough money to hire a good lawyer. One was appointed for them. Only one, Gerald, had a father at home. But they didn’t think they even needed a lawyer. They naively clung to their fable of innocence.

  The police booked them in the usual manner and each was given their own cell. Gerald’s father, Gus, was called. He arrived about an hour later.

  Lt. Mitchell had something to show the bullies--snapshots of Benny in the hospital. Mitchell walked to each cell, holding the pictures in his hand and waving them in front of each attacker.

  “Does this young man look familiar to you?” Lt. Mitchell said to Murphy.

  “No, I don’t know him.”

  “Oh, you don’t know him. You didn’t go to school with Benny Weinstein since the first grade? Come on, who do you think you’re talking to?”

  Murphy didn’t answer any more questions.

  “I’m not going to say anything until I speak with a lawyer.”

  “That’s fine. That’s fine,” said Lt. Mitchell. “Andy,” he continued, “do you have an identity on those fingerprints we got off those beer cans?”

  Andy was an old man who worked in the police lab who had seen a lifetime of punks parade past him proclaiming their innocence. That is, until the results were in.

  “No, not yet,” said Andy. “It’s going to take a few more hours.”

  Lt. Mitchell spoke loud enough for all four boys to hear. This was his subtle method of interrogation.

  Gus wanted to speak to his boy. Lt. Mitchell granted him the courtesy, but said he could only be alone with Gerald for five minutes.

  “Did you do it, Hamburger?”

  Gerald’s family and his friends called him Hamburger because his excuse for leaving the house late at night was to get a hamburger.

  With his oily skin glistening in the fluorescent lights, Gerald looked at his father and lowered his head to the ground. He didn’t have to do any more. Gus knew his son was guilty.

  “Hamburger, we don’t have the money for a good lawyer. I just got this new job, see, and I’m barely making the house payments now.”

  “I know, Pop. I’m sorry. It wasn’t my idea. We were just going for a ride and that dude was there. You know, all by himself.”

  “That’s no excuse to beat the crap out of him. And if you and the guys are guilty of this, we’re going to get sued and you’re going to jail for a long time.”

  Gus walked out of his son’s cell and motioned for Lt. Mitchell.

  “I’m going to have to borrow some money for a lawyer. What will it take to spring my boy out of here tonight?”

  “There’s nothing I can do,” said Officer Mitchell. “They’ve been booked and will have to face a judge in the morning. He’ll decide that.”

  The four friends spent a long night in that depressing lockup and appeared before a judge in the morning. The public defender advised them to cop a plea based on the evidence. The evidence was the fingerprints which proved to be Tommy’s, the blood on Gerald’s shoes, and Benny’s account of the crime. The boys were sentenced to three years in the Michigan City Pen and five years probation. They were out in a year and a half for good behavior. That was supposed to be the end of it.

  Chapter Four

  Most crime statistics go unnoticed by the public. Murders, rapes, armed robbery and such are commonplace in almost any sizeable city. The only ones who care anything about the statistics are the victims themselves--the ones who have to live with the pain. If the victim is lucky, the physical pain will subside and their flesh will heal. But most victims harbor deep emotional scars, reliving the horrible events at night. Some people can get over the emotional hurt with the passage of time. Some can’t. In Benny’s case, it wasn’t just this one night of beating--it was twelve years of mental anguish that culminated in a beating. Twelve years of being humiliated in front of his friends by bullies who punched him in the school hallways just because their paths crossed. Twelve years of those same bullies strong-arming him for his money on the school bus. And twelve years of threats, as Frank warned, “If I ever see you alone, you’re a dead man, Christ killer.” And dozens of other miseries Benny lived with throughout his school days--regretting that he never had the courage to fight back.

  Sure, Benny’s body healed and his teeth were fixed. His parents could well afford the best. And yes, Benny entered college that fall and fit in just as he planned. But the real story doesn’t begin until almost twenty years later. Like the seventeen year locusts emerging from the ground for a brief appearance to wreak havoc on the crops, only this was nineteen years later. It took this long for the seeds of that beating to take hold, festering into mania. Those seeds were watered by the scars on Benny’s body, a constant reminder of that horrific night. Those four thugs were not to be forgotten. Not even for a moment. When Benny jogged, went to sleep, or made love to his wife, the night of the beating was with him. He fantasized about taking revenge for almost twenty years. And during these years he led an exemplary life; a chiropractor with a thriving practice located in a modern, two-thousand-foot stand-alone building on Hohman Avenue in Hammond, Indiana, just 13 miles from the incident. He married his college sweetheart, Marsha Horwitz, also from Gary, and together they had two children, Joshua and Rachel. They were the typical Jewish family. But with the dormant creature inside, awakened from its tortured soul, it was time to take that walk out of the lagoon.

  Chapter Five

  It was Friday, March15th, 1992. Spring was near and the cold bite of winter lessened with each passing day. Benny was out for his morning jog before going to the office. He only lived three miles from his chiropractic clinic and would sometimes walk to work in lieu of his daily run. He ran not only to keep in shape but as mental therapy. Exercising made him feel good. The endorphin rush kept him sane.

  That particular day was a milestone--ten years in practice. His receptionist, Tracey O’Reilly, a slightly plump Irish woman who always brought Mitzie, her mischievous Beagle to work with her, was planning a surprise party for Benny along with a few patients who were more like friends than clients. Benny wasn’t supposed to know about the party but found out anyway from Carla Bresloff, a middle-aged patient who had a big mouth and the hots for the affable bone crusher. On a good day she looked like a poor woman’s Lucille Ball, but on most days she looked like Ethel. But to Benny, she was Fred.

  Benny ran particularly hard that day since he was training for the Hammond Spring Trot, an annual 5K event. As he was making his way back home he stumbled on a discarded morning paper and fell to his knees, scraping his elbow on the pavement. He wasn’t hurt badly but as he stood up he noticed a tan cargo van slowly passing by with the words Gunther Tire & Auto Supply boldly painted on the side.

  Gunther, he thought. I wonder if there’s any relation to Tommy Gunther.

  He gathered himself, went home, got dressed and went to the office.

  “Morning Tracey,” he said when he walked in his store fro
nt, noticing big mouth Carla was already waiting for him.

  “Good morning Mrs. Bresloff,” Benny said. “Gee, it’s so nice to see a happy, smiling face this early in the day. Seeing Yasser Arafat in the morning instead of you would be a big improvement.”

  Carla knew Benny was joking. But she didn’t care. She liked him. Oh sure, she was married--to a man whom she hoped would somehow be trampled by a herd of buffalos, leaving her free to roam the prairies once again.

  “Benny,” she said, “call me Carla. We’ve known each other this many years.”

  “Okay, Carla. Right this way. I can see you now.”

  Carla really didn’t have any back problems. She was lonely and bored with life. No kids. Nothing to occupy her time except to feign illness and take care of herself. Her husband, Alex, made enough money as a foreman at a plastic factory so she didn’t need to work. They had a marriage of convenience and Alex was numb enough to go along with the status quo.

  Carla lay down on the treatment table face up while Benny walked behind her head to adjust her neck.

  “Now hold still while I do this move,” Benny said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Benny popped Carla’s neck and she let out a sigh of relief.

  “Thanks,” said Carla. “Much better now. And, oh, don’t forget about tonight,” she said, winking at Benny about their little secret.

  “Don’t worry,” Benny said, “I’ll be here.”

  Tracey was busy filling out insurance papers while Mitzie was sleeping next to her feet. Benny’s office was cozy with a touch of silliness. He had pictures of the Three Stooges hanging on the walls which accentuated his true nature. Out of the thirty or so patients who came in each day, only a handful were actually scheduled. The others just walked in as they pleased. Benny always found the time to treat them.

  Benny looked up Gunther Tire & Auto Supply in the phone book and jotted down the address. He took his lunch at one o’clock and decided to take a drive over there. It happened to be located right next to the Gas ‘N Go on County Line Road in Miller, about twenty minutes away. Oddly, he never knew about the place even though it wasn’t far from his folks’ house--in fact, on the way. Subconsciously he blocked out the name on the store’s sign, not wanting to revive an agonizing memory. Today he had time. His next patient wasn’t until three.