Dead Lock (13 page)

Claus Krueger viewed the upcoming operation scheduled for the dedication of the new lock as any good soldier would.

He felt no animosity toward the American people; on the contrary, his father had instilled a respect for the Americans in him at an early age. The fact that hundreds of innocent people would die was a necessary adjunct of the war.

Krueger considered the purpose behind the operation a stroke of genious. The German high command had always suspected that the Americans were soft; the current generation had never felt the pain of war on their native soil as the people of Germany had. More than four hundred thousand German civilians had been killed during the World War of twenty-five years ago.

The attack on the locks and the resulting slaughter of civilians would finally bring the sting of battle home to U.S. soil. Once Americans realized the true cost – that war was more than marching bands and waving flags - they would have no stomach for it. They would rush to convince their congressmen and even the President himself, to put an end to this “senseless conflict”.

Roosevelt would be forced to pull American troops out of Europe and the Pacific, leaving the Third Reich free to continue its blitzkrieg across Europe, while the Japanese took the Pacific.

The operation now lay just days away and he, Claus Krueger, would play a major role. The more Americans that died, the quicker their countrymen would capitulate. And the more impressive his welcome would be upon his return to the Fatherland.

He wasn’t inhumane. He wasn’t a monster.

He was simply a good soldier.

52

Saturday, June 26

Shirley’s funeral turned out to be the tearjerker I had anticipated.

The casket sat in a room just outside the chapel of Rodger’s Funeral Home. A crowd had formed and people talked in hushed tones. Girls who had worked with Shirley at Blades Larue’s stood around crying and hugging.

There’s nothing like a funeral to remind people of how precious and fragile life is, and how petty their day-to-day disagreements can be. People who may have been involved in vehement arguments the day before now embraced.

I had never seen Blades Larue in anything other than an open collared shirt before and apparently he hadn’t either. The narrow end of his blue and white striped tie hung three inches below the wide one. His baggy sport coat hung on him like a bed sheet. I could tell by the redness of his eyes that Shirley’s death had had a profound effect on him.

Blades had closed for the morning, and his entire crew was in attendance. I recognized Mrs. Miller’s daughter Felice even though I hadn’t seen her since she was in junior high. I waved, making a mental note to say hello to her after the funeral service.

I finally worked up enough nerve to approach Shirley’s casket. I said a silent prayer and turned away.

G.P., Andy Checkle and Carol Olson stood in a corner near the door to the chapel and I walked over to join them. I hugged G.P., who expressed his condolences to me as if Shirley had been my sister, which she nearly was. I hugged Andy, whose face turned a bright shade of red nearly matching his hair. I reached out my hand to Olson, who took it.

Just as we started to speak, a dark suited employee of the funeral parlor made an announcement and people began moving into the chapel. The lid was closed over Shirley and several young men grabbed the casket by the handles and carried it in, setting it carefully in front of a small altar covered with flowers.

An organist played softly as the four of us sat near the rear of the room: Olson, G.P. and Andy in the chair next to me. Andy leaned over and whispered to me. “I feel awkward, Kate. I’ve only been to one other funeral, my grandfather’s. And I was just a kid then.”

I patted Andy on the knee. “You’re not alone, Andy. Funerals are always tough.”

Especially when it’s your best friend lying in the casket.
I couldn’t help seeing Shirley’s laughing face in my mind. We had had such fun just two nights ago. She had been so alive. I dabbed at my eyes with a tissue I pulled from my purse.

The chapel was filling up. It seemed half the town was there. Shirley had many friends from our days in high school, and she had made more since moving back last January. I noticed a couple who looked to be in their fifties sitting in the front row. I had never seen them before and wondered if they might be Shirley’s relatives. I knew she had an uncle and aunt living somewhere in the Upper Peninsula.

Just as the organist was finishing the prelude, Jack Crawford came in and sat in the empty chair beside me. He smiled and, surprisingly, reached over and squeezed my hand.

You could have knocked me over with a hymnal.

I heard quiet voices behind us and turned around to see Scotty Banyon enter the chapel. He took a seat in the last row.

The service itself went by fairly quickly. The young pastor of the Presbyterian Church Shirley had attended officiated. In his eulogy he remarked how Shirley had made it to Sunday morning services even when she had worked until closing at Blades’ restaurant the night before. He drew a laugh from the crowd when he good-naturedly mentioned that Shirley hadn’t always been able to stay awake during his sermons.

Rock of Ages
, one of Shirley’s favorite hymns concluded the service and we walked out into the lobby. Shirley would be buried later, so there would be no procession to the cemetery.

Scotty came over to join our group. He shook hands with the men and smiled at Carol Olson. He leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek before apologizing that he had to get back to his work. Given what he had told me about his relationship with Shirley, he might have felt awkward about being there.

After Scotty left, I tried to locate the couple I had spotted in the front row, with no luck. They had apparently left via a side door immediately after the service. But just as I started to leave, Mrs. Miller’s daughter Felice caught up with me.

“I thought that was you, Felice,” I said. “You’ve changed a bit since Junior High.”

“You haven’t changed at all,” she said. “Mother said she saw you the other evening. I wonder . . . could we talk outside?”

What was this about? “Sure. Let’s go.”

We stood in the parking lot, Felice waiting until most of the crowd had filed past us on the way to their cars before speaking.

“I read the story about your interview with Corporal Cummins,” she said finally. “You really believe he’s innocent?”

“I do. I’m convinced he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“If I tell you something, will you promise not to write it or even talk about it to anyone?”

“I’m a reporter, Felice. I never reveal my sources when they want to remain anonymous.”

“I don’t mean that,” she said. “I mean you can’t write about what I tell you. Or tell anyone else about it.”

“In journalism we call that background. It may be the foundation under a story, but it’s not reported per se. Is that what you mean?”

Her lips pursed. “I guess so.”

“Okay, what is it?”

“Corporal Cummins couldn’t have killed Shirley,” Felice said. “When Shirley was murdered . . .“ Felice paused, looking down at the pavement.

“Yes?”

“Roy was with me.”

53

Felice’s words caught me by surprise.

“You were with Corporal Cummins?”

“Roy and I were seeing each other. We’d go for walks and talk. We seemed to have so much in common.”

I nodded, urging her to continue.

“He had been a teacher before he went into the Army. That’s what I want to do. I’m trying to save money for college.

“He was so caring, so willing to help others. He could have made a lot more money coming back home to Michigan to teach. But he stayed in Louisiana, knowing the people there needed him more.”

“Were you in love?”

Felice paused again. “I can’t speak for Roy,” she said finally. “But I know how I felt about him, and . . .”She choked back a tear. “Yes, I was falling in love with Roy. And now he’s in jail. It isn’t fair. He wouldn’t hurt a soul. And he couldn’t have killed Shirley. He was with me.”

“Tell me about that evening.”

Felice couldn’t have been more than nine or ten when I last saw here. I had graduated from Sault Ste. Marie High School and moved back to Detroit. She had to be at least 20 now, and had a presence beyond her physical age.

“We always went for our walks in the same place,” she said. “Along the beach two miles or so west of town. We’d take off our shoes and walk in the sand. We knew we’d be alone.”She added quickly, “We had to be, of course.”

“And that night?”

“It was right after the riot started downstate. The fighting between races affected Roy terribly. It was spreading to his old neighborhood and he knew it wouldn’t be long before his friends and family would be involved.”

She pulled a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her eyes. “We hadn’t walked very far when Roy stopped. Just stopped. I asked him what was bothering him.” Felice stopped talking as three people walked by us on the way to their cars. We both nodded a greeting to them.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“Roy said he thought we were being foolish. The riot had convinced him we were living a fairy tale; and that fairy tales don’t work in the real world.”

There was more silence as Felice wiped her eyes. “And then he walked away from me. I tried to follow, but he shooed me away. I got in my car and caught up to him; tried to convince him to get in . . . to come back to town with me.

“But Roy just kept walking. He went down farther toward the water where I couldn’t follow.”

“So you drove back home?”

Felice nodded. “And the deputies must have picked him up a short time afterwards.” She began to sob. I reached my arm around her, trying to comfort her. A couple walked by us, staring, but kept on going.

Felice finally looked up at me. “Have you ever loved someone you found you couldn’t have, Kate?”

Ronny!
It was my turn to pause. “Yes. Yes, I have Felice. I know exactly what you’re going through.”

“Is there any way you could get a note to Roy for me? I mean, can you get into the jail to see him?”

“I guess I could ask for another interview. But I can’t guarantee anything.”

That answer was good enough. Felice took a pencil and small slip of paper from her purse and spent the next few minutes writing. Finished, she folded the paper and handed it to me.

“Please don’t read it,” she said. “I’d be very embarrassed.”

“What you wrote is between you and Roy,” I said. “I wouldn’t dream of reading it.”

I turned to walk to my car when Felice called after me.

“Kate, do you think it will ever be possible for us all to get along? I mean white and colored. To live together?”

I stopped and turned back to her.

“I hope so, Felice. I really do.”

54

Sunday, June 27

Funerals have a way of making you appreciate just being alive.

The next day I attended services at the tiny Presbyterian Church where Shirley had been a member since our high school days. The minister, who had conducted Shirley’s funeral service the day before, delivered the sermon. He mentioned Shirley’s name several times, reciting how she would be missed and repeating how often she attended church despite working late hours the night before.

Afterwards it was time to see if I could talk my way into the Sault Ste. Marie jail for a visit with Roy Cummins.

It turned out to be much easier than I thought. The deputy at the front desk, while in his fifties, seemed to be new at this job. He gave my credentials a cursory look, accompanied me back to Cummins’ cell, and left me with the corporal.

“I don’t have anything more to tell you,” Cummins said when we were alone. He stood at the cell door, his forearms resting on the bar.

“I have something to tell you,” I said. I spoke quietly to avoid eavesdropping from the white prisoners in the cell to the left, or the colored prisoners just beyond them. “I had a conversation yesterday with Felice Miller.”

The news startled Cummins. He had been gazing at the floor. Now he looked up; I had his full attention.

“I know why you couldn’t possibly have stabbed Shirley Benoit.”

“You can’t use that,” he said.

“You’re facing a murder charge. Michigan doesn’t have the death penalty, but you could spend the rest of your life in prison.”

“I’ll deny everything. I won’t involve Felice in this.”

“She’s your only alibi.”

“Then I’ll have to depend on my attorney. The Army is providing one.”

“I hope he’s good,” I said. “He’ll have to be.”

Corporal Cummins was bull-headed, to be sure. But I left the jailhouse with more determination than ever to help prove his innocence.

55

At 1600 hours that Sunday afternoon Claus Krueger walked to the closet in his bedroom and retrieved a trunk hidden back against the wall.

He reached inside the trunk and carefully removed the Enigma machine. Closing the lid, he placed the coding machine on top.

The Wehrmacht Enigma consisted of a combination of mechanical and electrical systems working together. The mechanical mechanism included a keyboard and a set of rotating discs known as rotors. The rotors enabled the Enigma to vary the substitution of letters, making the decoding of an intercepted message extremely difficult. Sometimes the letter C would be substituted by the letter N, for instance, other times it was M or X. The machine receiving the message would decode it automatically.