Barry Friedman - Dead End

DEAD END

by Barry Friedman

Also by Barry Friedman

Assignment: Bosnia

Prescription for Death

The Shroud

Sleeper

Hyde

Non-Fiction

The Short Life of a Valiant Ship:

USS Meredith DD434

That’s Life:It’s Sexually
Transmitted and Terminal

Acknowledgements

Lieutenant
Robert Vega of the Canton, Ohio Police Department and the late Harold Hand,
former Los Angeles Police Department Homicide Detective, gave me valuable
technical advice concerning police procedures.

I gratefully acknowledge the help and encouragement given
me by Bruno Leone of Greenhaven Press, and
 
by Evelyn Bruyere. I am deeply indebted to Shirley Allen, Judith Hand,
Phyllis Humphrey, Pete Johnson and Suzanne Middleton for their thoughtful
reviews and constructive criticisms of the manuscript.

Brenda
Griffing did a masterful job of brushing away the lint and clipping the loose
threads.

Finally,
but not least, this work could not have been completed without the
encouragement suggestions and critiques of my wife Sue.

This
book is a work of fiction. The characters and events are the inventions of the
author and do not depict real people or events.

Table of Contents

ONE
.
7

TWO
.
21

THREE
.
40

FOUR
.
50

FIVE
.
56

SIX
.
61

SEVEN
.
67

EIGHT
.
73

NINE
.
92

TEN
.
102

ELEVEN
.
118

TWELVE
.
134

THIRTEEN
.
144

FOURTEEN
.
150

FIFTEEN
.
161

SIXTEEN
.
177

SEVENTEEN
.
189

EIGHTEEN
.
199

NINETEEN
.
212

TWENTY
.
225

TWENTY-ONE
.
233

TWENTY-TWO
.
246

TWENTY-THREE
.
256

TWENTY-FOUR
.
272

TWENTY-FIVE
.
275

TWENTY-SIX
.
290

TWENTY-SEVEN
.
300

TWENTY-EIGHT
.
314

TWENTY-NINE
.
325

THIRTY
.
334

THIRTY-ONE
.
352

THIRTY-TWO
.
366

THIRTY-THREE
.
379

THIRTY-FOUR
.
387

THIRTY-FIVE
.
401

THIRTY-SIX
.
411

Almost six-thirty. The parking lot, dimly lit by
a single spotlight suspended high on a pole. As he trudged to his Buick station
wagon, Gibson glanced at his wrist watch again. The calendar on the face of the
watch read April 7th. Tomorrow would be Harriet’s birthday, her thirty-sixth.
He debated whether to stop and pick up the silver bracelet he had bought at
Potter and Lemon. The engraving he had ordered would be finished. The store
remained open until seven, but the hell with it. He’d do it tomorrow. This
evening he was too tired. Just wanted to get home, have a drink and relax
before dinner.

At the thought of food, his stomach growled and
he remembered that he’d had no lunch. Nothing new. Half the time he went
without eating from breakfast until he arrived home at seven or later.

When he turned the key to unlock the station
wagon door, he discovered he had just locked it instead. Probably had forgotten
to lock up in his hurry to get to the office. Wouldn’t be the first time.
He unlocked the door, tossed his briefcase on
the front passenger’s seat and sank into the driver’s seat. He’d relax for a
moment. He closed his eyes for ten seconds, then put the key in the ignition.

While he was buckling his seat belt he felt
sudden pressure against his neck. A bug? He reached behind to slap it. His
fingers came into contact with metal. Startled, he glanced toward the rearview
mirror, but it was tilted up so he was seeing only a dim reflection of light
from the car roof. Gibson started to turn.

“Don’t turn around!
”

“What the hell do you want?”

“
Shut
up and drive!”

It surprised him that he wasn’t frightened. He’d
thought about being held up and wondered what he would do. Now he knew. He
reached for his wallet. “Look, take what you want and get out. I won’t—.”

“Keep your fucking hands on the wheel!” The metal
he’d felt now pressed firmly into his neck. A gun barrel. “Get this car
moving!”

Gibson started the car.

“Left out of the driveway.”

The evening rush hour traffic had thinned out.
Only a few cars passed in the opposite direction, there were no cars in front
of his, no pedestrians in this part of the city at this time of day.

As he drove, Gibson prayed he’d come across a
cruising police car. Ram it and duck down in the front seat. He dropped that
idea quickly. He’d give the guy his money, watch, credit cards, whatever he
wanted. He wasn’t ready to be a hero and die.

Now they were traveling south on Dueber, past
Prairie College Road and were out of the city. At Fohl, a red, white and blue
shield-shaped sign pointed to southbound Interstate 77. The gun barrel was
pushed more firmly into his neck. “Get on the freeway here.”

Freeway? Who the hell was this guy and where was
he taking him? He felt sweat pouring down the sides of his chest from his
armpits. His throat tightened, he could hardly breath. Despite his grip on the
wheel his hands began to shake. This had to be more than robbery. Gibson hadn’t
spoken since offering the guy his wallet. But now he had to make another try.
“For crissake, take the car. Let me out. There’s no one around. It’ll take me
half an hour to get—.”

Shut up and drive!”

On the interstate, Gibson drove slowly in the
right-hand lane hoping someone in another vehicle would look into his car, see
what was happening.

The voice from the backseat ordered him to set
the cruise control to fifty-five. Gibson did as he was told. His eyes moved
side to side frantically, looking for something, anything. He pleaded, “Look,
I’ve got a wife and two small kids. Jesus Christ, I’ll give you anything, I’ll
do anyth—.”

“Shut up and drive!”

Gibson’s mind was racing. This fucking madman is
going to kill me. “Please. PLEASE. PLEASE.” Half sob, half scream. The only
response was increased pressure of the gun into his neck. Suddenly, fear turned
to rage. Why me? WHY ME? Gibson’s jaws clenched. His hands squeezed the
steering wheel so tightly his fingernails dug into the soft flesh of his palms.
He wasn’t about to wait until the bastard decided where he was going to stop
and do whatever he wanted to do. Even if the carjacker, or whatever the hell he
was, was crazy, he wouldn’t shoot him while he had the wheel, barreling down
the highway. Gibson floored the accelerator, the Buick shot ahead. The pressure
of the gun was no longer on his neck. He flicked a glance back. The gunman,
thrown off balance, had fallen backward into the rear seat.
I’m gonna make it. I’m gonna make it.

Gibson jerked the steering wheel sharply to the
right and the car skidded off the paved portion of the road, onto the berm,
throwing up a shower of gravel and dirt. Momentarily the car balanced on its
two left tires. He leaned his body left, trying to make the car roll over. It
teetered, then, still speeding ahead, righted itself, fell back on to all four
wheels and bounced against the guardrail for 100 yards. Steel ground against
steel. Sparks flew. He strained, trying to swing the steering wheel in the
opposite direction, still hoping to make the car roll over, but the violent
maneuvering caused the motor to stall. With the power steering mechanism off,
he could barely turn the wheel. As the car slowed, Gibson reached for the door
handle. Before he could depress it, from the edge of his vision he saw the gun butt
come crashing down on his skull. As darkness closed in he turned, saw a face he
recognized.

*
 
*
 
*

CANTON MAN

FATALLY SHOT

CANTON. A 40-year-old Canton businessman was
found dead in his car early this morning. The body of Henry Gibson, 3946
Gramercy Ave. was discovered between State Route 20 and Interstate 77 on a
little-used dirt road that leads to the farm of Herman Schuler. Schuler found
the car at 5:30 a.m. with Gibson’s body on the front seat. Stark County
Sheriff’s Office spokesperson, Deputy Sheriff Karen Vandergrift said that
preliminary reports by the medical examiner indicate that Gibson had suffered
gunshot wounds and a probable skull fracture. He is believed to have died
yesterday evening.

Vandergrift stated that Gibson apparently had
been robbed. A wallet, empty of cash and credit cards, was found in the car.
Papers in a briefcase left in the car confirmed the identification. Vandergrift
stated that investigators have no suspects and are working on the theory that
Gibson had picked up a hitchhiker who robbed and killed him. An investigation
by the sheriff’s office with the help of technicians from the Stark County
Crime Laboratory in Canton, is underway.

A longtime Canton resident, Gibson had been
assistant sales manager of Sterling Wholesale Hardware Company. His wife, the
former Harriet Remington and two children, Henry Jr., age 10 and Heather, age
7, survive him.

In what may be a related incident, Theodore
Lambert, 36, of Sherryville, reported to the Ohio Highway Patrol that he had
seen a station wagon, described as similar to Gibson’s, swerve off the pavement
of I-77 at approximately 7 p.m. yesterday. The station wagon struck a guardrail
and appeared to have stalled. Lambert, driving south on I-77 stopped to render
assistance, but before he could reach the vehicle, it was driven away headed
south. The incident occurred 3 miles north of the off ramp to U.S. Route 250
and approximately 12 miles from where the Gibson vehicle was found. Lambert
could not see how many people were in the station wagon, nor could he see the
driver.

*
 
*
 
*

Dr. Harry Hanson, medical examiner for Stark
County, pulled up his rubber gloves as he walked to the autopsy slab and
inspected the body. A photographer from the crime lab had already taken a
number of pictures of the body from various angles. Phil Moore, the technician
seated on a tall lab stool, cleaned his fingernails with the point of a nail
file.

Hanson stood at the side of the autopsy table
snugging his fingers into the gloves, peering down at the body of a man wearing
a light blue blazer and gray slacks. The top button of the man’s striped shirt
was open; the knot of his dark blue tie was pulled down. The dead man’s black
shoes were highly polished; his hands were encased in clear plastic bags held
with rubber bands at the wrists. The body lay on its right side, knees drawn up
and the upper half bent forward in the fetal position. In other surroundings it
could have been a man taking a midday nap on his office couch.

Hanson stepped on the foot-pedal switch of the
dictating machine, his voice echoing off the cement walls and floor as he
talked into the microphone suspended over the autopsy table.

“The body is that of a Caucasian male…” He
described the corpse’s dress and position, then turned to Moore. “Okay, Phil,
off your ass. Help turn him over.”

The men flipped the body onto its left side.
Hanson bent to inspect two small round holes, one in the skin just below the
man’s open shirt collar, the other about six inches lower, in the midline seam
of the jacket. A circlet of black surrounded each hole.

“Tattooing around the bullet holes indicates
near-discharge of the gun muzzle to the victim.”

He measured the diameter and position of each
hole, reading his measurements into the microphone. Pushing a metal probe into
each of the bullet holes, he recorded their depths and angles. He stepped back
while the photographer moved in and took several close-ups.

Hanson said, “What do you think, Phil? A
twenty-two?”

“Uh-huh. Either that or a twenty-five.”

With some effort, they straightened the dead
man’s legs to undress him. Rigor mortis, Hanson knew, came on about five hours
after death and lasted about thirty-six hours. He estimated that the man
wearing a toe-tag that read “Henry Gibson,” had been killed around seven the
night before. It was now four o’clock the following afternoon, the body rigid
as a board. The technician kept pressure on the dead man’s knees to prevent
them from returning to their flexed position.

The skin over the entire front of the body was a
mottled purple, that over the back was lemon yellow. “Was he on his face in the
car when you found him?” Hanson asked.

“Yeah, he was squeezed down between the dashboard
and the front seat on the passenger’s side, resting on his elbows and his
knees. When we got there he had already stiffened in that position. We had a
hell of a job wedging him out of the door.”

Hanson then directed his attention to the head.
He parted the thinning, dark brown hair and ran his gloved fingers over the
scalp. With a hand lens, he carefully inspected the hair and underlying scalp.
He snipped a few strands of hair with a scissors, placed them in a small
plastic envelope. From another part of the head, he pulled a few hairs loose
and deposited them separately into another envelope. Then he resumed dictating.

“Over the center of the occipito-parietal
junction there is a hematoma measuring…” He gazed up at the ceiling while he
pressed on the hematoma and felt in its depths a depression in the skull. The
bony edges of the depressed area were sharp. “Depressed skull fracture,” he
mused. “The size of the scalp hematoma suggests that there was an interval of
at least fifteen minutes between the infliction of the depressed skull fracture
and death.”

When he finished the autopsy, he
stripped off his rubber gloves while he dictated his summary. “I conclude that
death was due to penetrating bullet wounds with entry through the seventh
cervical vertebra, and through the disk space between the seventh and eighth
thoracic vertebrae. The cervical wound transected the spinal cord and extended
through the esophagus and trachea. The bullet causing this wound was lodged in
subcutaneous tissues of the neck, anterior to the trachea.

“The thoracic wound transected the spinal cord at
that level and perforated the left ventricle of the heart. This bullet passed
through the sternum and was found in the subcutaneous tissues of the anterior
chest wall.

“Either bullet wound could have been the
proximate cause of death.

“The depressed skull fracture and the underlying
laceration of the parietal lobe of the brain were not necessarily fatal.”

He gazed at the two bullet fragments in the palm
of his hand for a few seconds, then dropped each into a small cotton-lined
cardboard box, which he handed to Moore. The lab tech had accumulated a carton
full of material including the victim’s clothing, fingerprints and scrapings, a
jar containing samples of his stomach contents and several vials of blood. He
placed the carton on a small carrier. As he wheeled it out, he raised a hand.
“So long, I’ve got enough work here to keep me off the streets for a while.”

*
  
*
  
*

GIBSON RITES HELD;

MURDER STILL UNSOLVED

CANTON.
Funeral services were held in First Presbyterian Church yesterday for Henry
Gibson, 40-year-old salesman, who was robbed and slain on April 7. The Reverend
Lloyd R. Eaton gave the eulogy. Burial was at Plymouth Cemetery.

Gibson’s
body was discovered early Wednesday in his station wagon on a dirt road near
Interstate 77. He had been shot and assaulted with a blunt instrument.