Devil Strip
By Richard Babyak
Thursday, December 23, 1976.
Woody Havens poked at the profusion of tinsel drooping all over the Christmas tree and tried to hide his disapproval.
“I know you hate it,” his wife Ginny said, “but it’s a sentimental thing for me. Childhood memories. We couldn’t afford ornaments. Tinsel was it.”
“It’s fine. I was just checking to see if it’s the old metallic kind, you know, fireproof.”
“They don’t make that anymore. The coated plastic film is all you get now.”
In the decades he’d spent as a cop, his long-suffering wife had endured much, including his odd hours, missed holidays, missed anniversaries, and more. She never once complained. So he wasn’t going to make a fuss about tinsel.
“How do you think the Fords will spend their last Christmas in the White House?” she asked.
“I suspect with relief that the ordeal is almost over.”
His thoughts were interrupted by a telephone call from the duty sergeant down at the station.
“Sorry to bother you at home, but we just got a weird call, and Captain Beckert said to hand it off to the detectives.”
The sergeant played a recording of the call. It was a woman’s voice. She sounded nervous and was speaking hurriedly.
“There’s a gun on the devil strip, Cedarwood Avenue. About halfway down. There’s a snowman. I don’t want kids to find it and get hurt, you know? So do something. Okay? Okay.”
Havens, head of the detective unit, looked at his watch. It was just past 8:30 p.m., a half hour before the Barney Miller Christmas episode would air. He’d hoped to watch it, but his gut told him the situation was urgent.
“What’s a devil strip?” he asked.
“Have no idea,” the sergeant said.
“All right. Get someone over to Cedarwood immediately. Have them take a broom, rake, shovel, whatever. Find that gun. There’s close to a foot of snow on the ground and more coming. BCI has a metal detector, but we wouldn’t be able to get them out there till tomorrow sometime. I want that gun now.”
“Got it. But where do we . . .”
“The snowman. Like she said.”
“Right.”
“Then get someone over to the library immediately. They close at nine. Beg someone there to stay long enough to research that term, devil strip. What the hell does that mean?”
“Got it.”
“I’m coming in.”
Havens called up a few of his crew to report, apologizing that they, too, would miss Barney Miller. None complained. Detectives Pressello, Jablonski, and McCadden were headed in.
Not long after Havens arrived at the station, the patrolman who’d been sent to the library called in.
“A devil strip is a road verge, that narrow strip of land between the sidewalk and the street. We call it a tree lawn here. Other places have different names for it. Varies by region. The librarian said that the term devil strip seems confined mostly to the Akron area. Youngstown, also.”
“Interesting term,” Havens said. “I suppose it makes sense. A no man’s land straddling two worlds. The devil dwells in ambiguity.”
Havens was a big man with a deep voice, but he spoke with a relaxed, easy tone, more like a teammate than a boss. He briefed his crew once they had all arrived. Shortly after, a patrolman showed up with the gun, a snub nose .38 caliber revolver similar to the Colt Detective Special that the detectives themselves carried.
“It was right on top of the snowbank created by the snowplow,” the patrolman said. He then dumped the gun on the desk from an empty Ritz cracker box. “The cruiser didn’t have any evidence bags. This was the best I could do.”
“Whatever works,” Havens said. “Better crackers than ice cream.” He stuck his hands into his back pockets and looked around at his crew. “So what are you seeing? How does the gun get there?”
“Proximity to the road,” Pressello said. “Someone tossed it out the window of a moving vehicle. It was not covered with snow, so likely very recently.”
“Most likely, yes,” Havens said. “So why does someone toss a gun out a moving vehicle on a residential street as opposed to ditching it in a wooded area or creek?”
“They just committed a crime with it nearby and wanted to get rid of it urgently,” Pressello said. “While it is a residential street, it’s still a main thoroughfare with a lot of traffic.”
“Which means the gun is not traceable to the current owner,” Jablonski said. “You don’t leave something that points back to you, especially not in a place where it will be quickly discovered.”
“And if you had just pointed it at someone, as in an armed robbery, you would have no need to dispose of it,” McCadden added. “You would only ditch it if you actually fired it. Shot someone. Some deal gone bad. Somebody shafting somebody. Revenge.”
Havens leaned over and sniffed the revolver. “Definitely fired recently.” Then he cocked his head to the side to look at the front of the cylinder to observe the chambers. “Assuming it had been fully loaded, at least four rounds fired.”
“We don’t yet have any reports of shootings,” Jablonski said. “Which means our victim was alone and likely now deceased. No reports of gunshots, so it likely happened indoors.”
“Our outdoors out of earshot,” Havens said “Either way, the big question: who is our mystery caller?”
“Not a resident of the street,” Pressello said. “A resident would have no reason to remain anonymous. Would be proud of doing her civic duty. Would have stayed on the line longer. Plus, she can just go tell her neighbor it’s there. Let the neighbor call it in.”
“Agreed,” Havens said. “Definitely not a resident. I’ve listened to the tape on loud. You can hear a gas station bell in the background. This call is from a pay phone.”
“Then if she doesn’t live on the street, how would she know about the gun?” McCadden asked.
“She had to be in the moving vehicle,” Pressello said. “And given the difficulty of tossing the gun from the driver’s side, she may very well be the one who tossed it. Which means we’re talking two players.”
“That’s a good bet,” Jablonski said. “And since most shootings are committed by males, we probably have a male driver with girlfriend or wife on the passenger side. He gets spooked for some reason. Tells her to toss the gun. She obeys.”
“So is she an active participant, an accomplice to the crime?” Havens asked.
“Maybe passive, not active,” McCadden said. “Maybe just a witness.”
“But she’s in the vehicle with the shooter,” Jablonski said. “He trusts her to toss the gun. They have a relationship.”
“Why does he take her along?” McCadden asked. “Why bring a witness?”
“Insurance,” Pressello said. “You force your woman to be involved so she’s an unwilling accomplice. She can’t turn you in without putting herself in jeopardy.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” Jablonski said. “That’s why he has her toss the gun. Her prints will be on it, too. The ambiguity erodes the idea of beyond reasonable doubt at trial.”
“Interesting projection,” Havens said. “You’re in his head. That’s good. So let’s say we’re on the right track so far. We’ve got a couple, a criminal couple. But we also have a paradox here, don’t we? The woman was likely present at a murder. Helped get rid of the gun. Yet she sees a snowman in the yard. Kids live there. She’s afraid a child might find a loaded gun and get hurt. Does this sound like an evil woman?”
“Good point,” Presello said. “How do we peg her? She’s kind of a puzzle.”
“Or is she?” Havens asked. “I’ve listened to that call several times. She’s scared. Calling from a pay phone. Her man isn’t far off. She’s putting herself at risk to make this call, yet she makes it anyway. I think I know this woman.” He paused, waiting for their reaction. “We all know her. We’ve met her a dozen times. The good woman hitched to a bad man. Ensnared in a life she doesn’t like but can’t escape. Conflicted. Trapped between two worlds. Stuck in her own little devil strip. So how do we help her? How do we find her? Ideas?”
“Finding them, yeah. That’s the bigger puzzle,” Jablonski said.
“Let’s get back to the devil strip thing,” Pressello said. “The term tells us that she’s from the Akron or Youngstown area. Probably him too. But if they lived here for any length of time, she’d know that’s not what it’s called here. This tells me road trip. They came here to do the deed and then head back home.”
“Yeah, I like that logic,” Jablonski said. “But I don’t think they’re headed back now. It’s late. It’s a long drive on a snowy night all the way back to Akron, Youngstown, or wherever. My guess is that they found a cheap motel nearby and plan to head back in the morning. And that’s where they are right now.”
“Bullseye,” Havens said. “Nice job, everyone. But we need to find them before they leave in the morning. So, we have our night’s work cut out for us. We hit all the cheap motels in the area and ask the desk clerk about couples recently signed in from our target area. Our suspect doesn’t know we’re looking for him because he doesn’t know about the call his woman made. So maybe he just signed in the register with his real name and address. Motels usually ask to see ID these days. If the clerk plays reluctant with you, start talking about code violations and they get cooperative quick like. Radio in after every visit and check in so we can cross it off the list. If you are lucky enough to find them, call it in and then hang back and watch. Be prepared to spend the night in your car. Let’s move.”
Shortly before 11:00 p.m., Jablonski radioed in that he’d found the couple registered at the Feldspar Motel, named after the street it was on. Shane Ward and Beverly Ridgeway of Akron. Havens instructed Jablonski not to approach the suspects but hang back and observe from an inconspicuous distance.
Havens arrived at the Feldspar a short while later and parked next to Jablonski in a lot across the street from the motel. It was a dingy, old-style, economy motel with exterior room access directly from the parking lot for the first floor, and from an exterior walkway on the second floor. The lot had not been plowed since the last snow, so cars were parked haphazardly.
Havens got into Jablonski’s car.
“What do we have?”
“Okay,” Jablonski said, “They’re in room 217, facing us. Fourth door from the left on the second floor. So we’ll be able to see when they step out for any reason. Standard check-in procedure is the clerk asks for car model and license plate numbers so they can tow non-resident vehicles. The car is over there on the left. The green ’69 Chevy Malibu with black top and rusted rocker panels. I radioed the information back to the station, but BMV is closed at this hour. So we won’t hear anything on it till morning. So what’s the plan?”
“Well, we just wait for now,” Havens said. “Nothing much likely to happen during the night. But I don’t want to lose sight of them.”
“Then in the morning, what?”
“Technically, we don’t have anything to hold him on. At this point, we don’t know who he shot or where the body is. It could be lying in a residence somewhere, or in some woods somewhere, or a river. Who knows? We’ve got nothing without the woman. And she’s not going to talk in his presence.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“My least favorite plan. Luck.”
For the rest of the night, they alternated taking naps and periodically started the engine to stay warm and clear the fog from the inside of the windshield.
There was a convenience store a couple of blocks away from the motel. The store’s lights came on at 7:00 a.m. Havens walked over and returned with a couple of coffees.
Jablonski took a noisy slurp. “Could be stronger, but I’ll take it. So Eddie is still whining about the election. You know Eddie, right?”
“Everyone knows Eddie.”
“He says, can you believe Ford lost to that peanut farmer? And I says, well, hell yeah, I can. It was the pardon. Sticks in everyone’s craw. Nixon was the worst president ever. The worst conniver ever. Nobody will ever top him. So, yeah, you let him off the hook, people are going to be pissed.”
“Well, I’m not saying I approve of it, but I understand it,” Havens said. “President Ford is a decent man, but he was in a tough spot. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. When you’re caught in a lose-lose proposition, you go with your gut and hope for the best. Half the people I’ve ever arrested were in the same boat. Otherwise, good people faced with nothing but bad options.”
“Well, I voted for Jimmy. I like peanuts.”
Around 8:40 a.m., McCadden pulled in the lot and handed Havens several pieces of curled up paper.
“This is off that new machine we got. What do you call it?”
“The telecopier.”
“Right, telecopier. Amazing thing. Lets you send documents and photos over the telephone. And it only takes six minutes a page. This is going to be huge for us.”
Havens tried to straighten out the curled papers that contained driver’s license info and photos for the couple. As he was doing that, Jablonski blurted.
“Here we go. She just stepped out the room. Now she closed the door. So he’s not coming with her. What do we do?”
“Hold on for a second,” Havens said. “See where’s she’s headed. This may be my luck plan working out.”
“Okay, she’s down the stairs, and . . . and she walks right on by the Malibu. Where’s she going on foot? Office?”
“No,” Havens said. “The convenience store. I’m going to meet her there. You two stay here.”
Havens drove over to the store and parked. The woman showed up a couple of minutes later. She was walking gingerly through the gray slush, wearing shoes not meant for winter. She wore an old, faded, grayish-beige cotton or wool coat that had not been cleaned in a long time if ever. The cuffs were frayed and the hem bore stains. Her face bore a sad, weary look.
He watched her go inside. It looked like she bought some cigarettes. He stepped out and met her as she emerged.
“Good morning, Beverly.”
She looked stunned that someone knew her name. Havens showed his badge. Her expression of surprise quickly shifted to despair.
“Would you get in the car, please?”
She seemed paralyzed, so he asked again, staying polite.
“Would you get in the car, please?”
She finally obeyed, moving sluggishly. Once in the passenger seat, she stared straight ahead without speaking, seeming both resigned and panicked, the latter indicated by the heaving of her chest and heavy breathing.
Havens spoke softly and slowly, trying to convey compassion.
“So, there was this time long ago when it dawned on you that the world is a scary place, which it is. And maybe somebody hurt you. So one day you meet this tough guy who gives you a second look, and you figure that if you hang with this tough guy, nobody is ever going to mess with you. You’re safe. He will protect you. It doesn’t occur to you that someday he will become the thing you’re afraid of. You’re a good person who got tangled up with a bad actor. Now then, that part doesn’t need to be a problem going forward. He drove here to do it. That’s premeditated. Murder one. Life. So you won’t need to be afraid of him once he’s arrested. But then that’s not your real fear, is it? The thing that really terrifies you is having to make it on your own, which you’ve probably never done. So you’re stuck in a lose-lose proposition. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t. Trapped on your own personal devil strip where the only way off requires jumping off a cliff into the dark unknown. Well, I’m not here to push you. I’m here to catch you. I am Woody Havens, head of detectives here. You know where to find me. Come see me when you are ready. I won’t bother you again. I wish all the best for you either way. You can go now.”
She looked both surprised and confused that he was letting her go. Her breathing calmed, but despair creased her face as tears welled in her eyes. Again, she seemed paralyzed, as if she might go catatonic. Then she slowly raised her hand to the door handle, holding it there a long time before finally opening the door and exiting.
She walked away slowly, her feet slipping in the gray slush. About twenty feet away, she stopped, turned around and looked back at Havens’s car. Then she turned back toward the motel.
She walked another twenty feet or so and stopped again. She bent over and grabbed her legs above the knees, like someone about to vomit. She stayed like that for a minute before standing straight again.
She turned around and stared at the car for another minute. Then she trudged toward it lethargically, barely picking up her feet as she sloshed her way over.
She got back inside the car, then took several deep, slow breaths before finally speaking.
“I’m ready.”
