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.