Thursday morning, May 21st, 1992. There wasn’t anyone in North America who didn’t know about the murders. And it looked like all of North America was there. Throngs of reporters converged on this otherwise non-descript fishing hole. The Associated Press, UPI, and every television network were jockeying for position around the crime scenes. Not only did they bring their TV news vans complete with satellites, but campers too. Enterprising residents set up makeshift hotdog and pop stands around the perimeter of the lagoon and Pavilion. Dozens of portable toilets were donated by the city. Not that the city wanted the press, rather, they just wanted to keep the park clean. And Pete’s was doing a booming business as well. “People love bad news,” Pete said to a reporter during an interview. Crime, it appeared, does pay. Still, no one had any idea who did this or why. Each victim was leading a normal life, then dead, suddenly.
Thursday evening, same day. Lieutenant Ivan Mitchell just got back from a golf outing near his house in Miami Beach. Now 66 years old, he was retired from the Gary police force, and had been for seven years due to a bad heart. He walked into his small beach front home, fixed himself a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, lit a halfway smoked thick cigar, then went to the back patio and plopped himself on a well worn lounge chair. Helen, his wife of forty years, walked back to greet her relaxed husband, lovingly padded his Buddha paunch, and handed him the afternoon paper. The lakeside murders made the front page of the Miami Herald.
“Did you see this?” Helen asked while pointing to the story.
Lt. Mitchell put his drink down on the armrest and dunked his cigar in the ashtray.
“Let’s see,” Lt. Mitchell said, taking the paper from his wife, intently studying the newsprint.
Helen pulled up a chair next to her hubby and rubbed his arm. From the look on his face it was plain he was deeply distressed.
“What’s wrong,” Helen asked, reading the rest of the story over his shoulder.
Her husband shook his head. “Oh boy, ooooh boy,” he uttered in concern.
“What? What?” Helen asked. “Did you know them?”
Lt. Mitchell grabbed the glass and chugged the rest of his drink, ice and all.
“I’ve got to make a phone call,” he said while walking back into the house, setting the empty glass back on the armrest. “They might need me back in Gary for a week.”
Helen followed her husband in the house as he dialed a number. “Can I go with you?” she asked.
“If you like,” he said. “But it might be longer than a week.”
“I don’t mind,” said Helen. “I’ll use the time to visit our old friends.”
Lt. Mitchell dialed police headquarters in Gary and asked to speak to Lt. Otis Jefferson, the new boss.
“Hello, Otis? It’s me, Ivan. Fine, just fine. Yes, I’m spoiled by the weather. What? Yes, Helen’s spoiled too. But she loves it. How about your wife, Florence? She doing all right? That’s good.” There was a two second pause. “Listen, does the name Benjamin Weinstein mean anything to you?”