Free Dead Lock by B. David Warner Page A

from Detroit.”
He lit his cigarette and handed back the lighter. “Detroit?”
“I was a reporter for the Times.”
“I know the Times. I grew up in Detroit.”
“You must have heard about the rioting going on down there?”
    Cummins, looking at the floor, nodded his head. “Started on Belle Isle and spread all over town. The police seem to be arresting a lot of colored people; not many whites.”
    It was true. “That’s what happens when most of the police are white,” I said.
    Cummins looked up at me. “Just like this town.”
    I decided to change the subject. I asked him which part of Detroit he came from, hoping the small talk would put him at ease. I pulled out a writing pad and began to take notes. Cummins was born near the downtown area, on Hastings Street. His father died when he was just four years old and he was raised by an uncle and aunt. His young mother was forced to work two jobs to support herself and Cummins’ two younger siblings. His mother insisted her children attend religious services regularly, and they were all members of nearby First Baptist Church. When he graduated from high school he accepted a football scholarship from Louisiana Negro Normal and Industrial Institute in Louisiana. He earned a three-year teaching certificate and stayed nearby, teaching at a colored high school and working as an assistant on the Institute’s football team under their new coach, Eddie Robinson.
    “I figured I could do more good in the south,” Cummins said. “People down there seem more needful of good teachers than here in the north.”
    The offer of the cigarette and the conversation had loosened Cummins’ tongue. His hands extended through the bars, folded comfortably in front of him as he spoke. He seemed a lot more relaxed than when we began and I figured it was time to pop the sixty-four dollar question. I tried to appear equally nonchalant as I took another drag from my Chesterfield and blew out the smoke.
    “Why’d you kill that young woman?”
    Cummins reacted as if he had been shot. He leaned backwards suddenly, arms motioning as he spoke. “I didn’t kill anyone. I swear it.”
    “I’ve hardly ever interviewed a suspect who said he was guilty.”
    His eyes tightened into a squint. It was as if the pleasant conversation of a moment ago had never taken place. “Look, ma’am. I don’t care what you think. Or what this town thinks. But I do care what the fellows in my regiment think. And I didn’t kill that woman.”
    “Where were you around midnight last night?”
    Cummins paused, looking down at the cement floor and then back up again to me. “I. . . I left Fort Brady just after 2100 hours. Went for a walk. The cops arrested me on Division Street. It was a little after midnight.”
“Three hours. That’s a long walk. Where did you go?”
“Here. There. It was just a walk.”
“Anyone with you?”
“I was by myself.”
“Anyone see you?”
“No, ma’am. No one I knew.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“That’s all I can tell you, ma’am. It’s what happened.”
It was clear he wasn’t going to say anything further. But there was one more thing I needed to check out.
    “Before I go,” I said, handing him the pad and pencil, “I need you to sign these notes to verify that the facts are correct.” He looked at me as if he recognized the lie, then skimmed through the words and signed with his left hand.
    I was convinced the sheriff was holding the wrong man for murder.
    But I was equally sure that Corporal Roy Cummins was holding something back.
     
     
     
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    The time I’d spent with Corporal Cummins had left me confused.
I doubted he was guilty of murder, but there seemed something beneath the surface, something he held close to himself.
As I walked back through the lobby, I found Carol Olson standing at the deputy’s desk.
“Hi, Kate, just getting released? Must have been a whopper of a night.”
I didn’t find the remark