Requiem for a Character Actor

By Ken Lord

Police Chief Quentin Price is called to the scene of a bloody murder backstage at the Chainville Theater. Steve Gossman, aka Willy Loman, has been executed with a 12-guage buckshot load at the end of the play, Death of a Salesman.

Who wanted Steve dead? Nobody. Well, nearly nobody. His wife Mildred wanted him questioned about the death of her parents. Mildred was with two lovers—did one of them want Steve dead?
It was Ben Tilden's turn to play the part this night, but he was ill. Did somebody want Ben dead? Who? Might it have been Arnie, the Building Inspector? Might it have been Alice, the bisexual who had something going with Karla, Ben's wife?

Major Alton Douglas is convinced that the real target for the night was Ben. Was that before or after the muscle men from Vegas showed up demanding a hundred thousand dollars? Was that before or after Arnie and Karla met at the roadhouse?

And what about the Mercedes?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Lord
• Release date: Jun 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476150420

Ken Lord

Author of more than 60 works of nonfiction, fiction, biography, historical fiction, and YA. Senior citizen living in suburban Syracuse, NY. 40 plus years of computer experience and a comparable amount of adult education. ABA and BSBA from University of Massachusetts Lowell, EdM from Oregon State University, and doctoral credits from the University of Arizona. And, are you ready for this? An Avon representative for nearly 18 years, a top seller, well awarded, and "the cutest Avon Lady" in Tucson, Arizona.

Book preview

Chapter 1

His name was Willy Loman. That, at least, was the character part he played in the Chainville Player’s rendition of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman. His name was Steve—Stephen Gossman, to be precise. And on this, the second night of the third week of the four-week run, Steve was lying dead on the floor at backstage left, killed by the blank-loaded shotgun used to simulate Loman’s suicide.

Everybody heard the bang. The play had come to its climax, and the stage had been darkened, while the entire cast—excluding those remaining on stage—had moved from backstage right—in the dark, to take the final curtain bow. When the lights came up, at first nobody noticed that Steve wasn’t there. He was a slight man, after all, and would normally stand in the middle and slightly behind others who knelt on the stage. Amid the bows and clapping, there was a murmur among the audience and one audience member, a friend of the missing man, called out, Where’s Steve?

Alice Langly, who handled the lights, ran across the stage and entered the room to the backstage left. There on the floor, lying in a pool of blood. was Steve Gossman. She screamed, the sound amplified by the small size of the backstage room where the corpse now lay. Naturally, the alarm of the cast caused them to move towards the sound, but Ben Tilden, the director, bounded onto the stage and ordered the cast to stay put. When he emerged from backstage, he addressed the audience: Is there a doctor in the house? And is there anyone here from the Police Department? He knew that there were guards on duty.

As a local doctor and a security policeman emerged from the audience, Ben advised the officer to call for an ambulance. The policeman did that and called for backup. Ben then asked the audience to remain in their seats.

What happened? asked one of the patrons.

The police and an ambulance are on their way, said Ben.

Shortly thereafter, the sounds of sirens approaching the theater were heard in the room. As the Chainville Chief of Police Quentin Price entered the theater, the officer in charge of the scene briefed him. Emergency medical technicians from the ambulance wheeled a gurney into the theater and up the couple of steps to the front door of the room at backstage left.

The leading Emergency Medical Technician said to the Chief, You’d better put in a call to the coroner.

Chief Price asked one of the patrolmen to do that, but from outside the theater.

With the house lights now lit, the Police Chief accepted a microphone and stood on the stage before the audience. May I have your attention, please?

Despite Ben’s request, the audience had begun to move from its seats. The Chief spoke again. Please return to your seats, ladies and gentlemen. Again, he paused, as the milling mass settled back into its loges, a comfortable reclining theater seat.

The Chief had been to the theater twice today. He wondered if the two visits had anything to do with each other.

Ladies and gentlemen, it appears that in this, the final scene of the presentation of Death of a Salesman, Willy Loman—Steve Gossman—may have taken the scene too seriously.

Did he commit suicide? shouted one of the patrons.

"We don’t know that yet. All we know is that there’s a dead man backstage and it looks as if the shotgun prop was used. Crime scene people are on their way. He’s gone. Nobody can help him now. I understand his wife did not attend tonight, so I’d ask that you stay calm and let us do our jobs.

Chief…

The speaker was the Reverend Walter Windall, Police Department Chaplain, who was responding to the radio traffic. Chief Price drew the Chaplain aside and gave him instructions.

Will do, said the Chaplain, leaving the stage and the theater.

There was of murmur in the audience. One woman, high in the small amphitheater, shouted, Can we go home now?

Not just yet, said the Chief. I would encourage you to have your identification handy. Our detectives will interview you individually, after which you will be free to go.

There are two hundred people here tonight, shouted an irate patron of the arts. We’ll be here forever! It’s 8:30 and I must be home by ten.

We’ll get to you as quickly as we can, said Chief Price. He then handed the microphone back to the stage manager, who directed people in the sound booth to play some soft music. Several detectives and patrolmen of the Chainville Police Force moved into the audience, notepads and pens at the ready.

When the Chief entered the room where the body lay, he found that the Modoc County Coroner had already arrived. Good. Now the victim could be officially declared dead and the body moved to the morgue where an autopsy would be conducted. This procedure was done for every homicide in the city—twenty-three thus far this year.

The coroner approached the Chief of Police. I don’t think he committed suicide, Quent, he said.

Are you sure? asked the Chief.

Quite sure. When one commits suicide with a shotgun, he sticks the muzzle in his mouth and with a toe or a stick or something pushes the trigger. When that happens, the back of the skull is blown off. That didn’t happen here. Steve Gossman was ambushed backstage and was shot in the back of the head. We’ve got a bonafide Murder One on our hands.

Oh, my! We’re now up to two dozen, said the Chief. He hesitated. Any theories, Doc?

Can’t say as I have, Chief, but you’d better see who has access to that shotgun.

As he spoke, the ambulance attendants carried the victim’s body through the backstage door on a gurney and down the two stairs to the theater’s floor, where the legs could be let down and the now covered corpse could be wheeled to the waiting ambulance.

All cast members remain behind, please, said Chief Price.

Chapter 2

It took nearly three hours to interview everybody in the audience. Name? It was written down. Address? Likewise. Telephone number? Did you see anyone leave from the backstage left room?

In succession, the interviewers’ notebooks were filled with contact information and observations, if any, on what the theater patrons might have observed about movements into or out of the separate door to the left of the stage. The audience members were asked to remember even the slightest thing they had seen.

When the last of the theatergoers left, the Police Chief addressed the cast members, who had been asked to remain. Quickly, each was interviewed, as had been the audience members. Then the Chief stood before them to ask questions and about observations.

Have you any idea who might have done this? he asked.

Except for an occasional No from people sitting there, he got no response. The group was in shock.

Did Mr. Gossman have any enemies, to your knowledge?

Again, the assembled group could identify nobody who might want to harm the schoolteacher who had played the central character in this amateur theater production.

He was well liked in the community, volunteered one.

I work with him at Samuels Middle School and he’s great to work with, offered another.

Theater Director Tilden now spoke: Several of us work with him outside the theater and he and I even have spent some time together. He’s been a regular here and has participated with this little theater group for four or five years. He doesn’t always take a speaking part. He does his share of scenery work, or production chores, or publicity—whatever needs doing. He loved his participation here. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to do him harm. The others of the cast agreed.

Well, somebody wanted to see him dead, said the Chief. He paused, looked over his audience, and spoke again. Stay available. We’ll be talking again, I’m certain.

As the group left, deep in conversation, Tilden observed: These people all liked Steve. Your murderer isn’t one of these. Most were on stage or backstage right when it happened.

You said you have a relationship with him.

He’s one of my teachers at the school. He’s—he was—an extraordinary teacher of middle school mathematics.

And away from school?

Ben smiled. You could call us hunting buddies. We haven’t had any chance to go after duck yet, but we’ve been on the trap and skeet range every weekend.

I see. You have a shotgun?

Yes, indeed. A beautiful Remington 12 gauge.

And you buy your ammo where?

Steve was a reloader. He was teaching me to reload.

You have reloading equipment?

No. We were using his.

I see. Chief Price paused in contemplation. Do you know anything about Mr. Gossman’s financial condition?

No, not really. I know he works part time at the hardware store, but that’s not unusual. A teacher’s salary isn’t that large. Many teachers have to work other jobs.

Again, Chief Price said, I see.

Can I go now? asked Ben.

One final question, Mr. Tilden. You’re both married, right?

Yes.

Do either you or he have an interest in the other’s wife?

They know one another; that’s about it.

Have you a common female?

I’m not sure what you mean, Chief.

Is there a woman you both have access to regularly?

I suppose that could be said about any woman at the school. I have to go now, Chief. I’ll be here in the morning.

Chapter 3

Upper Chainville Lake was home to thousands of migratory birds and eager duck hunters in the fall, and while the sounds of shotguns—nowadays with steel shot—carried in the day, it was illegal to discharge a weapon after dusk.

The cruiser of the City of Chainville slowly poked its way up the darkened driveway of the little farmhouse to the west of the city, out on the fringes of the lake. In the car was a city policeman, whose primary function was that of taxi driver. His passenger was the Chaplain of the Chainville Police Department, the Reverend Walter Windall, whose sad task this evening would be to announce the death of the patriarch of the Gossman household.

The lights of the little house were illuminated in expectation of Steve’s return. No doubt by now, Steve’s two children had been sent off to bed and Mildred Gossman had settled down to a performance of Saturday Night Live, tonight with Chevy Chase.

She heard the sound of the approaching car, and rose to turn on the lights to the parking area outside the house. She did this every time that Steve didn’t return until dark, and was surprised to see the vehicle decorated with lights and antennas. She opened the combination door to greet the minister as he approached.

The Reverend Windall was familiar with the farm. He wasn’t their pastor, of course. They attended the Baptist Church of Chainville on a semi regular basis—or more accurately at Easter and Christmas and whenever else she could persuade her husband to attend. Walter Windall was a friend with whom Mildred had performed civic charitable work, and while he frequently invited her to come to the Assembly of God service and bring her husband, she had thus far not taken the invitation.

Evenin’, Reverend. What brings you out here this time of night? Steve’s late. It wasn’t his night to act, so he should be home soon, unless he stopped for a beer with the guys. I suspect he’ll be awhile.

She now got a good look at the vehicle that had brought the minister. Is that a patrol car out there? She then chuckled. I’ve forgotten my manners. Come in. Come in!

The minister removed his hat and entered the living room of the small farmhouse. I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mildred. He paused and continued with difficulty. Steve was shot tonight. Reverend Windall’s discomfort was obvious. He held his hat in his hands and selected his words carefully.

Oh my God! she screamed. How? Was it that shotgun? I’ve been afraid of that gun since he began to work on this play. I know he’s been shooting blanks, but I always feared it could still blow up.

She was moving frenetically now. Is he in Chainville General? Wait, I’ll get the kids up and dressed. Could you get my coat out of the hall closet?

Reverend Windall grimaced slightly. Is there anyone you can call to watch your children? he asked.

Mildred paused to interpret what she had heard. A look of horror came over her face. He’s dead, isn’t he? With that, she let out a shriek.

I’m afraid so. Whom should I call?

Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

She began to sob loudly, and by this time she had roused her children, who gathered around her with choruses of What’s wrong, Mommy?

She turned to the minister. Call Mary Davis. Her number is on the wall beside the phone.

The minister excused himself to make the call, while Mildred Gossman gathered her children beside her onto the davenport. Daddy’s been hurt. I need to go to town with the Reverend in the Police Car.

Is Daddy all right? asked her son, Jeffrey. Again, Is Daddy all right?

She couldn’t tell her children the truth right now. It would not be right to leave them in turmoil with a neighbor. I need to go see how Daddy is, was all she could say.

Neighbor Mary Davis arrived at the back door. I heard. On the scanner, she said. You go on. I’ll watch Jeffrey and Sally. With authority, the older woman moved into the living room and gained the attention of the children, as their mother and the minister left in the patrol car.

Mildred climbed into the backseat with the minister. On the way into town, she peppered him with questions.

Was it that shotgun?

Yes.

Did it blow up?

No.

Was he shooting it?

No.

You mean somebody else shot him? The realization that her husband had been murdered had begun to dawn.

Sadly, yes.

Do they know who did it?

They hadn’t determined that before I left.

Any suspects?

Mildred, I’m afraid that’s all I know.

They rode for a while in silence. When the driver appeared not to be paying attention, Mildred asked, What will this mean for us?

I think it must end. Ellen doesn’t approve.

Ellen is dead.

She still disapproves.

Chapter 4

The detective emerged from behind the black curtains at the rear of the stage. As the crime scene people milled around, he stood beside the Chief, waiting for the conversation to finish.

Chief, there’s something here you should see.

The Police Chief concluded his conversation with the director and followed his detective into the backstage room. Ben tagged along behind. The policeman donned the surgical gloves that were handed to him and asked, What is it, Andy?

Detective Andrew Painter picked up the shotgun from the floor, where it lay near the body of the murdered actor. He pushed back the lever that opened the breech of the weapon, pointed the muzzle to the floor and held the open breech for inspection. The shell’s still there, Chief. The blank. Unfired. So either the murderer had another weapon with a 12-gauge buckshot, or he set the shotgun up, ambushed Gossman, then calmly cracked the breech, removed the spent casing, substituted the blank cartridge, closed it, laid it beside the body, and made his escape without anyone noticing.

Ben piped up: If there is no blank in both chambers, then one was indeed substituted. We always set up the gun during the intermission, and we kept two blanks in the weapon, should one misfire.

The shotgun was lying on the floor beside the body? asked the Chief.

Yes. If he chose not to take it with him, he could have put it anywhere. He chose to leave it there, said Painter.

Are we sure the murderer was a man?

No. It’s an assumption.

Did you find the buckshot cartridge?

Nope. Went over the room carefully.

How would you know the difference?

The only way would be that the shell would be destroyed. One does not reuse shells that have held heavy shot. Empty shells are cheap. Steve might have cut some back to use for blanks, but it’s doubtful we’ll find the buckshot shell.

Then somebody, somewhere, has a spent shotgun shell in his pocket. Have you gone through the trash cans?

Yes, sadly, and there’s one trash can here with nine empty shotgun shells in it; one for every performance thus far, not counting tonight, and a couple more for the dress rehearsals. The lab will be able to pick the lethal one, if it’s there, but unless it has identifying fingerprints, it will be impossible to identify who the killer is.

"Oh, we’ll find the killer, all right. It’s the least we can do for Willy Loman and for the