Josprel's Stories and Articles

Josprel . . .

Did Hitler Have a Need to Worship

Horses in Heaven - by Josprel

The Beanfield Murder

Chapter One

Returning from the 1948 Law Enforcement Conference, Cayuga County High Sheriff Loren Kregs had barely entered the county seat of Collins, when his car's dispatch radio crackled. Chief Dispatcher Vince Tadber's twang was directing Chief Deputy Billy Greenoak to the Sorrel farm.

Loren doubled back to a narrow, dirt lane that masqueraded as Town LineRoad. Turning into it, he entered the whirling dust storm that was Billy's wake. As usual, his tall, cadaverous Chief Deputy was barreling at floorboard speed, setting his usual bad-driving example to Vince Dennet, the young rookie riding with him. When Loren pulled up, both troopers already were bagging the clothes Doc Krastil and his assistant, Glen, were carefully stripping from an unconscious old farmer lying next to a newly sown beanfield.

The High Sheriff had investigated numerous accidents during his long career, but this one spawned fluttering butterflies in his belly. A
large, rear wheel of Sorrel's mammoth tractor, follow by the bean planter and the sharp harrowing disks it was pulling, had crushed and horribly mangled the old man's thighs and lower body. Apparently, the unmanned rig subsequently wandered aimlessly, before ultimately wedging itself between two lofty white cedar trees. For now, Loren ignored the machine.

Mrs. Sorrel had braved the horror of finding her husband in gore long enough to summon assistance. Shaking violently, she continuously was asking what had happened. Doc passed Dennet a phial of white powder, instructing him to escort her to the house and administer the sedative, mixed in water.

"Try to get her to sit down, Vince she's in shock."

Dennet nodded. "Will do, Doc." As the tall, barrel-chested rookie tenderly shepherded his charge through the small grove of imposing white cedar trees that served as a wind barrier for the weather-beaten house, his attentiveness contrasted sharply with his muscular physic.

Doc again turned his attention to his patient. Encircled by horn-rimmed bifocals, his eyes misted as he worked. His Old Dutch beard quivered he and Sorrel were close chess buddies.

Struggling to maintain his professional demeanor, with a gesture of hopelessness, he responded to the High Sheriff's unspoken question. In a choked voice, he said, "Well, Loren, my old friend won't be playing chess with me any more. He's still alive, but not for long."

Loren nodded his understanding. "How long before he's ready for transport to the hospital"

"A few minutes," Doc responded. He glanced at Glen. "I want you with him on the way to the hospital. Have him admitted into intensive care. Administer plasma and treat him for tetanus. Inform the resident surgeon that I want all his lacerations completely irrigated and sutured. The sheriff and I must check out this accident while the clues are still fresh, but I'll be along shortly. Don't leave his side until I arrive."

He turned to Loren. "Glen drove the ambulance here, but now he'll be in the rear with Sorrel. Can you lend us a driver for the ambulance?"

"Sure, Doc, Vince'll drive it."

Loren motioned for Vince to get moving, but the deputy was having problems with Mrs. Sorrel. Determined to be with her husband, she pushed her way from the house, elbowed past Vince and, still mumbling her unanswered question, struggled to enter the ambulance. As he noted her struggle, Loren's heart went out to the elderly woman. The
Sorrel's had no kin if the old man died, she would be alone. Gently, he gently guided her away from the vehicle, motioning for it to leave.

"Please wait with me, Mrs. Sorrel. I'll send for my wife. You know Verony. You work together on the church council. Verony's your friend."

The dazed woman ceased struggling and stared intently at Loren. Her confusion gave way to recognition.

"Why, Sheriff Kregs, I didn't know you were here. When did you arrive?"

"I've been here a while, Mrs. Sorrel. Verony's coming she won't be long getting here. I'm sending a deputy to pick her up. Verony wants to be with you. Please wait until she gets here. Then I'll have one of my men drive both of you to the hospital. Will you wait for her, Mrs. Sorrel? She'll be so disappointed if she misses you."

"Of course I'll wait for her. It's the least I can do after she comes all this way to be with me."

"Another thing, Mrs. Sorrel, I'll find the answer to your question about what happened. And that's a promise."

Loren activated the radio. "Dispatch a car to pick up Mrs. Kregs. Tell her Mrs. Sorrel needs her here at the Sorrel farm. And hurry!"

It wasn't long before those at the farm heard the fast approaching wails of two patrol cars. The High Sheriff brightened at Verony's arrival. He and his sonsy wife still shared those frequent times when she set his blood aflame, and then dissolved at his touch. Her way with people awed him. Her being there calmed Mrs. Sorrel.

Verony took immediate charge of the older woman. They entered the house, and when they returned to Loren after a short interval, Mrs. Sorrel appeared neatly dressed and refreshed. Verony guided her into the waiting patrol car, eased herself in and nodded to the driver, who floor-boarded the accelerator at chase speed toward the hospital.

Loren turned his attention to his task. Those confounded butterflies again were teasing his belly. He made an unsuccessful effort to force them to roost then turned to glare at the rig. Duty summoned!

"Doc! Billy! Time to begin our investigation!"

Chapter Two

Loren's brawny, six-foot-three frame had served him well during his college football years, but offered no advantage to the fortyish sheriff, whose chest heaved as he lumbered over the rig with Doc. His criminologist's antenna was vibrating with questions: Why were the gears still engaged? Had they meshed accidentally? If so - how? From all indications, Sorrel had been refilling the seed hoppers. In that case, he'd have been behind the tractor. That raised the question of how the wheel could have pass over him, since he wasn't mounting or dismounting the tractor.

"That brings me back to those blasted gears again," Loren mused audibly.

"Did you say something to me, Loren?" Doc asked.

"Just thinking out loud, Doc. This accident has a lot of unanswered questions to it. Mr. Sorell was an experienced farmer. He had a reputation for always having his machines maintained in perfect working order. So I'm wondering how the gears of his tractor could possibly engage when he was behind the tractor filling the hoppers."

"I've no answer to that, Loren. But I can say that the back of his head was crushed with a deadly force before the wheel passed over him," Doc grimly observed, "If he survives, he'll likely be a vegetable."

Indicating the place where Sorrel had lain, he added, "That's blood from his lower body. There's no blood where his head rested, yet, his head bled profusely. It also leaked cerebral fluid."

Loren's baby blues eyes widened. Doc had limited his private practice years ago to become Cayuga County Chief Coroner. The sheriff considered Doc somewhat of an eccentric, but one whose conclusions he respected.

All ears now, he asked, "Before the wheel passed over?"

Doc nodded. "I found coagulation in the head wound, but the lower ones were still bleeding"

"And . . .?"

Doc shrugged. "Well, you're the sheriff, figure it out! I'm just a . . ."

"Yeah, I know, just a country doctor doing his job. I've heard it all before. And I'm just a Boy Scout helping an old lady. Cut the malarkey and answer me!"

"I really have no time, now, Loren, but we'll talk soon. I'm due at the hospital and I gotta roll."

Combing his fingers through his receding, ash-blond hair, Loren watched Doc rush toward his ride. He continued to stare as - growing its own tail of dust - the car raced to challenge the receding wake of the ambulance.

He cursed softly. "Doctors they're all belong in a loony bin, especially that one."

Chapter Three

Concentrating on their investigation, Loren and Billy endeavored to confirm Doc's finding. Nothing. The High Sheriff felt like he did when searching for his misplaced reading glasses. They were somewhere - almost biting him - but where? He backed away to study the contraption, fingers massaging his hair.

When he again stepped forward, there it was - in the cavity of the planter's hitching unit. He'd expected blood on the disks, but blood in that cavity was something else. Puzzled, he scrutinized the miniature pool. Then it hit him the clear substance marbling the blood was cerebral fluid. Doc wasn't so loony, after all. The finding served to deepen the mystery. Why had Sorrel's head been over the cavity? How could he have tumbled from the planter and fallen in front of the tractors rear wheels?

Billy approached. "Loren, did anyone find Sorrel's cap?" he inquired, "He was proud of that old thing. He wore it all the time. He teased everyone about it all the time. He's say that he never became bald because his hair spent a lifetime under the cap and never left because it considered it home. The old guy was never without it, but it wasn't with his clothes."

A search located it, bloodstained and crumpled, several rows from a narrow thicket that butted the far side of the beanfield. Nearby, scores of bluebottle flies buzzed over a dark spot on the soil. The officers glanced at each other they understood. With a stony expression, Loren pressed a lump of the soil between a forefinger and thumb. Blood!

A line of uncovered seed in the rows of the final cut caught the eye of the farmer's son in Billy. To him, it indicated the rig had stopped there. On restart, the planter dropped surplus seeds, some left exposed by the furrowing disks.

"Loren, why would Sorrel stop in the middle of a cut?"

"A good question, Billy. This close to his house, if he had to relieve himself or wanted a drink of water, he'd have gone to the out-house or taken water from his well. They're both close to this field. The rows he was planting are short ones, so after he filled the planter on the other side, he easily could have made a few round-trips without reloading."

"Maybe he had mechanical problems."

"Maybe, Billy, we'll have to find out. All we know for now is that, after he was hurt, he was on his back for a while. His blood is evidence of that."

Billy gazed admiringly at the beanfield. "The old man really knew his job. Look at that field. It's an agricultural professor's dream."

Loren nodded. Only the uncovered seed, the buzzing bluebottles, and the tractor still nosing the cedars, marred the field. That nagged at Loren, and he wondered why.

"Billy, your head's gushing blood. What's the first thing you do?"

"Try to stop the bleeding."

Loren nodded. "Find anything Sorrel might have use for that?"

"No."

"If Sorrel took the tractor for help, he'd be standing or sitting. Where would the blood from his wound flow?"

Billy's eyes widened. "Straight down the his neck onto his shirt. But there's no blood on Sorrel's shirt."

"That's right, or in the tractor cab, either."

"Then Sorrel didn't stand. But how did he get to the other side?"

"Someone moved him." Loren's own words startled him.

Now he realized why the field's neatness nagged at him.

"Billy, if Sorrel rushed with his tractor to get help, wouldn't he'd have made a beeline for the house?"

"Seems so to me."

"Well, in that case, there'd have crosswise cuts over the completed rows, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah, I say so."

"But there aren't any, Billy."

The officers elbowed through the thicket, to an unused utility road that divided Sorrel's property from the adjacent woods. Perpetually shaded by trees, the road never lost its dampness and terminated several miles ahead, at the depleted natural gas wells it once serviced.

"Loren, there's fresh tire tracks on this shoulder. A pickup, I'd say. And here's motor oil from a leaky oil pan."

The Chief Deputy's fingers gently lifted several culms of bent orchard grass he found within the tracks. When he withdrew his fingers, they curtsied again.

"Well, from this, I'd say the pickup left not very long ago," he noted.

Loren nodded assent. "Someone left the truck here and then entered the field from the road. Sorrel must have climbed down from his tractor to see what the person wanted and was hit from behind. But, what I don't understand is why he was left bleeding in the field for a while. The blood in that cavity proves he was eventually placed on the planter, with his head over the coupling. Whoever did it brushed away the footprints. They even took the time to finished the last cut before dumping the poor, old guy on the other side."

Loren swallowed hard his facial muscles twitched. Those confounded butterflies were active again.

"By then, coagulation had set in, but not before Sorrel bled into the cavity. They tried to fake an accident by running the rig over him. They left it moving, then jumped to the grass and ran. They forgot about Sorrel's cap, but you didn't, Billy."

"Real brutal guys, Loren. Why would anyone kill him?"

Before responding, Loren patted his pockets, making a show of searching for his notebook. "That's what we'll have to find out. And we're the one who have to catch them, Billy. Go back to town and pick up what we'll need to preserve any evidence we find."

Billy left, tires squealing and smoking. Loren radioed the county sheriff's garage. The jolly voice of Casper Tolinas, its foreman, responded.

"Well! If it ain't the boss! What happened, Loren a 'tomic bomb explode?"

Loren was in no mood for jokes. "Quit the joking, Casper, and send a C-2 to the Sorrel farm - priority code. I want Mr. Sorrel's rig impounded."

Tolinas' flippancy evaporated. Priority code meant: "Get here now!"

"I'll send one, immediately, Loren. I'll order the operator to move at top speed." However, Loren defined "top speed" as the sloth creep of the department's gargantuan, C-2 truck cranes, times the fourteen miles between the garage and Sorrel's farm. He sat on the trunk of a fallen tree the wait would be a long one.

"I wish the ones who say my job is adventurous could see me now," he muttered, "Some adventure this is!"

Chapter Four

Sorrel didn't make it. An autopsy revealed an oily substance in his head wound. Specimens of it were sent to the FBI lab in Washington, together with other evidence. Even before the findings returned, a coroner's jury issued a verdict of homicide, shredding the fabric of trust that had characterized Cayuga County. The unthinkable had occurred.

As he stood before his own desk, Jules Rimfurt's face looked peaked. Though he was Cayuga County's supervisor, his expensive, blue, 42 regular business suit looked tawdry on his 42 short physique. Its jacket hung too low, while the trouser cuffs sagged behind white brogues. Contrasting sharply, the hand-tailored, black, pinstripe suit now occupying Rimfurt's chair, blended perfectly with the glistening cordovans that were plunked brazenly on his exquisitely crafted, black walnut desk. Smoke from one of Rimfurt's Havanas spiraled from behind the desk, caressing a textured ceiling, then billowing in curling waves against paneled walls. A former dairy farmer, Rimfurt had sold his soul to the state political machine. Molded to its specifications and fitted with minor cogs, he'd been synchronized with its corrupt mechanisms.

Earlier, the Pinstripper had ordered Rimfurt to meet him at the county hall at 10 P.M., when they could be alone. Now his manicured hand motioned him into a plush chair. Like a wayward child, the
apprehensive supervisor complied. He knew what was coming and his head ached.

"Without us you'd still be squeezing milk from cow udders. And you repay us with stupidity? You idiot! Why'd you kill the guy?"

"Those goons did it. I told them to just scare Sorrel," Rimfurt whimpered.

The Pinstripper glared. "You hired them! Stop that investigation before things explode or you'll join the old man!" He paused. "Get the drift?"

Rimfurt felt a sudden urge to use the men's room. He attempted to push his voice through a large lump in his throat. It squeaked. He swallowed hard and nodded.

"Good. I tell the Big Man. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

The Pinstripper's cordovans carried him out into the night. And Rimfurt's brogues sped him into the men's room to retch.

Chapter Five

FBI tests revealed that one of the truck's tires was deeply gashed moreover, traces from heavy pipe threading were embedded in them. The substance from Sorrel's head was driller's grease, commonly used for augers. Loren stared at the report. Driller grease! An agricultural county, Cayuga depended on drillers for the water so essential to its needs. All the drillers Loren knew were honest, hardworking, family men.

"Dispatch, where's the Chief Deputy?" he radioed Tadber.

"He reported that he was stopping for lunch at Frank's, sheriff."

"Thanks, dispatch, I'll be there, too, until I report in. Out."

Loren located Billy at the counter of Frank's Country Kitchen, sluicing down a burger with coffee.

"Let's take a booth, Billy. This you gotta see!"

Sliding into a booth, Billy read what he was handed, and his chewing slowed.

"A driller's truck?" he finally whispered.

Loren washed down a mouthful of his ham on rye.

"Maybe we'll make a search."

"Do I have your permission to check out all the county bars and joints," Billy asked.

"You do, but take Paris along. Wear civvies and drive an unmarked. Tadber's dispatchers are to know your location at all times. Understood?"

"Understood. We'll start tonight."

After his session with the Pinstripper, Rimfurt lost it. His constant explosions sent those around him scurrying in panic. Even his children, on whom he'd always doted, avoided him. He frequently screamed to Brenda, his wife, that his mind was going - that his head was one big ache. Unable to eat, he lost weight he could ill afford and the short intervals of sleep he gleaned resulted in drenching sweat. He paced incessantly, sometimes times massaging his brow, sometimes nibbling his knuckles.

His subordinates had always considered Rimfurt to be erratic still, they'd been able to limp along. Now they were in chaos! Rimfurt issued orders, and then repudiated them. He refused to sign documents, cancelled all meetings and rejected all calls. He had always shunned the Sheriff's Department. So when the sheriff's office intercom announced that Rimfurt was demanding to see him Loren was taken aback.

Both men had been brought up on farms near Collins. They'd attended the same high school and hobnobbed with the same crowd. Their wives had been best friends. It was Rimfurt who severed these ties after taking office.

The supervisor's appearance appalled Loren. A reputed teetotaler, he now reeked of alcohol. Shadows rimmed his eyes his face was skeletal, his hair unkempt and his suit more disheveled the usual. Pressed against his chest, a tremulous hand clutched an unlit Havana, while the other dangled a Homburg.

"Jules! What's happened to you?" Loren exclaimed, reaching out to shake his hand.

Rimfurt's complexion went from chalky to crimson. He trembled so violently that Loren reached out to steady him. The supervisor erupted like someone cursed with an explosive disorder.

"Don't you touch me," he almost screamed, "You happened to me! And that Krastil happened to me! You have everyone yelling murder. Sorrel had an accident close the case!"

He collapsed into a chair, sucking air. A long silence ensued, during which Loren thought he saw a hint of pleading in Rimfurt's eyes.

"Jules, you're not feeling well . . ."

"I feel just fine," shouted Rimfurt, "The investigation's over on my orders!"

Loren sighed. "You don't have that authority, Jules. Things will calm down. We're following leads."

"What leads do you have?" The Supervisor asked.

Loren ignored the question. "Why would you want the investigation dropped?"

Rimfurt sputtered and changed the subject. "Look at you - the sloppiest law enforcement officer in state. When I get you kicked out of office, you won't yell murder any more."

He scrutinized Loren's attire contemptuously. "You're a disgrace to your profession. Everyone laughs at how you dress."

Loren realized he was no fashion plate. Verony told him often enough, when she administered her self-styled "love nags," regarding his overly casual mode of dress. She scolded that he should conform to the dress code he set for his deputies: full uniforms, neatly pressed, with side arms, whenever on duty. The only exemptions permitted were those on uundercover assignments. And it went without saying, himself.

He was exempted because of his size, he told Verony. He required expensive, specially tailored uniforms that he reserved for official occasions. Stores that sold clothes in his size were expensive, so he bought sale items that happened to fit his huge frame, wherever he found them.

He glanced down at himself. Why were people so critical of his attire? There was no reason for Jules to be so insulting. He didn't look so bad. No matter that Verony claimed the enormous camp shirt he was wearing draped him like a horse blanket. It hung over faded, war surplus, Navy work pants, the waist and rear of which he had nagged Verony into expanding. They drooped deeply at the posterior, their cuffs reaching down to sneakers that long ago surrendered their whiteness. Ignored had been Verony's demands that the incongruent combination not be worn on the job.

"What's wrong with everybody?" he mused to himself, "My clothes are neat and clean."

Out loud, he said, "I'll ignore your insults, Jules. Please leave."

"Lover Boy Kregs, the Romeo of Bowen . . . "

Loren's towering presence overshadowed the Supervisor. The reference was to Loren's rescue of a teen-age girl. His opponents had tried to capitalize on its humorous aftermath by dubbing him, "Lover Boy Kregs."


His two massive fists now enclosed Rimfurt's tie and lapels. As the stubby man elevated, his slack finger's released the hat and cigar. His feet kicked air and he stared directly into the smoldering eyes of his nemeses.

"You drunken little squirt," Loren growled, "I could squash you like a toad, but you're not worth it." He lowered his thrashing captive, but still retained his hold.

"When you insulted my clothes, I let it pass. Now you try to slander my integrity? Your bosses tried it in the last election. I sued and won. You never learn, do you, you little pip-squeak? Want me to have everything you own? Fine with me. Just slander me in public."

Releasing Rimfurt, Loren pressed the intercom. A young brunette in maternity clothes entered. A faint rash on her hands apparently embarrassed her, because she tried to hide it behind her steno pad.

"Mrs. Baymark, please take down the Supervisor's dictation. What is it you were you saying, Jules?"

Dampness beaded Rimfurt's forehead. Lips pursed with suppressed fury, he scooped up his hat and charged out.

"Guess he changed his mind," Loren shrugged to the baffled brunette, and then hurried to Dispatch Central.

Chapter Six

The Sheriff's Department was concluding its third week of searching for the pickup. Billy found it impossible to remain anonymous in the driller hangouts. He and Loren had failed to take his long service into account, and civvies did nothing to disguise his distinctive features. Each time he entered a bar, its patrons shouted greetings to
him. After several such friendly encounters, it fell to the inconspicuous Paris to infiltrate the dives, while Billy focused on the vehicles in the parking lots. It surprised him how many leaky oil pans he spotted. Numerous damaged tires were seen, but none that meshed with the castings.

On this third Friday of the search, Billy and Paris had just arrived at The Drinking Well, a watering hole with an unsavory reputation, near Silver Creek. Each year, the Sheriff's Department could count a booming business from The Well, especially on Friday nights, after its clientele had deeply imbibed. More than one deputy had been hurt quelling the stabbings, clubbing and gang fights that broke out there. Still, politics kept the place open.

"Dispatch Central, this is unmarked one. Over." Paris's tenor conveyed no enthusiasm.

"Unmarked one, Chief Dispatcher Tadber, here. Go ahead."

"Sir, this is Deputy Paris. I'll be entering The Drinking Well. Chief Deputy Greenoak, will be checking out tires."

"Deputy Paris, let me speak to the Chief Deputy."

Hearing Billy's explanation, Tadber responded, "The High Sheriff will have to clear this. Stay put. Out."

Billy lit a cigarette. He appreciated Tadber's concern. Payday, booze, and The Well's clientele, made an explosive combination. If Paris were identified, he'd be in trouble.

"Paris, I'm going in with you," he stated.

"There's no sense in you going in, sir everyone knows who you are," Parish reminded him.

Billy knew Paris was right. The radio crackled.

"This is Kregs. Pick up, Billy." Billy complied.

"You and Paris are not to enter The Well. A call is sure to come in from there soon. I'll respond with the others. Go drink some coffee till then."

Paris' relief earned a smile from Billy.

"You made both of us very happy, boss. Don't know about coffee, though. Can we check tires?"

"That's up to you, but don't go in."

"Understood, boss."

"Good. Kregs out."

The Well's rear lot was filled with cars parked grille to grille, leading the officers to park the unmarked in the last row. They'd been working some twenty minutes, pacing each other on opposite sides, when Billy heard a loud grunt.

Peering beneath the truck he was inspecting, he saw Paris prone on the asphalt. Next to him stood a pair of heavy work shoes, accompanied by two combat boots. Billy drew his weapon. Remaining low, he moved cautiously between the vehicles to peer around the grille of a station wagon. Two men were standing over Paris, one holding a blackjack, the other keys. Both were apparently oblivious of his presence. Taking aim, the chief deputy stood.

"Deputy Sheriff! Drop what's in your hands! Hands on your heads! Now!"

The men stiffened. Blackjack and keys fell to the ground. Their hands went to their heads.

"Back away slowly, or you're both dead!" Billy voice conveyed certainty.

"Far enough. Slowly lower your left hands pull off your belts and drop them!"

The men complied, securing their pants with their left hands.

"Hands back on your heads!" Billy ordered.

This time the duo hesitated. There was a metallic click from Billy's pistol. "On the three count," he announced. Up went the hands. Down went one pair of pants.

"Now kneel and press your noses together," Greenoak instructed.

Gathering the belts, Billy approached until the pistol nozzle pressed against the noses of both prisoners. He felt a tremendous sense relief when they at last were on their sides, cuffed together, and tightly belted at the thighs.

Unconscious, Paris had a large goose egg on his head. Though he wasn't bleeding, his breathing was shallow. It was evident that medical help and backup were needed. He knew he had to move to the unmarked to summon assistance.

"Hop over to that old Studebaker, and be quick about it. Give me any more trouble and I'll shoot off your kneecaps," Billy warned. The pair discerned that he needed only minimal reaason to do as he threatened. Their obscene objections immediately died when he advanced, brandishing the blackjack he had collected from the pavement. The prisoners quickly struggled to their feet, sullenly hopping to the Studebaker. There in a bent stance, they were coupled to the car's front bumper with Paris' cuffs.

Billy reached for the mike as a sudden wave of nausea engulfed him. He lit a cigarette and drew in a long drag of smoke, but it didn't help to dissipate the queasiness.

"Unmarked one to Central Dispatch. Officer down! Officer down at the Drinking Well parking lot! Deputy Paris hurt and unconscious! Dispatch immediate medical assistance and backup. Have two fettered prisoners. Greenoak. Over."

"Chief Deputy, medical assistance and backup already en route. State condition of Paris also your own."

"I'm okay, Central. Paris is unconscious from a severe blackjack blow to the head. No external bleeding, but very shallow breathing. I am unable to ascertain more. I have the two perpetrators in custody and shackled. Repeat: We need immediate assistance."

"The Silver Creek patrol should reach you soon. Silver Creek's ambulance already en route. We're diverting units other to you. The High Sheriff is also heading to your location. We'll keep this channel open. Do you require anything else?"

"Yes, Central a tow truck to haul in a pickup."

"A tow truck will be dispatched, Chief Deputy."

"I can hear our boys approaching, Central. Greenoak out. And thanks."

"We're pulling for Paris, Chief Deputy. Out,"

Chapter Seven

Preceded by an ambulance, the unit assigned to Silver Creek was just entering the lot when Billy signed off. Other units quickly followed. Patrons poured from The Well, protesting when the lot was cordoned off. Billy stood by anxiously, while a young ambulance doctor checked his now conscious partner. Uttering a low moan, Paris rubbed his head.

"What happened? Owww! What a headache!" he groaned.

"I want you in City Hospital for observation," the doctor instructed. Paris protested. "Paris, you'll do what the doctor says," Billy ordered, and the ambulance left with its patient.

Dusk was near when Loren arrived with Watch Lieutenant Thompson. The downed trousers evoked amused, questioning looks. "I needed the belts," Billy sheepishly explained.

Loren inquired about Paris, and eyed the prisoners. The appearance of the older, bandy-legged man was squalid. A grizzled Viking beard draped over his barrel-chest. Its matching head of hair apparently had never been caressed by a brush or comb. Swinging beneath a filthy t-shirt, a blubbery belly attested that he lived for his suds. The embarrassment of literally being caught with his pants down exacerbated his surliness. And, judging by its loud jeers, the crowd harbored no sympathy for him.

Much younger, his companion was tall and athletic. A blond crew cut crested his Apollo features, and his storm sea eyes harbored concern. An Eisenhower battle jacket revealed that Master Sergeant stripes recently had been removed from its sleeves. Tucked into worn combat boots, though now beltless, his faded fatigue pants had remain steadfast. A war vet in his late twenties, Loren assumed.

"Hey, skull-face! My back hurts!" bellowed The Beard. Fists bunched, Billy headed for him, but Loren's warning glance warded him off.

Throwing the Beard a graphic gesture, he blinked owlishly at Loren, and moved toward the pickup.

Assuming an understanding tone, Loren informed the men that he wanted to make them more comfortable, but he needed answers first. "What's your name?" he asked the Beard. A series of expletives blasted him.

"Awwww, Sheiff, the poor guy's having a bad day," Thompson, sarcastically sympathized.

"What's your name, kid?" Loren asked Apollo.

"I ain't a kid, and I ain't with this blubber belly," Appollo responded.

"What's your name?" Loren repeated. Appollo did not reply.

"These could be the killers, Lieutenant," Loren said.

Apollo's eyes widened. "Hey, wait a minute I didn't kill anyone!"

"Shut your mouth!" the Beard yelled at him.

"Don't tell me to shut my mouth, you fat idiot!" Apollo yelled back, "I'm not going to fry for something you did!"

Winking conspiratorially, Loren remanded the prisoners to Thompson's custody, and turned toward the crowd. Speaking for all to hear, he stated, "And for Pete's sake, lieutenant, have that fat blubber belly pull up his pants there're women watching! Charge him with indecent exposure, too!"

Rewarded by a barrage of the Beard's curses, the High Sheriff walked away.

Chapter Eight

For the first time in their long acquaintance, the Big Man was castigating The Pinstriper. "I received a report that Rimfurt's two loonies have been arrested. That spells trouble for us, because those guys can't be trusted! Why did Rimfurt hire those crazies? They're a dangerous liability!" the Big Man raged, "You're not doing your job those two screwballs will connect Rimfurt to the old farmer. Then Rimfurt will implicate you and the rest of us. We'll be up a creek with no paddle!"

"I have everything under control, boss. No need to worry," the Pinstripper assured him.

"It's my job to worry!" the Big Man boomed, "And its your job to see that I don't have anything to worry about. The fact that I am worried is because you're not doing your job! You had better get those loonies before they sell us out. We're paying you big bucks to handle these kinds of things. Earn your money!"

The Pinstriper attempted to reach Rimfurt's home by phone. Only a constant ringing at the other end rewarded his efforts. Furious, he reluctantly dialed the Cayuga County Building, and was passed through to Rimfurt's office. An efficient female voice responded.

Employing an alias, he stated, "This is Mr. Stemir. Supervisor Rimfurt, please."

"Sorry he's away."

"Where can he be located? This is urgent!"

"He didn't say, sir.

"When is he returning?"

"Soon, I expect. He's been gone for three weeks."

Cradling the phone, the Pinstriper lit a cigar, and cursed through the smoke. "The guy skipped!"

He scowled venomously, and dialed again. "Rimfurt's running. I'm leaving here to find him and then neutralized him," he informed the Big Man.

"Make sure you do or our heads will roll," the Big Man reminded him.

Chapter Nine

The Beard was a troublemaker named Russ Decanner. Apollo was Anton Milnay, an Army vet and one time war hero. He had been cashiered from the Army with a dishonorable discharge for severely beating a superior officer he claimed had needlessly sacrificed the men serving under him. Milnay claimed the officer did so in order gain political points to run for a congressional seat. Both Decanner and Milnay worked as riggers for a drilling outfit near Silver Creek. Both frequented The Drinking Well. Decanner owned a truck that now boasted a brand new oil pan gasket and recently mounted tires.

Sitting in his office with Loren and Billy, County Prosecutor Calson Zacaro was reviewing the case against the two men. He frowned.

"I can only prosecute them for assaulting Paris, and obstructing a police investigation. Sorry, guys."

What about the truck," Billy sounded disgusted.

Zacaro steepled his fingers.

"Only suspicions. The gasket and tires are new. So what? I think they killed Sorrel, but if we try them, they'll walk. Sorry. Assault and obstruction's the best I can do."

Loren knew Zacaro was right. If the pair walked, they couldn't be tried again for killing Sorrel, even with absolute proof. For now the lesser charges must suffice. He stood.

"You're right, Carlson. We'll get proof. Don't know how, but we will."

Zaccaro extended his hand, and they parted. Kenny Jarvin was a busy attorney with an accounting degree. He not only was the chief executive of his father's enormous accounting corporation, but he also held retainers from several of Cayuga County's large co-ops. This morning, however, as he waited for Loren in one of Frank's corner booths, other thoughts occupied his mind.

Loren's ham on rye was ready, even before he entered and managed to wedge his extended beltline between the seat and the table. As usual, he grumbled to Frank about needing larger booths.

"You can afford them, Frank I eat here often enough!" he declared.

"That's why you don't fit," Frank replied.

Loren mimicked a scowl. "What are you a frustrated comedian? Let's see your big, fat gut get in here."

Frank retreated. Grinning victoriously, Loren faced Kenny. He sobered when he noticed Kenny seemingly lost in thought.

"Problems, Kenny?"

"Ehh? Oh, I'm sorry. Yes, a pretty serious one, I'm afraid," Kenny replied.

Loren lowered his sandwich, indicating that he was listening.

"Well, it's this, Loren: After Sorrel died, Rimfurt wanted his farm. He kept upping the offer to widow Sorrel, but she doesn't want to sell the place. She said Rimfurt did the same to her husband before he was killed. He told him he wouldn't be responsible for what happened if he didn't sell. Rimfurt's office informed me that he left town with his family three weeks ago, without notice. No one knows where he is."

Loren attempted to absorb this. All county executive officers including were obligated to give County Clerk Rita Biscard at least a month's notice before an extended absence. They also were required to inform her in writing on where they could be reached.

"When did he say that to Sorrel," Loren inquired.

"Just before Sorrel was killed."

Loren gaped. "The guy's flipped out!"

"Another thing, Loren, a few days ago Mrs. Sorrel received notice of foreclosure from the county for tax delinquency. Luckily, I located receipts proving all the taxes were paid. Sorrel's county records showed four years of tax delinquency. Rita can't understand it."

"Kenny, would the county records be hard to change," Loren inquired.

"Not for someone with authorized access. The files are loose-leaf ledger pages in heavy binders. Each property has a separate posting page that registers ten entries two a year."

Kenny's gave a startled gasp. "That's it! Somebody forged Sorrel's latest ledger!"

He calmed himself. "Loren, will you go with me to see Rita?"

Taking a bite from his sandwich, Loren swallowed before answering. "I planned to observe Decanner and Milnay being arraigned today. But I'll go with you, if you'll ride to Rimfurt's with me, afterward."

"Fine," Kenny agreed, "Let's take Billy, just in case there's trouble," he suggested.

Loren looked askance. Billy was assigned to head the detail that was to escort Decanner and Milnay to court. Afterward he was scheduled to continue interrogating them. So far, claiming connections, Decanner was playing hard case. Milnay, though, seemed nervous. Loren felt that, if the correct emotional buttons were
pushed, the cashiered vet would break. That would make the Sheriff's
Department look good, especially if Decanner's claimed connections were
identified. Loren wanted to be there should that happen. He decided
Thompson would head the arraignment detail. The interrogations could
wait for Billy's return.

"Okay Billy should be in on this," Loren decided.

"Great! Lunch is on me," Kenny said, exiting the booth.

As Loren passed the register, he pointed back to the booth. "See, Frank?," he gloated, "I only ate only half my sandwitch. You should try eating less, too." Then, with a brusque salute to the proprietor, he left.

Chapter Ten

The fresh ink on Sorrel's ledger page confirmed Kenny's suspicion. Rita explained that, beside herself, two persons had keys to the glass enclosed registry - Rimfurt and the deputy clerk. But only she and Rimfurt had keys to the main entrance of the tax department. She unlocked both doors at the start of each workday, and relocked them at
day's end. Six registry clerks were authorized to enter transactions in the ledgers. In addition, either Rita, or the deputy clerk, or both, remained in the department whenever the registry was unlocked. Rita was adamant in her affirmation that neither she nor her clerks were culpable. She promised to personally correct the error.

"Has Rimfurt been in since Sorrel's death"" Loren asked.

Rita conferred with her deputy clerk. "No he hasn't. But that doesn't mean anything. He could have been in during the night," she informed them. Loren pocketed the counterfeit page for fingerprinting, and left with his friends.

Hidden behind manicured hedges, Rimfurt's estate was accessed by a long,
curving drive, rimmed by lesser hedges.

"For a public servant, he sure likes privacy," Billy observed dryly.

In the back seat, Kenny chuckled. He was wealthy, but owned nothing like this grandiose domain a magnificent fieldstone mansion, with several lesser buildings, set in rolling acres of private park. A stream, bordered by flowering trees, rippled through it. Cascading lazily down a stony glacis into an enormous, pristine pond, it resumed its meanders upon exiting from the other end. A series of rock gardens, terraced alongside a lace-work of winding, cobblestone paths, were mottled by the prismatic hues of myriad flowers. Adjacent to the pool stood a sprawling summerhouse with lawn furniture stored inside. Loren noticed the floor to ceiling windows were cranked tight, while the door swung wide.

Not far from the house, Billy braked the car to rubberneck.

"What's a County Supervisor paid, anyway?"

Kenny lean forward. "Not enough for . . ."

A thundering muffler interrupted Kenny, followed by the grinding of clashing gears. The thunder increased until, rounding a hedge, an ancient jalopy - still endeavoring to preserve its dignity as a red stake truck - shook itself onto the driveway. On its passenger side, a loose, rusted running board waggled to misfiring of the engine.

Billy engaged the flashers, and the rattletrap coughed to a halt, its engine dying. Dented doors bragged in rainbow lettering that it belonged to "Guido's Artistic Landscaping."

A giant with an olive complexion descended, his head shielded by a Panama hat, well ventilated by use. His ebony eyes evidenced concern, brightening when they noticed Kenny.

"Mr. Jarvini!" he exclaimed.

"Hello, Guido.

"You know each other?" Loren asked.

"This is Guido Tonini, sheriff. He does all our landscaping. Don't let the truck fool you he's the best in his field."

A snaggletooth smile lifted Tonini's cheeks.

Loren indicated his badge. "Why are you here, Mr. Tonini?"

"Imma alla tempo do Mista Rimfurta landa scapa. Him hire mea fer speciale projecta while himma and la familia go way. Hima tella me dey comma back two days go. Imma comma todays for mia moneta, bod no boddy home," the landscaper replied.

"So you work here a lot?" Loren quized.

Tonini's sweeping gesture embraced the skyline, climaxing with a finger
poking at his expanded chest. "Dis alla mia worka."

"Have you seen anyone else here since the family went away?" Loren continued.

Taking on a somber expression, Tonini shook his head. "No, no seea no persona. Bod mia seea lossa trueble! Imma wassa goin fer da policea."

"Why? What happened, Guido?" Kenny inquired.

Tonini motioned for them to follow. "Comma wid mia, Mr. Jarvini seea lossa trueble."

They followed the landscaper to the house where they found ornate front door of the house demolished. The four garage doors yawned wide open. On its concrete approach a new Olds 98 and a late model Lincoln convertible each had broken windows. Glass shards strewed their interiors and their trunk lids had been pried open.

Inside the mansion, they found things in a chaotic state. The contents of all the drawers, closets and cupboards were strewn on the floor. Rimfurt's desk and safe had been emptied. The contents of his file folders papered the rug of his den, mixed with mounds of books dumped from shelves.

Back outside, Loren asked the landscaper, "Is it okay to search your truck? Mr Tonini?"

Tonini appeared stunned by what he'd just seen still, he managed a nod, but all Billy found were tools.

"You may go, sir," Loren said, "Thanks for your cooperation."

The boneshaker resurrected with a roar, setting Loren's teeth on edge with the grinding of its transmission. Then, trailing smoke and coughing fumes, it joggled away.

When he could hear himself speak, Loren noted, "Looks like someone's after Jules, so he's running."

"Then why did he hire Guido?" Kenny asked.

"To make it seem like he's coming back. But I'll bet he emptied his bank accounts."

The radio was awakened by an urgent plea from Tadber. "Unit one, pick up priority code! Unit one, pick up priority code!" Loren complied.

"Sheriff! Return to headquarters priority code! Decanner's been killed by a sniper!" Tadber reported.

Chapter Elevan

The morning of his planned search of Rimfurt's property, the Pinstripper had been warned off by howling, off-key renditions of Italian songs blaring through the hedges. The would-be baritone had cost the Pinstripper valuable time. Furthermore, the search proven fruitless. Then his sources reported that the State Police received a Teletype from the Camden, New Jersey police. Rimfurt's wife had reported him missing. His Cadillac was in the Greyhound bus depot, where he may have boarded a bus for New York City. The Pinstriper had just landed there and was now in a limo, heading for the Hilton. He wasn't happy and heaved sigh of disgust. His gunman had eliminated Decanner just as the court detail was leaving the lockup, but the deputies had shoved Milnay back inside. Now that idiot, Rimfurt, was sure to be fingered by Milnay, who would implicate the Big Man - and himself, of course. The whole ball of yarn was unraveling
and it was up to him to roll it back up.

"Why didn't that #@**%* shooter complete the contract and eliminate both those @#%%*# morons?" he darkly brooded.

Entering the Hilton lobby, he made several phone calls, endeavoring to start the yarn rolling in the right direction by feeding Rimfurt's description to the grapevine. In less than an hour, it was being digested by an underworld whose myriad eyes and ears Rimfurt would find impossible to escape. So the Pinstripper waited.

Decanner was taken out with a single shot by a sniper with a 30-caliber Army carbine. Doc found that the bullet had entered in his right temple and lodged in his brain. A
professional shooter had fired from maximum range, Loren reasoned. Such a killer wasn't apt to leave clues. After he confirmed this by an investigation, his digestive acids seared his throat and red-hot intestinal pains plagued him.

Milnay was a redeeming factor. Convinced that his freedom meant his death, he confessed. He and Decanner had been hired by Rimfurt to bully Sorrel into selling, but the old guy wouldn't scare, threatening, instead, to call the sheriff. Going to the truck, Decanner returned with an auger and crushed the back of Sorrel's skull.

"Then the freak ran him over with the tractor," Milnay sobbed, "How could I stop him?"
Roxby Prison became his lifetime home.

Chapter Twelve

Alone at Frank's, Loren sat staring at the fizz in his Seltzer water. He downed a lot of the water lately to relieve his stomach. He didn't notice Paris until he spoke.

"You okay, sir?" the deputy asked.

"Just tired, thanks," Loren replied with a heavy sign. With a vague gesture he invited Paris to sit.

Handing his boss an envolope, Paris said, "I can't sir. I came because Mrs. Baymark asked me to bring you this."

Loren took the envelope and Paris left. Tearing open the envelope, the High Sheriff noted that the message from the Camden, New Jersey police.

"8/19/48, 11:13 A.M. Teletype Dispatch.

To: High Sheriff Loren Kregs, Cayuga County, New York.

From: Lt. Peter Curelli. Camden New Jersey Police Department.

Ref: Your requested info, Jules Rimfurt. Mrs. Rimfurt reported husband missing 8/13/48, 10:17 A.M.

Since family strangers in Camden, search time-limit waived. Rimfurt's 48 Caddy located Greyhound lot. Ticket agent reported Rimfurt boarded bus bound NYC. Caddy claimed by Mrs. Rimfurt.

End of Teletyped Message."

Loren grimaced. The dispatch only confirmed Brenda's answers to his questions, after she and the kids had sulked back to Collins. When informed of the charges against her husband, she registered a shock so profound that Loren had sent for Doc.

Loren's satisfaction in having apprehended Sorrel's killers was tempered by the fact that the real perpetrators still were free, not only Rimfurt, but also his bosses. They deserved to be with Decanner. He mulled over the dispatch. Oh, well since Rimfurt was out of reach, he'd call his friend, FBI Agent Euler, in Washington. Maybe he'd help.

Chapter Thirteen

His gastric problems notwithstanding, Loren was seated before a heaping plateful of roast pork, stuffing, lemon rice, fried pan bread, and gravy - his favorite meal. His fork reluctantly returned to the plate at the demanding summons of the phone. Ignoring
Verony's advice to let the blasted thing ring, he heard Euler's monotone on the other end.

"Hello, Kregs? Hope it's not an inconvenient time." Loren assured him it wasn't.

"I put feelers out on your request. This thing is huge. Goes to the very top of your state, plus two others. Something about untapped natural gas deposits. The old ones are petering out, and I understand that powerful interests want to gain a private monopoly on all reserves. The members will become billionaires. They want Rimfurt killed because he knows to much."

Loren almost dropped the receiver. When he regained his voice, he answered, "This is way beyond my jurisdiction, Euler."

"Loren, keep what I'm about to say strictly to youeself. Because the corruption reaches to the very top of your state's officials, the President and Unites States Attorney General have ordered us to step in. I'll be top-dogging the investigation. My man in New York City tracked down Rimfurt. Rimfurt told him he knows he'll be killed if he doesn't come in. But he'll surrender only to you. Will you go to New York to pick him up?"

Somewhat cautiously, Loren agreed.

"Good. As soon as I arrange to have you flown there, I'll get back to you."

Chapter Thirteen

Rimfurt talked. He pushed the first domino by fingering Deputy Governor Joseph Lisogen, alias Mr. Stemir - the Pinstripper. Lisogen spewed his guts about party chairman, Ross Wourtrer, alias the Big Man. Wourtrer, in turn, implicated Governor Keserton. Hoping to gain leniency, Keserton gave names, thus toppling the remaining dominos. When those named scurried to follow suite, the entire state administration
collapsed, along with its political machine.

Rimfurt testified that, while gobbling up properties rich in natrual gas, his bosses discovered utility company maps that indicated Sorrel's property held one of the state's richest deposits. They ordered him to get it, so he hired Decanner and Milnay to pressure the old farmer. Instead, they killed him.

No deals were necessary. With almost every cog squealing, the case against the machine was foolproof. Before long, Milnay and Rimfurt were put in isolation to protect them from a large contingent of newly arrived prisoners.

Exercising his emergency powers, the President appointed a caretaker administration over the state until the next election. It was granted sweeping powers to root out the corrupt vestiges still remaining from the former regime. Distilled through a screening process that left them sanitized and leanly efficient, the State Civil Service and other agencies were rendered clean and efficient.

After the State Police were pressed through a similar sieve, the acting state governor contacted Loren. "Sheriff Loren Gregs, your efficient investigation and handling of this extreemly unusual case, along with your fearless actions in toppling the corrupt former state administration has tremendously impressed the President and the U.S. Attorney General. They both recommend that we appoint you to head the reformed State Police. Will you accept the appointment?"

Positively flattered and about to blurt out an instant acceptance, Loren reigned in his ego.

"Please thank the President and Attorney General for me, but I decline. Tell them for me that I'm just a county sheriff, who was keeping a promise to a little old lady." -30-

© Josprel (Joseph Perrello)
josprel@verizon.net

• Previous Posts:

• Did Hitler Have a Need to Worship
• POV in Writing: by Josprel
• Horses in Heaven - by Josprel
• Fadeout into Darkness - by Josprel
• Bread Upon the Waters
• Quiet Moments with God: by Josprel
• The Beanfield Murder
• The Discipline of the Cross

• Related Posts:

• Gospel Expense
• Submission
• Did Jesus Christ Have Long Hair?
• Phoenix!
• The Apparition of Our Lady of Guadalupe
• The Apparition at Knock Ireland - August 21, 1879
• Necessary Freedom
• Send God A Text!