The Case of the Missing Game Warden

by Steven T. Callan

  The avian symphony grew louder and louder until it reached a crescendo and suddenly stopped. The night had become deathly quiet and Blake Gastineau knew why. Either he or one of his fellow duck poachers had snapped a twig or accidentally bumped the magazine of his shotgun. They had been discovered.

  Up they rose, the flock of ten thousand ducks producing an ear-shattering clamor so loud, their distress calls could be heard from miles away. In the midst of the pandemonium came a volley of shotgun blasts in rapid succession. BOOM, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM. Ducks fell from the sky like rain. Unable to identify their targets, Gastineau and company fired into the panicked throng. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM. Some victims folded their wings and tumbled to the ground while others fluttered for a distance before succumbing to their wounds. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM. The stench of exploding gunpowder fouled the cold night air and smoke engulfed the shooters as they continued their merciless onslaught. BOOM, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM, BOOM-BOOM.

  “Looks like we did good!” said Gastineau when the shooting finally stopped. “We’re not gonna be able to carry all these ducks, so grab all the mallards and sprig you can, and leave the rest.” The shooters placed their shotguns on the ground and began retrieving dead birds, all the time ignoring the wounded ones that flapped and flopped desperately in the sticky mud. Reaching into their canvas bags, each man removed individual sections of twine and began tying every mallard and pintail he could find into batches of ten birds. By 4:00 a.m., Gastineau, Bogar, and Stillwell had gathered over a hundred ducks and were hightailing it back to the levee road.

  Moving at a brisk pace, Gastineau’s gang of three trudged and sloshed their way through a mile and a half of rice stubble to their predetermined pick-up site. Once they were within fifty yards of the levee road, they hid the ducks and their shotguns in a nearby irrigation ditch and covered them with weeds. “We’ll leave ’em here for now,” whispered Gastineau.

  In second gear and with his right foot light on the gas pedal, Jimmy Riddle began working his way back north on the levee road. Headlights off, he rolled his window down and flipped on the radio.

  Gastineau, Bogar, and Stillwell scurried over the remaining distance up to the levee road, ducked into a patch of tules, and waited. “Damn!” said Stillwell. “My toes are frozen in these wet tennis shoes.”

  “Stop your bellyachin’,” said Bogar.

  “Quiet!” said Gastineau. “I think I hear a car comin’.”

  “How we gonna know it’s Jimmy and not the game warden?” said Stillwell.

  “I’ll know,” said Gastineau.

  “How ya gonna know?”

  “Just shut up and listen.”

  “Gooood mornin’!” came a familiar voice over Riddle’s car radio. “It’s five o’clock here at the KVLY studios in beautiful downtown Chico. Time for the Dallas Stovall Mornin’ Show. I’m your host, Dallas Stovall.”

  Riddle reached down and turned up the volume.

  “I hear somebody talkin’,” said Stillwell. “Sounds like he’s gettin’ closer.”

  “We’ve got lots of your favorite country tunes comin’ up on this cold, Northern California mornin’,” said Stovall, “but first, me and the boys have a special treat for all you fans out there in radioland. We’re gonna sing a popular little ditty that the Ames Brothers rode to number nineteen on the charts a few years back . . .”

  “I thought that was somebody talkin’,” said Stillwell, laughing. “It’s that cornball Dallas Stovall on the radio.”

  Gastineau stepped out of the tules and onto the road, followed by Bogar and Stillwell.

  “Here’s one of today’s country hits by the Tennessee Plowboy himself,” said Stovall. “This one’s goin’ out to Bonnie, over in Hamilton City. It’s called—”

  “Turn that shit off,” said Gastineau, as Riddle pulled up and stopped. “Did ya see anything we need to be worried about?”

  “No,” said Riddle. “The coast is clear for a mile each way.”

  “Normally, we’d leave and come back for the ducks and our shotguns later,” said Gastineau, “but this field is full of rats. I almost stepped on one a mile back and don’t want those toothy bastards chewin’ up all our profits.”

  “I hate rats!” said Bogar. “Let’s go get the ducks right now.”

  “Open the trunk, Jimmy,” said Gastineau. “We’ll be right back.”

  SIX

  “Ihate to tell you this,” said Riddle, “but we’re not gonna make it to the packing shed unless I stop for gas.”

  “Now you tell us!” said Gastineau. “Why didn’t you fill up yesterday, before we got to your place?”

  “I didn’t have any money until you paid me. Besides, I figured half a tank would be plenty. How was I ta know we’d be drivin’ all over two counties tryin’ ta find those ducks?”

  “I think the only station open this early is Bill’s,” said Bogar.

  “Looks like we don’t have any choice,” said Gastineau. “Let’s put some gas in this thing so we can get started guttin’ and hangin’ these ducks.”

  “I’m almost out of cigarettes anyway,” said Riddle.

  Ding-ding. It was just after 6:00 a.m. when Jimmy Riddle, Blake Gastineau, Hollis Bogar, and Richie Stillwell pulled up to the ethyl gas pump at Bill’s Friendly Service. Stillwell and Bogar were sitting in the back seat, arguing over who was the better singer, Elvis or Pat Boone. A minute or two had gone by when Gastineau turned the radio down and shouted out the window, “Hey, what do we have to do to get some service around here?”

  “He just opened the station,” said Riddle. “I don’t think the pumps are even on yet. Besides, those duck hunters in the pickup were here first.”

  Bill Oliver had owned and operated the tiny, two-pump filling station on the outskirts of Gridley since retiring from the U.S. Navy at the end of World War II. A former chief petty officer, Oliver insisted on running a tight ship. Every gas-station attendant who ever worked for Bill had undergone the same orientation: The repair bay shall remain shipshape unless there’s a lube job in progress or the attendant is fixing a flat tire. The office shall remain free of clutter; that means empty oil cans, gas receipts, rags, and assorted waste will be stowed in their proper receptacles. The restrooms out back must be checked at least three times daily and shall remain clean and presentable at all times. And at no time shall anyone other than the attendant be allowed in the back room where surplus sales items are stored. Bill kept a detailed inventory of every sales item in the station, including oil cans, windshield wipers, cigarette cartons, soda pop, and candy. “One last thing,” Bill would say. “If you hear the bell ring out front, you’ll run—not walk—to meet the customer.”

  “Hey, wasn’t that Peachy Keane?” said Bogar.

  “It sure looked like him,” said Riddle, “but he musta gained fifty pounds since we saw him last. I remember him bein’ skinny as a rail and too clumsy to get outta his own way.”

  “What happened to Dennis Deaver?” said Gastineau. “I thought he worked here in the mornings.”

  “I heard he got canned,” said Bogar. “Somebody told me he was drinkin’ all the Orange Nehis in the back room and not puttin’ money in the till.”

  Just then, the office door flew open and twenty-five-year-old Elwood Keane came running out to the gas pumps. On leave from the Navy, Keane had volunteered to help his former employer out for a few days. “Sorry for the wait, guys,” said Keane. “I’ve got one car ahead of you, so I’ll be just a couple minutes.”

  “Screw those duck hunters,” said Bogar, slugging down the last swallow of his stale beer.

  Two duck hunters with a dog and a gunny sack full of decoys in their pickup bed were parked on the other side of the gas pumps, facing in the same direction. They had been waiting for the station to open since before daylight. As Keane began filling the duck hunters’ gas tank, he noticed that the black Labrador in back was shivering and m
aking whimpering noises. “What’s the matter with your dog?” said Keane.

  “I’ve been watching her in the rearview mirror,” said the driver. “She started acting like that right after that other car pulled in.”

  “Strange,” said Keane, pressing down on the nozzle trigger so the gas would pump more quickly.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen her do that before, usually when I’ve shot a duck and she’s waiting for my retrieve signal.”

  Everyone in Riddle’s car was still laughing about Dennis Deaver and his legendary eating habits when Gastineau slapped the car’s roof liner with the back of his hand. “Hey, be careful what you say around this guy. I think he’s the one who snitched us off to the game warden.”

  “What makes you think it was him?” said Riddle, snuffing out his cigarette in the overloaded ashtray and lighting another.

  “It had to be him,” said Gastineau, having rolled up his window so Keane couldn’t hear. “He was standin’ right behind Hollis and me in the gym when we were bragging about killin’ all those pheasants the year before and stashin’ ’em in your grandpa’s packing shed.”

  “What’ll it be, fellas?” said Keane, suddenly standing at the driver’s-side window. “Regular or ethyl?”

  “Here,” said Gastineau, handing Riddle a five-dollar bill.

  “Five dollars’ worth of ethyl,” said Riddle.

  “Would you like me to check the oil?”

  “Just pump the damn gas so we can get the hell outta here,” said Gastineau.

  “Yeah,” chimed Stillwell, from the back seat. “Pump the damn gas, and make it snappy.”

  “Aren’t you bein’ a little hard on the guy?” said Riddle, rolling up his window.

  “He was a pain in the ass in high school, and he’s a pain in the ass now,” said Gastineau.

  “Let me outta here,” said Bogar. “I can’t hold it any longer.”

  “Here’s two bits,” said Riddle. “Buy me a pack of cigarettes while you’re at it.”

  While Keane pumped gas at the rear of the car, Hollis Bogar pushed the seat forward and climbed out the passenger-side door. In doing so, he accidentally kicked a half-full beer can out onto the gas lane. “Hey, Peachy, is the head unlocked?” said Bogar, not bothering to pick up the beer can.

  “It’s around back. The key’s hanging just inside the office door. Don’t worry about the can. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Damn right you will,” said Bogar.

  Keane couldn’t help noticing that Bogar’s tennis shoes and pant legs were splattered with mud. Glancing downward to avoid Bogar’s scornful gaze, the attendant spotted fresh blood and what appeared to be tiny down feathers sticking to the rear bumper. So that’s what that dog was excited about, thought Keane. Here it is forty minutes before legal shooting time, and they already have ducks in their trunk. Still deep in thought, Keane suddenly felt Hollis Bogar’s hand resting on his right shoulder. “Huh?” said Elwood. “I didn’t see you come back from the restroom.”

  “Peachy,” said Bogar, his beer breath strong enough to kill a horse, “I ain’t seen ya since high school. Where ya been?”

  “I joined the Navy right after graduation.”

  “Me and Blake have missed ya. You gonna be around town for a while?”

  Turning away, Keane said, “No, I’ll be leaving again tomorrow.”

  “That’s too bad. We got somethin’ we wanna talk to you about.”

  Keane remembered Bogar as the classic bully. He’d egg some poor kid into a fight, wrestle him to the ground, then beat him senseless with his fists and incredibly hard head. Having risen to the rank of petty officer first class and in line for another promotion, the last thing Elwood needed was to let someone like Bogar goad him into a fight.

  “Hey! Hurry it up back there,” shouted Gastineau.

  “Did ya get my cigarettes?” said Riddle, as Bogar climbed back in the car.

  “Yeah, I got ’em,” said Bogar. “Peachy said he was leavin’ town tomorrow.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Gastineau. “If we weren’t gonna be so busy with those ducks, I’d suggest we give him a send-off.”

  Ding-ding. Gastineau and company drove away. Elwood had intended to disregard what he’d just witnessed, but something told him to pull a pen from his shirt pocket and scribble Jimmy Riddle’s license number on the palm of his left hand.

  SEVEN

  Having waited on a dozen customers, patched a flat tire, and swept the repair-bay floor since Gastineau and his gang left the station, Elwood Keane still couldn’t shake the thought of his former schoolmates hiding illegal ducks in the trunk of Riddle’s car. Two hours had gone by, but the blood on Riddle’s bumper and the indignity of Bogar’s subtle threat still haunted him. “It’s been eight years since high school,” mumbled Keene, “and those no-goods haven’t changed a bit.”

  The office telephone rang. “Bill’s Friendly Service. May I help you?”

  “Elwood, this is Bill. I really appreciate you filling in these last few days. What’s your schedule for the rest of the week?”

  “Early tomorrow morning, I take the Greyhound to San Diego. Friday, I ship out.”

  “Okay, I’ll come by before your shift is over and pay you. When do you think you’ll be back this way again?”

  “I doubt if I’ll ever be back,” said Keane. “Since my mother passed away and I sold her house, there’s really nothing to keep me here. Besides, I’m in the Seabees now, and I heard they’re sending us to Antarctica.”

  “Antarctica! Why would they send you to a place like that?”

  “We’re buildin’ bases down there so the scientists can conduct studies.”

  “Well, good luck, and try to stay warm,” said Oliver. “Be sure to write once in a while and let me know where you are.”

  “I will,” said Keane, hearing the bell. “I’ve got a customer. See you this afternoon.”

  Elwood ran out to the gas lane, only to receive the surprise of his life. There before him was a dark-green, 1954 Ford sedan with a ten-foot-high radio antenna attached to the rear bumper. “I don’t believe it,” mumbled Keane, shuffling around the rear of the car and up to the driver’s window.

  “Fill ’er up with regular,” said the driver, handing Keane a credit card.

  It’s him, thought Keane, turning on the pump and popping the nozzle into the gas-tank receptacle. He was supposed to retire years ago, after I turned Gastineau, Bogar, and Riddle in for poaching pheasants.

  “Would you like me to check the oil?”

  “Sure, go ahead,” said Warden Bettis, jotting down figures in a green, hardbound diary. “Could I get you to wash the windshield while you’re at it?”

  “You bet.” While washing Bettis’s windshield and checking the oil, Keane pondered his options. Should I bring up what I saw or just let it go? He obviously doesn’t remember me, so he’ll probably think I’m making a big deal out of nothing. Looks like Warden Bettis has lost most of his hair and put on about twenty pounds since I saw him last. “Your oil looks good,” said Keane, displaying the dipstick. “Only a half quart down.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Keane replaced the dipstick, closed the hood, and walked past the driver’s window. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  “The man has no idea who I am,” mumbled Keane, as he placed Bettis’s credit card in the machine and pushed the slider forward. “Maybe I should let him sign the slip and go on his way. It’ll be less complicated for me that way.”

  “Thanks for cleaning the windshield,” said Bettis, reaching for the gas-receipt tray.

  “No problem. The sky’s getting dark. Looks like another storm’s comin’ in.”

  “Yeah, it sure does.” Bettis signed the gas receipt and placed his copy into a flat, aluminum case that sat on the passenger seat next to him.

  “We
’re giving away these styrofoam balls, if you’d like one.”

  “What are they for?”

  “They stick on the end of your antenna. It’s kind of a promotional thing.”

  “Yeah, sure, go ahead and stick it on there.”

  Keane walked to the rear of the car and pulled down the ten-foot antenna. Placing the bright orange ball on the end, he released the antenna and let it spring back to its lofty position. “Thank you,” said Keane. “Please come again.”

  Elwood was disappointed that Warden Bettis had not recognized him. Had Bettis broken the ice by engaging in conversation, Keane might have found the courage to come forth and tell the veteran warden what he’d seen. That bunch has gotten away with murder for years, thought Keane, watching Bettis’s patrol car pull away from the station. Now they’re gonna get away with this too, all because I don’t have the guts to say something. “Like hell I don’t,” blurted Keane, bolting out of the station and sprinting after Bettis’s car. “Hey, stop!”

  Bettis had already pulled onto the highway and was headed south when he glanced into his rearview mirror. Seeing Keane, he swung the patrol car around and headed back toward the station. “Wha’d ya do, forget to replace my gas cap?”

  “No,” said Keane, catching his breath. “I’ve got somethin’ important I want to tell you. Would you mind parking behind the station?”

  “Yeah, sure. Do you want to talk back there, or should I meet you in your office?”

  “Let’s talk in the office. Business is slow right now, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Pushing some binders aside and finding a seat on top of a cabinet at the back of the office, Bettis said, “What’s this all about?”

  Keane sat down in Bill’s desk chair. “Don’t you remember me?”

  “No, can’t say that I do.”

  “It was eight or nine years ago. You checked my hunting license when I was out pheasant hunting near Biggs.”

  “I contact a lot of people, son. I can’t remember all of them.”