The Case of the Missing Game Warden

by Steven T. Callan

  “I told you about those guys killing overlimits of pheasants on old man Riddle’s place and hiding ’em in the packing shed. The next day at school, everyone was talkin’ about them getting busted, so you must have done something.”

  “Oh, yeah! Was that you who tipped me off?”

  “It sure was. They were never sure it was me who turned ’em in, but that big Neanderthal Hollis Bogar has given me a hard time ever since.”

  “Bogar. It’s all coming back to me now. I chased old Dud Bogar around the rice country for years. I remember him drivin’ through the rice fields in that beat-up Studebaker of his. I knew what he was up to but could never catch him in the act.”

  “What about Hollis Bogar? Have you run into him since the pheasant incident?”

  “Oh yeah. Hollis is a chip off the ol’ block. Big like his old man and always up to no good. He’s usually got that sneaky little cousin of his with him. Just this past summer, I ran into those two out west of Stony Gorge Reservoir.”

  “What were you doing way over there?”

  “Mike Prescott, the Willows warden, was off on vacation for a couple weeks, so I thought I’d sneak over into his district for a change of scenery. He does the same thing when I’m on vacation. Anyway, I left the pavement and headed up one of those dusty Forest Service roads. If I’m boring you, let me know and I’ll shut up so you can tell me your story.”

  “Not at all. I want to hear what happened, and we’re not busy this early anyway.”

  “I had driven three or four miles when I came to an old logging spur heading off to the west. There was a locked Forest Service gate in front of it, with a sign that said ROAD WASHED OUT. I probably would have driven right on by, but I figured it was a good place to stop and take a leak.”

  “Never want to pass up a good place to take a leak,” said Keane, laughing.

  “I’m standin’ there by the gate, takin’ care of business, when I see these fresh vehicle tracks leading through the gate and up the hill. With nothing better to do, I decided to drive in and find out what was up.”

  “Did you have a key?”

  “I’ve got a key chain in my patrol car with a couple hundred keys on it.”

  “Where’d ya get ’em?”

  “Just collected ’em over the years. Some I inherited from the warden I replaced twenty-five years ago. If ya don’t let me finish my story, we’ll never get to yours.”

  “I’m sorry. Please continue.”

  “I started up this steep canyon on a dirt road not much wider than my patrol car. Nothing but chamise and buckbrush on the north side of the road and a sheer cliff on the south. I had gone a mile or two when I came to this rusted-out, forty-one Chevy pickup—tires bald and the back window busted out. At first, I thought it had been abandoned, but I felt the hood and it was still warm.”

  “So, it wasn’t the Forest Service?”

  “No, it sure wasn’t. I found two sets of foot tracks leading away from the pickup and farther up the road. It would have been better to follow the tracks on foot, but my sciatica was killing me, so I decided to drive. That turned out to be a mistake. I hadn’t driven another half mile when here they come—Hollis Bogar and that smartass little cousin of his—walking down the road in my direction.”

  “What were they doing up there?”

  “That’s what I asked ’em. They swore up and down they were just out for a walk and hadn’t been hunting. I knew that was hogwash, but they claimed they didn’t have any weapons or ammunition, so there wasn’t much I could do. I asked for identification. Bogar said he’d left his wallet at home. His cousin showed me an Oklahoma driver’s license. I wish I could remember his name. Anyway, I asked ’em to empty their pockets so I could see if they had any ammunition on ’em. No ammunition, but whaddaya think dropped out of Bogar’s pocket?”

  “What?”

  “A Forest Service key. They’re larger than most other keys and easy to identify. I asked Bogar where he got the key. He said he’d worked on a fire crew a few years back and forgot to turn it in.”

  “Did you take it?”

  “You bet I did. Then I checked their hands and clothes for blood and hair. They were clean as a whistle. I made ’em sit on the side of the road while I looked around for twenty minutes or so. The whole time I’m lookin’ around, Bogar’s smartass cousin was harping at me and makin’ wisecracks.”

  “What do you think they were doing up there?”

  “I know damn well what they were doin’. They were lookin’ for a deer to kill. I figured they musta heard my car comin’ up the road and hid their rifles.”

  “So wha’d ya do?”

  “First I walked ’em back to my patrol car. When we got there, I made ’em stand there and watch me take out that key I confiscated and add it to my key collection. Then I told ’em to start walkin’. When we got to their pickup, I made ’em drive it back to the gate. I let ’em out and sent ’em on their way.”

  “Were they upset?”

  “Upset ain’t the word for it. That cousin of Bogar’s was cussin’ and swearin’ to beat the band. I knew they’d hidden their guns somewhere and planned to come back and get ’em later.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I drove back up the road and spent the next two hours lookin’ for their guns.”

  “Did you find ’em?”

  “I found one. They had run up this deer trail and stashed it behind a manzanita bush. It was a nice little lever action .30-30 with fancy engraving. Lying next to the rifle were a buck knife and a canvas bag containing a rag and a half-dozen .30-30 rounds.”

  “Were you able to make a case against them?”

  “Knowin’ full well they’d be back to get their rifle, I wrote out this note and tacked it to the manzanita bush. The note said to call the Sacramento Department of Fish and Game office and I’d arrange to meet ’em and give ’em their rifle. In exchange for their rifle, I’d issue ’em a citation for huntin’ deer out of season and failure to show on demand.”

  “Failure to show on demand?”

  “Yeah, there’s this neat little section in the Fish and Game Code that says they gotta produce their weapons if a game warden asks for ’em. If they refuse, it’s a violation.”

  “So, did you ever hear from them?”

  “No, never heard a word. That rifle is still sittin’ in the evidence locker in Sacramento. Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “This morning, a little after 6:00, a green Oldsmobile with a primer-gray left front fender pulled into the station. Jimmy Riddle was behind the wheel, and three other men were riding with him.” Keane handed Bettis a grease-smudged envelope with the Oldsmobile’s license number written on it.

  “I haven’t heard that name mentioned in a while. Wasn’t Riddle one of the boys I caught with all the pheasants?”

  “Yes. They were picking and gutting the pheasants in Jimmy’s grandpa’s packing shed.”

  “That’s right. Now I remember. It was out at the end of that old almond orchard. There were three of ’em: Riddle, Bogar, and that arrogant kid of Ralph Gastineau’s.”

  “Blake.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ralph Gastineau’s kid. His name is Blake.”

  “Yeah, too bad they were all under eighteen, otherwise, old Judge Rubin would have thrown the book at ’em. As it was, I had to take ’em into juvenile court. What a pain in the ass that was. I don’t think any of ’em received more than a slap on the wrist. I remember Gastineau’s old man getting involved. He pulls a lot a weight in this county, ya know.”

  “Besides Jimmy Riddle, the other three in the car this morning were Blake Gastineau, Hollis Bogar, and some greasy little punk with a big mouth. I heard Gastineau call him Richie.”

  “That’s it. His name is Richie Stillwell. Don’t ever turn your back on tha
t guy. He’s a psycho if there ever was one.”

  “It’s starting to rain,” said Keane, looking out the window at the gas lane.

  “I better run back and make sure I didn’t leave my window down,” said Bettis. A few minutes later, the warden returned. “Where were we?”

  “These four guys showed up just after I opened the station. Bogar got out of the car to use the restroom, and I saw that his pant legs and tennis shoes were soaking wet and covered with mud.”

  “That’s interesting. Kinda early to be out sloshing through the mud.”

  “Wait until you hear the rest. While I was pumping gas, I noticed fresh blood all over their rear bumper and little white feathers sticking to the blood.”

  “That could have been from yesterday. The nights have been pretty cold lately.”

  “I thought that, too, until I ran my finger through it. The blood was still wet.”

  “Anything else?” said Bettis, looking at his watch.

  “Yes,” said Keane, beginning to think that Bettis was losing interest and wanted to leave. “These two duck hunters were parked on the opposite side of the gas pumps from Riddle’s car. The black Lab in the bed of their pickup was going crazy.”

  “Whaddaya mean, goin’ crazy?”

  “She was whimpering and bouncing up and down like she wanted to jump out of the pickup, with her eyes trained on the trunk of Riddle’s car the entire time.”

  “I’ve seen dogs do that before, usually when someone’s got a deer in the trunk.”

  “There’s one more thing,” said Keane.

  “What’s that?”

  “Every time I came close to their car this morning, these guys would clam up and stop talking. I did overhear Bogar mentioning the packing shed. He had to be talking about old man Riddle’s shed, where you busted ’em before.”

  “That’s good information,” said Bettis. “Is there a number where I can reach you?”

  “After today, you won’t be able to reach me at all.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m shipping out for the South Pole.”

  “The South Pole! Why are you going to the South Pole?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Keane, running out the office door. “I have to wait on this customer.”

  “Well, thanks for the information. I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  EIGHT

  It was raining cats and dogs when Norm Bettis hurried back to the patrol car after his conversation with Elwood Keane. While contemplating his next move, he wrote a few notes in his diary and listened to the pounding rain bouncing off the rooftop. I had my heart set on a cup of coffee and a slice of Pearl’s apple pie, thought Bettis. Martha was too busy to cook this morning, and we were out of eggs. That bowl of cornflakes didn’t last long.

  Bettis slowly pulled out onto the highway and instinctively headed south. It’s almost nine o’clock and those guys left the gas station over three hours ago. They’re probably long gone by now. Damn, my stomach’s growling somethin’ awful. I guess I could check this out, but more than likely, it’ll be a waste of time.

  He could see his coffee-drinking buddies Earl Glenn and Winston Maxwell sitting at the counter when he pulled into Pearl’s gravel parking lot and drove around back. As he was about to climb out of his patrol car and run through the pouring rain, Norm’s conscience overpowered his appetite. What am I doing? Twenty years ago, I would have already been down at that packing shed rousting those outlaws. Am I still a game warden or nothin’ but a washed-up old fool, wasting the last years of my career sitting in this coffee shop?

  Three heads turned in unison as Bettis’s patrol car raced back across the parking lot and out to the highway. “I say,” said Winston, “where is our gendarme going in such a hurry?”

  “He’ll be back,” said Earl. “Pearl, this is damn good pie. How ’bout cuttin’ me another slice?”

  “That was kinda strange,” said Pearl. “I hope everything’s all right.”

  “Pearl, I’d like another slice of apple pie.”

  “Earl, if you say that one more time, you’ll get the whole pie on top a that shiny, bald head of yours.”

  Bettis had a hunch that if Gastineau and his gang did have illegal ducks, they’d be foolish enough to draw and hang them at the packing shed where he had made the big pheasant-poaching case against Gastineau, Riddle, and Bogar several years before. Driving north on the highway, he turned west and continued another three miles to what was left of Jeb Riddle’s almond orchard. I’m not sure if that shed is even here anymore, thought Bettis. As hard as it’s been raining, I’ll probably sink up to my axles if I try to drive out there.

  Parking in a wide spot at the north side of the county road, Bettis quickly changed into his rubber hip boots and a full-length, camouflage rain parka. Let’s check this out and get it over with so I can go back and get a slice a Pearl’s apple pie. She should be taking a fresh one outta the oven right about now.

  Not bothering to radio the dispatcher to report his location, Bettis locked the patrol car and began sloshing his way across the orchard. Two hundred yards in, he came to the unpaved road that led from the farmhouse to the packing shed. “Looks like somebody’s driven on this road recently,” mumbled Bettis, “and the tracks are headed in one direction.”

  Encouraged by the tire tracks, Bettis ducked into the adjacent trees and proceeded on a parallel path toward what he hoped would be the packing shed. He had trudged through the mud another hundred yards or so when the distant echo of male voices caught the veteran warden’s attention. Stopping to listen and catch his breath, he turned to his right and slowly crept out onto the road. “They’re here!” he whispered, jumping back into the cover of the trees. He’d seen the front end of the green Oldsmobile Keane had described earlier and an older-model, gray Ford coupe parked nearby. I’m finally gonna catch that bunch of no-good duck poachers in the act. This will be a fitting end to my career, and I can retire feeling good about myself.

  Step by heavy, mud-encumbered step, Warden Bettis edged closer to the packing shed. As if on cue, the drenching rain suddenly turned to a drizzle and a patch of blue appeared overhead. Seconds later, a beam of sunlight shone through the parted clouds and was reflected by the packing shed’s corrugated metal roof. Temporarily blinded by the glare, Bettis stopped, shielded his eyes, and listened.

  “One more night like this, and I’ll be able to pay off my Oldsmobile,” said a voice coming from the shed.

  “Yeah, maybe that penny-pinching boss of yours will get off your ass,” said another.

  Approaching the packing shed, Bettis found Jimmy Riddle’s Oldsmobile backed halfway inside the front entrance. Scurrying around back, he came to a sliding metal door that was secured by a chain and padlock but cracked open slightly. Trying desperately to slow his racing heartbeat and control his heavy breathing, Bettis leaned against the building’s back wall and eavesdropped on the conversation inside.

  “This is the last of ’em. We’ll let ’em hang here until tomorrow morning, then I’ll run ’em down to Lincoln.”

  That must be Gastineau, thought Bettis. Based on what the kid told me, Gastineau’s the ringleader of this den of thieves.

  “What are we gonna do with this barrel of duck guts? My mom sold the backhoe last week, so we can’t use it to dig holes anymore.”

  Bettis was unable to positively identify the last voice he’d heard, but based on the conversation, he figured it had to be Jimmy Riddle’s. Riddle’s grandparents had both passed away, leaving the house and property to Jimmy’s mother.

  “We’ll worry about the duck guts later. Hollis, how about gettin’ off your lazy ass and helping Jimmy with the rest of those ducks.”

  “Keep your pants on, Blake. I was just takin’ a breather.”

  That makes three, thought Bettis. I’d recognize Bogar’s voice anywhere. H
e sounds just like his old man.

  Peering through the four-inch opening between the sliding metal door and the building, Warden Bettis couldn’t believe his eyes. My God, look at all those ducks. There must be over a hundred mallards and pintails hanging from one wall to the other. I’ve seen enough!

  Removing his parka and hanging it over a rusted tractor seat, Bettis marched around the north side of the shed and made a beeline for the west entrance. Without stopping to survey the situation or confirm the number of people inside, he proceeded to the center of the cement floor and stood with his forearms crossed in front of his chest.

  Oblivious to Bettis’s presence, Hollis Bogar continued to hang ducks on a section of heavy twine stretched across the width of the structure. Meanwhile, Blake Gastineau was sitting on a moth-eaten old couch in the corner of the shed, tallying figures on a pocket-sized notepad.

  “Apparently, you boys didn’t learn your lesson the first time,” announced Bettis, his stern, authoritative voice echoing through the brutally cold, dimly lit building. Gastineau was so surprised by the sound of Bettis’s voice, he dropped his pencil and watched it slip through the crack between the couch pad and frame. The first thing that crossed his mind was the likelihood of his father finding out what he’d been up to and the certainty of losing his inheritance.

  Jimmy Riddle, who had a bloody pocketknife in his right hand and the backside of a hen pintail firmly clutched in his left, continued with what he was doing. Without looking up, he said, “Hollis, I’m tired of gutting ducks, and my fingers are numb. I don’t have time for your stupid games.”

  “Jimmy,” said Bogar.

  “Hollis, I’m warning you.”

  “I’m not kidding, Jimmy. We’ve got company.”

  Riddle looked up to find Warden Bettis staring back at him from the center of the room.

  “Here’s what I want you gentlemen to do,” said Bettis. “One at a time, beginning with Mr. Riddle, I want you to take out your identification and your car keys, place them on the table in front of me, and sit down on that bench over there.”