The Case of the Missing Game Warden

by Steven T. Callan

  “Give me an inside target,” said Henry. “I’ll put a fastball in on his hands. If he swings, he’ll either miss it cleanly or hit it on the handle and break his bat.”

  Glance kicked his right leg in the air and let fly with a fastball directly at Larry Jansen’s target. Power turned on the ball, as he’d done so many times before, expecting it to hit the sweet spot on his thirty-five-ounce Louisville Slugger and rocket over the right-field fence. Instead, the ball came to rest on the bat’s handle, breaking it in two and sending a weak ground ball toward the three-four hole between first and second base.

  “Shiiit!” shouted Power, flinging his bat against the backstop. Panicked by the thought of making the last out and granting Henry Glance a season-ending no-hitter, the Redlands catcher turned and rumbled down the first-base line.

  Glance bolted from the mound and raced to cover first base as Jack Riley fielded the ball. “Jack,” shouted Henry, approaching the bag. Failing to get a firm grip on the ball, Riley made an errant throw that sailed three feet over Glance’s head. Still running at full speed, the six-foot-one-inch southpaw made the leap of his life, whirled and caught the ball in his right hand, and came down directly in the path of a 265-pound oncoming train. Bob Power slammed into Henry’s exposed left side so hard, women in the stands shrieked and looked away. “I think that big sonofabitch killed him,” said an elderly gentleman in the back row of the bleachers. “He’s not movin’.”

  “You’re out,” shouted the first-base umpire, seeing the ball still firmly lodged in Glance’s glove. Riverside had won the game, and their star pitcher had finished the season with his second semipro league no-hitter, but for Henry Glance, it was the end of a dream.

  After five hours of surgery, the insertion of a metal pin in the carpals of his left wrist, and two months in a cast, the handwriting was clearly on the wall. “Your chances of pitching in college, let alone the major leagues, are slim to none,” said Glance’s orthopedic surgeon. “If I were you, I’d start making other career plans.”

  ELEVEN

  It was Thanksgiving Day 1967 when the telephone rang at the Glance residence in Temecula.

  “Hello,” said Mary Glance.

  “Hi, Mary. This is Larry Jansen. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Hi, Larry. We haven’t heard from you in a while.”

  “I wanted to give Hank a little time to sort things out after his wrist surgery. Has he decided what he’s gonna do yet?”

  “Well, he’s not going to Stanford, but I guess you already knew that.”

  “Yeah, I heard they recruited Gary Miller after Hank got hurt.”

  “Things were looking pretty dark around here for a while, but I think Henry’s ready to move on with his life now. He finally sent his transfer papers to Chico State and received his acceptance notice about three weeks ago.”

  “That’s great! Wait ’til Hank hears—”

  “Next to playing baseball, Henry’s always wanted to do something with wildlife,” said Mary. “He’s loved animals and the outdoors ever since he was a little boy. If there’s a bird book Henry hasn’t read, I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Yeah, he’s always pointing out birds to me.”

  “I’ll never forget the time you boys rode up on your bikes with that goose stuffed in Henry’s backpack.”

  “I remember that,” said Larry. “Hank named it after his uncle Roscoe, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did. My brother and Henry were close until Roscoe moved to Oregon.”

  “Whatever happened to that goose, anyway?”

  “Roscoe hung around here for three or four years after you boys brought him home. One morning Henry went out back to feed the chickens, and he was gone. Henry looked all over for any sign that a fox or something might have gotten him but never found so much as a feather.”

  “Do you think he might have flown away?”

  “His wing never completely healed, but that old gander could still fly short distances. Henry thinks he might have made it as far as Jaspers’ pond and joined up with some of the wild geese.”

  “I hope so,” said Larry.

  “Me too. I bet you’re waiting to talk to Henry, aren’t you? He’s out back with his father. I’ll get him.”

  “Nice talking to you, Mary.”

  “It was good talking to you, Larry. I’m so glad you and Henry have stayed close all these years. He thinks the world of you, you know. It’ll be just a minute.”

  “Hey, Larry,” said Henry.

  “How have you been, Hank? Are you ready to rejoin the human race? Your mom says you received your acceptance notice from Chico State.”

  “I did, a couple weeks ago.”

  “Guess who else is goin’ to Chico State?”

  “I don’t know, who?”

  “Me!”

  “I thought you were gonna stay around here and play for San Bernardino State.”

  “I decided I needed a change of scenery. Besides, the more I learn about Chico State, the better I like it. The enrollment is only six thousand, and most of the students walk to class or ride a bike. Since I don’t have a car, that suits me just fine.”

  “How do you plan on getting there?”

  “I guess I could take a Greyhound,” said Larry, waiting for Henry’s response.

  “You could probably ride with me, but there’s not much room in my Bug,” said Henry, laughing. “We could strap your stuff to the roof.”

  “Gee, that’s awfully generous of you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Have you found a place to stay yet?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have.”

  “Do you have a roommate?”

  “Why? Are you interested?”

  “Well, yeah, I might be.”

  “I don’t know,” said Henry, laughing again. “I plan on doin’ a lot of studying and you’re pretty much of a goof-off.”

  “A goof-off? My grades are just as good as yours.”

  “Yeah, but you’re majoring in PE, and I’m majoring in biology.”

  “I have some pretty tough classes.”

  “Like what, advanced badminton? I bet you go to class every day in your gym shorts.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. It’s great hearing you laugh again, Hank. How’d you know I was gonna call?”

  “Mitch Rider told me the other day when I called to get his cousin’s phone number.”

  “So, are we gonna be roommates?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What did Mitch’s cousin tell you?”

  “His name’s Fred.”

  “All right, what did Fred tell you?”

  “He gave me the phone number of this sweet little old lady named Mrs. Iverson. She owns an old two-story house on Chestnut Street, four blocks from campus. I called her yesterday and asked about renting a room.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said she has a room available in the basement. The basement has four rooms: three singles and one double. All the single rooms have been rented by male college students. The two guys in the double room are moving out this week.”

  “What about food?”

  “Fred said he bought a meal ticket at the Shasta Dining Hall. It’s located on campus, right next to the bookstore.”

  “That sounds good. How much is a meal ticket?”

  “I guess it’s pretty reasonable. He suggested that we put our names on the list for a part-time job at the dining halls as soon as we get there. By washing dishes two hours a day, we can earn enough to pay for our meal tickets.”

  “I’m game. When do we leave?”

  “How ’bout next week? Mrs. Iverson said we could pay the rent when we get there. She’s not even going to make us pay a cleaning deposit.”

  “That’s great!”

  �
��Yeah, she said I sounded like a nice young man on the phone, so she didn’t think it would be necessary.”

  Henry’s Volkswagen Beetle was jam-packed with everything from bedsheets to baseball equipment when Henry and Larry left for Chico at 4:00 a.m. on Sunday, November 26, 1967. They putted through Los Angeles without a hitch but discovered that excess weight was going to be a problem when they began their arduous trek up the Grapevine.

  “Are we gonna make it?” said Larry.

  “I think so,” said Henry, “as long as we keep it in third gear and don’t try to go any faster than thirty-five. If this stretch gets any steeper, you may have to get out and walk.”

  Once Henry and Larry had made it over Tejon Pass, it was smooth sailing up Highway 99 through Bakersfield, Modesto, Stockton, and Sacramento. Just north of Sacramento, the landscape changed from tall buildings, highway interchanges, and overpasses to open space and flooded rice fields. “Boy, is this a breath of fresh air,” said Larry.

  “I think our adventure is just beginning,” said Henry. “Fifteen or twenty miles up the road, Highway 99 forks to the left, toward Yuba City. After that we’ll be in Northern California.”

  “I can’t wait. What time did you tell Mrs. Iverson we’d be in Chico?”

  “I told her we’d try to make it by 5:00. She said the fog has been rolling in lately, which could slow us down a bit.”

  “Hank, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I called the Chico State baseball coach the other day and asked about trying out for the team this spring.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, his name is Dave Hall. Coach Hall said the previous varsity coach had just retired and he would be taking over the job.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “It could be. With a new coach, it gives me a better chance of making the team.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Being new, he may not have next-year’s team already picked out.”

  “That makes sense. What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I played first-string catcher for Riverside City College my freshman and sophomore years and we won the conference title both seasons. I also told him the main reason we won was because of an incredible left-handed pitcher named Hank Glance.”

  “Why’d ya tell him that? I can’t pitch anymore.”

  “During the conversation, I happened to mention that you were a hell of a first baseman and one of the best hitters I ever played with.”

  “Larry, you’re my best friend and I appreciate what you did, but I’m comin’ to Chico to finish my education, not play baseball. I was devastated when I lost my scholarship and my opportunity to pitch for Stanford. For the next two months, I refused to even look at a baseball, let alone play the game.”

  “I know how you feel, Hank, but I’m not gonna give up on you yet.”

  The boys were a mile or so north of Live Oak when Henry said, “Look at that!”

  “What?” said Larry.

  “Out to the west, it looks like that little mountain range just popped up in the middle of all those rice fields.”

  “Those mountains look surreal,” said Larry, “like something you’d see in a fairy-tale book.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking,” said Henry. “I’d like to take a closer look sometime.”

  “Maybe someday you will,” said Larry. “I’m getting hungry. Let’s get something to eat in the next town. I just saw a sign that said GRIDLEY 4 MILES.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Henry. “Isn’t Gridley where that game warden disappeared?”

  “It’s amazing that you would remember that, Hank. It’s been seven or eight years since those poachers shot the goose and we talked to the game warden down in Temecula.”

  “Did I ever tell you that Ned McCullough came by the farm twice after the goose-shooting incident?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “The first time he came by to check on the goose. The second time he brought me a book and a stack of handy little booklets.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yeah, the book is called Wildlife Law Enforcement.”

  “What were the booklets?”

  “Let’s see, there was one on trout, one on waterfowl, one on furbearers, and one on warmwater game fish of California.”

  “Right now, I’m more interested in hamburgers and milkshakes of California,” said Larry. “How ’bout we try Pearl’s Roadside Diner? The sign says it’s three miles ahead.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Henry.

  “So, did you read all this stuff Warden McCullough gave you?”

  “I not only read them all, cover to cover, I memorized the scientific names of every trout in California. Ask me for the genus and species of any trout.”

  “Rainbow trout.”

  “Salmo gairdnerii. Ask me another.”

  “I don’t know any others. Are you planning to be a game warden now?”

  “You never know.”

  “I thought you were gonna be a pro baseball player.”

  “That was one book I read and threw away.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Larry. “I wonder if they ever found out what happened to that game warden who disappeared.”

  “Why don’t we stop and ask?” said Henry. “Here’s Pearl’s Diner comin’ up on the right. It looks like a respectable place.”

  Henry and Larry walked in and sat down at the counter, three seats from an elderly gentleman drinking coffee. A curvaceous, middle-aged woman with medium-length blond hair was busy wiping down a table at the far end of the restaurant. “I’ll be right with you,” she said.

  “Hey, Hank, do you have a quarter? I wanna play something on the jukebox.”

  As Larry flipped through the song selections, Henry reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. “What are you gonna play?”

  “How ’bout ‘Surfin’ Safari?’ It’ll remind us of surfing at Huntington Beach last summer. That’s the one thing I’m gonna miss about not going to school down south.”

  “Me too,” said Henry, perusing the menu. “When I left home, my board was hangin’ from the barn wall, covered with cobwebs. It almost brought tears to my eyes.”

  “Don’t worry, those good lookin’ honeys up in Chico will make you forget all about the beach.”

  “Welcome to Pearl’s,” said the waitress. “What can I get for you boys?”

  “I’d like a hamburger and a chocolate milkshake,” said Larry.

  “Would you like fries or coleslaw with that?”

  “Fries, please.”

  “What about your good-looking young friend here?”

  “Henry, the waitress asked what you’re gonna have.”

  With the Beach Boys singing in the background, Henry lowered the menu and cracked a smile. “I think I’ll have the same thing he’s having, with coleslaw instead of fries, please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  “Pearl, can I get a refill?” said the elderly man at the counter.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute, Earl.”

  Pearl returned with Henry’s and Larry’s order. “Is there anything else I can do for you boys?”

  “No,” said Henry, “but I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you happen to know the game warden who disappeared around here about ten years ago?”

  Pearl almost dropped the dishes she was carrying, and Earl choked on his coffee. Regaining her composure, Pearl said, “Why do you ask?”

  “We heard the story and wondered if anyone had ever found out what happened to him,” said Henry.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” said Pearl, her hands trembling. “It’s been years since
anyone around here has even mentioned Norm Bettis’s name. The day he disappeared, he raced across this driveway, right past the spot where your car is parked. It was December 13, 1956, and nobody’s seen him or his car since.”

  “It was rainin’ like hell that day,” said Earl.

  “Do you have any idea what might have happened to him?” said Henry.

  “Hmm,” mumbled Earl.

  “Earl, you hush now,” said Pearl. “I have my own ideas about what might have happened to Norm, but it’s just ideas, and I best keep ’em to myself.”

  “I understand,” said Henry. “Was Warden Bettis married?”

  “Yes, he was. Martha Bettis still lives in the same little house at the north end of town. Her neighbors say she walks out on the front porch every evening at 5:00, hoping Norm will drive up the driveway in time for dinner.”

  “Wow,” said Henry, “what a sad story.”

  “Trouble is, they ain’t no closure,” said Earl, stepping away from the counter and preparing to leave. “I hope someday they catch the dirty sonsabitches who done Norm in.”

  “Maybe they will,” said Henry, “maybe they will.”

  “Where you boys headed?” said Pearl.

  “We start at Chico State this spring,” said Larry. “Hank and I are both transfer students from Riverside City College.”

  “Well, good luck with your studies. If you’re ever in the neighborhood again, please drop by.”

  “We will,” said Henry, leaving a tip on the bar and heading toward the door.

  Henry threw Larry the keys as they walked across the gravel parking lot to the car. “You drive,” he said. “I suddenly feel like playing my guitar.”

  “I’ve always wanted to play the guitar,” said Larry, steering Henry’s VW Beetle back onto the two-lane highway, “but I’ve never had the patience to learn.”

  “It does take patience,” said Henry, strumming a tune, “and a tolerance for pain.”

  “Pain?”

  “I practiced for weeks before my fingers were strong enough to play a chord without the strings buzzing. More than once, I thought about taking this old guitar my uncle Roscoe gave me and smashing it against a telephone pole.”