“I’m listening,” said Austin.
“Norm suspected that a local man named Dud Bogar was selling ducks to an outfit called Butler Farms. Dud Bogar died in 1954, but his son, Hollis, may have carried on the tradition. I ran a record check on Hollis today and found out he was arrested on the fourth of July 1956, for disturbing the peace. Guess who bailed him out of jail?”
“I don’t know. Who?”
“Remember that big land developer Pearl told us about?”
“You mean Blake Gastineau?”
“You guessed it.”
“Wha’d ya find out about that .30-30 rifle?”
“It belonged to a guy named Richie Stillwell, who turned out to be Hollis Bogar’s cousin and Dud Bogar’s nephew. Stillwell stole the rifle from his grandfather, in Kingfisher, Oklahoma, and brought it with him when he came out to California. Stillwell was arrested with Hollis Bogar on the fourth of July 1956 and was also bailed out of jail by Blake Gastineau.”
“I’m still here,” said Austin.
“According to Bogar’s and Stillwell’s rap sheets, they lived together at the Shady Rest Trailer Park, Space 106, here in Gridley. I’m going there first thing tomorrow morning. Would you like to join me?”
“What time do you want me there?”
“Why don’t you meet me here at the house about 8:00? After we check out the trailer park, we’ll pay a surprise visit to Mr. Gastineau, in Chico.”
“Sounds good.”
Tuesday morning, November 3, 1970, Henry Glance and Tom Austin drove into the Shady Rest Trailer Park. Driving past the office, they followed a path through the park to Space 106. When Glance and Austin arrived, they found an older-model, silver trailer with a blue, 1952 Plymouth sedan parked out front. A heavyset, elderly gentleman wearing brown slacks, a sleeveless undershirt, and suspenders answered the door.
“Hello. I’m Warden Hank Glance, and this is Warden Tom Austin. Would you mind if we ask you a few questions?”
“No, go right ahead. My name’s Bill Thompson. I’d invite you fellas inside, but my wife and I don’t have a lot of room.”
“That’s okay,” said Glance.
“This is a great-looking vintage trailer,” said Austin.
“It didn’t look that great when we moved in,” said Thompson. “Dorothy and I spent a couple months making repairs and cleanin’ it up.”
“When did you move in?” said Glance.
“Dode, when did we move here?”
“First of February 1958,” came a female voice from inside the trailer. “Right after we sold the butcher shop.”
“Do you own this trailer?” said Austin.
“Not really. Hal Craven and I made a business arrangement.”
“Who is Hal Craven?”
“Hal is the owner of the trailer park. Dode and I mind the office when he’s not around, and all we have to pay are the utilities and the space rental fee.”
“That sounds like a good deal,” said Glance.
“It is for us,” said Thompson. “We couldn’t afford much else, livin’ on Social Security and what little we got for the shop.”
“Where was your shop?”
“Ya know where King’s Market used to be, before they went out of business?”
“I think so. Isn’t the old building still on Magnolia Street?”
“Yes. Our shop was inside King’s Market. We bought it in 1942, when we moved up here from Escondido.”
“Do you remember dealing with a business called Butler Farms?”
“You bet,” said Thompson. “That’s who we bought all our turkeys from. I think they went outta business about the same time we sold the shop.”
“Did they ever deliver anything besides turkeys?”
“I don’t think so. Like what?”
“Never mind,” said Glance. “Do you happen to know who lived in this trailer space before you and your wife?”
“I don’t, but Hal Craven, down at the office, should be able to help you. He’s owned this park for over thirty years.”
“Mr. Thompson, it’s been nice talking to you. Thanks so much, and please give our best to Dorothy,” said Glance.
“I will,” said Thompson, smiling. “Dode, the game wardens said to give you their best.”
“That’s nice.”
“You boys be careful,” said Thompson.
Hal Craven was waiting outside when Glance and Austin pulled up in front of the office. “I saw your truck go by a few minutes ago,” said Craven. “Did one of my tenants poach a deer or somethin’?”
“No,” said Glance, introducing himself and Warden Austin. “We were hoping you could answer a few questions for us.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Did a couple young men live in trailer Space 106 before Mr. and Mrs. Thompson?”
“Yes, they did. I’ll have to pull out my records to give you the details. This may take a while, so you gentlemen better come in the office and sit down. Would either of you like a cup of coffee?”
“I just had one, and my partner doesn’t drink coffee,” said Austin, taking a seat next to Henry in front of Craven’s desk.
“It’s been thirteen or fourteen years since those bums lived here,” said Craven, thumbing through a loose-leaf binder. “Here’s what I was looking for. The trailer in Space 106 originally belonged to a man named Ardis Bogar.”
“Did he go by Dud?” said Glance.
“He did,” said Craven. “Dud lived here in Space 106 until he passed away on December tenth—”
“1954?” said Glance.
“That’s right,” said Craven. “The trailer sat vacant for about a year, until Dud’s son showed up. I forgot his name. Let me look here in the book.”
“Was it Hollis?” said Glance.
“Right again,” said Craven. “Maybe I should be asking you questions.”
“Don’t feel like the Lone Ranger,” said Austin. “He usually answers my questions before I ask them.”
“I knew Hollis was gonna be trouble, but what could I do?” said Craven. “The trailer belonged to his old man, and I needed rent money for the trailer space. Before I knew it, Hollis’s cousin was livin’ in the trailer with him.”
“Tell him, Hank,” said Austin, laughing.
“Would his cousin have been Richie Stillwell?”
“Yup. What a foul-mouthed little punk he was,” said Craven.
“I’ve heard that before,” said Glance.
“My phone was ringing off the hook with complaints about those two drinkin’ and raisin’ hell at all hours of the day and night.”
“How long did this go on?” said Austin.
“It went on for an entire year, until both of ’em up and left.”
“When did they leave?” said Glance.
“They paid their last space rental fee on December 5, 1956. Sometime around the middle of December, I started hearin’ comments about how quiet and peaceful it was at the back of the park without those two troublemakers around. I walked back to investigate. Stillwell’s old pickup was gone, and the trailer door was wide open. ‘Is anybody home?’ I said. No one answered, so I closed the door and went about my business. With Christmas comin’ up, I plum forgot about it until January’s rent came due.”
“Did they ever show up?” said Austin.
“No, we never saw either one of ’em again.”
“Did you notify the police?” said Glance.
“I mentioned it to a Gridley police officer who drove through here once in a while. He checked and found out Bogar and Stillwell had warrants out for their arrests. Apparently, they had failed to show up in court for some drunken brawl they got into in Bidwell Park. The officer said Bogar and Stillwell probably skipped town. That trailer sat there empty for almost two years, until I slapped a lien on it,
took legal possession, and rented it to the Thompsons.”
Glance and Austin thanked Craven for the information and drove away. “Where do you think they ended up?” said Austin, as he and Henry headed north, toward Chico.
“Who?” said Henry, deep in thought.
“Bogar and Stillwell.”
“I know where Stillwell ended up.”
“You do?”
“Didn’t I tell you last night on the phone?”
“No, you left that out.”
“Richie Stillwell was electrocuted.”
“Wha’d he do, stick his finger in a light socket?”
“No, he was executed in Oklahoma for murdering a gas-station attendant during a holdup. I have no idea where Hollis Bogar is, but I find it curious that he disappeared about the same time as Norm Bettis.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I’ve been busy, Tom.”
“I’ll say you have. When ya gonna slow down?”
“When we find out who killed Norm Bettis. I’ll tell you everything else I know on the way to Chico.”
Forty-five minutes after leaving the trailer park in Gridley, Glance and Austin entered the Gastineau Development Company parking lot, on Park Avenue, in Chico. Parked in front of the office were a fire-engine-red Corvette Stingray convertible and a light-green, 1962 Ford Falcon. As Glance and Austin climbed from the patrol truck, a tall, potbellied man wearing a tweed cabbie cap opened the office door and began walking toward the red convertible.
“Excuse me, Mr. Gastineau?” said Glance.
The subject of Henry’s attention turned around and looked back at the approaching uniformed officers. “Uh, I’m in a hurry,” he said.
“We didn’t mean to startle you,” said Glance.
“You’ll have to make an appointment with my secretary.”
“We’d just like to ask you a couple quick questions,” said Glance. “Then we’ll get out of your hair.”
“What’s this all about?” said Gastineau, his pockmarked cheeks turning red and the car keys jingling in his hand.
“When was the last time you saw Hollis Bogar or Richie Stillwell?”
“I don’t know anyone by that name,” snapped Gastineau.
“Sheriff’s-office records show that you bailed them out of jail on July 4, 1956,” said Glance. “Are you sure you don’t know them?”
“I don’t like where this is going,” said Gastineau. He climbed into his Corvette and drove out of the parking lot. Reaching Park Avenue, he turned right, burned rubber, and sped away.
“Whaddaya think?” said Henry, as he and Austin watched Gastineau’s car disappear into the distance.
“I think we’ve got a tiger by the tail,” said Austin. “He seems awfully worried about something.”
That evening, Henry and Tom Austin sat in the tules, binoculars in hand, watching a pair of hunters fire away at passing ducks until there was just a glimmer of reddish-yellow light in the western sky.
“Aren’t you gonna miss this when you retire?” said Henry.
“You bet I am,” said Austin. “I’ve thought about staying on a couple more years, but I’ve got my thirty years in, and I don’t want to end up like Norm Bettis. If he had retired when he should have, he’d be home with Martha right now, watching TV.”
“I hear ’em coming back to their car,” whispered Henry.
Glance and Austin seized evidence and issued citations to the two hunters for taking ducks after legal shooting hours. During the drive back to Gridley, Austin asked Henry what the captain thought about him spending so much time on the Bettis investigation.
“What do you think?” said Henry.
“He told you to stop wasting time on a murder case you’re never gonna solve.”
“You know Chuck pretty well, Tom. Now that we got that outta the way, Norm Bettis suspected Dud Bogar of selling ducks to an outfit called Butler Farms.”
“Didn’t you ask Mr. Thompson about Butler Farms this morning at the trailer park?”
“Yes. I did some digging and found out Butler Farms is a defunct turkey ranch, located a few miles north of Lincoln. According to the Placer County deputy I spoke with on the phone, they mysteriously went out of business about a dozen years ago. How would you like to take a drive down there on Thursday?”
“Why wait until Thursday?” said Austin. “Let’s go tomorrow.”
“I would, but Anne and I have plans for tomorrow evening. If you and I were to get involved in something . . . you know what I mean.”
“Say no more,” said Austin. “I’ll pick you up Thursday morning at 6:00.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Early Thursday morning, November 5, 1970, Henry Glance and Tom Austin found themselves twenty miles south of Marysville. “The deputy said Coon Creek Road will be on our left, after we cross Coon Creek,” said Henry. “It’s supposed to be poorly marked and easy to miss.”
“Is it paved?” said Austin.
“I think he said it was all gravel. We drive about two miles on Coon Creek Road before coming to a wooden archway that says BUTLER FARMS. We go through a gate and drive another half mile to what’s left of the old turkey farm.”
“Does anyone live there?”
“I asked the resident deputy about that. He said the house is boarded up, but a man named Hector Campos lives in the bunkhouse at the end of one of the old turkey sheds. Campos was the last remaining employee when Tina Butler sold the place to a group of investors. The investors asked Campos to stay on and act as caretaker until they decide what to do with the property.”
It was 7:30 when Henry opened the gate under the archway, allowing Austin to pass through in his patrol car. Five minutes later, Glance and Austin approached a 200-square-foot, stucco-sided office, two rows of ventilated corrugated metal buildings, and a smaller corrugated metal building.
“Those must be the turkey sheds,” said Austin, coming to a stop and turning off the ignition.
“Here comes someone,” said Henry, pointing to a dark-skinned, gray-haired man wearing a long-sleeved cotton shirt, brown pants, and a white cowboy hat.
“Buenos días, caballeros. Soy el capataz de este rancho. ¿En qué pue-do servirles?”
“Wha’d he say?” said Austin.
“He said he’s the ranch caretaker and asked if he could help us.”
“Bueno!” said the caretaker. “Many policemen have come to this place. You are the first who speaks Spanish.”
“Un poco,” said Henry, extending his hand. “Hace muchos años que no hablo español.”
“I am Hector Campos. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“I’m Warden Hank Glance, and this is Warden Tom Austin. We’re here because we received information that someone at this turkey farm was illegally buying and selling wild ducks.”
“I am sorry, gentlemen, but you are thirteen years too late. The federales came with a search warrant and left with many boxes of records, papers, and at least ten large bags of feathers. They were looking for the names of restaurants Señor Pinky was selling ducks to.”
“When you said, ‘federales,’ whom were you referring to?” said Glance.
“Game wardens like you but from the federal government.”
“I thought that’s what you meant but wanted to make sure. Would you mind telling us who Señor Pinky is?”
“Why don’t we go inside the office, out of the cold wind, and I will tell you everything I know,” said Campos.
Campos unlocked the door and led the officers inside. The office was completely bare, except for an old-fashioned oak desk, an oak banker’s chair, and two rickety Windsor chairs. With every spoken word came an echo across the dented linoleum floor. “Warden Glance, please sit in that desk chair. It is more comfortable.”
“Are you sure?” said Henry.
“Of course. You and Warden Austin have kind faces. I will tell you a story I did not tell the federal game wardens. It has been bothering me for many years, and I still have nightmares about it.”
“We’re happy to listen,” said Henry.
“Pinky Butler was a very bad man,” said Campos. “You asked about the sale of wild ducks. He bought and sold thousands of wild ducks brought here by hunters.”
“Do you remember the names of any of the hunters who sold ducks to Pinky Butler?” said Henry.
“Only one,” said Campos. “He drove an ugly green car and Señor Pinky called him Dud.”
“That would be Dud Bogar,” said Glance.
“That’s right!” said Campos. “His name was Dud Bogar. A few years before the federal game wardens raided the farm, Dud Bogar arrived one morning with a younger man. Señor Bogar quit delivering ducks after that, and the younger man took his place.”
“Do you remember anything about this younger man?” said Austin.
“He was tall and . . .”
“And what?” said Glance.
“I am not sure how to say it in English. Tenía marcas de viruela en la cara.”
“He had pockmarks on his face?”
“Sí,” said Campos. “Pockmarks on his face. This man brought ducks here for two or three seasons, then he did not come anymore.”
“Because of the federal game wardens?” said Austin.
“No, the federal game wardens did not come until a year after the tall young man quit coming. Señor Pinky had other hunters who sold him ducks; some of them came from Oregon. I saw their license plates.”
“Do you remember what year it was when the young man quit coming?” said Henry.
“The federal game wardens came in 1957, so it had to be 1956. I wrote down the license number of the young man’s car. I will give it to you before you leave.”
“How did you happen to write down his license number?” said Glance.
“For many years, I have kept a small notebook under my mattress,” said Campos. “Like you, I write things down.”
“This is getting more interesting all the time,” mumbled Austin.
“Pardon me, Warden Austin. I did not hear what you said.”
The Case of the Missing Game Warden Page 22
