The Case of the Missing Game Warden

by Steven T. Callan

  “It could be an antenna, like the one attached to the rear bumper of Norm Bettis’s patrol car?”

  “Exactly! By any chance, do you feel like taking a hike tomorrow? Since you don’t have a patrol car anymore, I’ll be happy to drive up to Chico and pick you up.”

  “What time will you be here?”

  “How’s 7:00 sound?”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  It was 9:30 when Glance and Austin passed through the gate and headed up the logging spur toward the washout. The temperature had already reached eighty-four degrees on the mountain, with an expected high of 103 in the valley.

  “I was awake half the night trying to think of possible scenarios,” said Henry. “Could it be that Norm Bettis was just in the wrong place at the wrong time when the mountain caved in? I remember the old man at the diner saying it was raining like hell the day Bettis disappeared.”

  “That’s a possibility,” said Austin, “but why would Norm be way up here, forty miles from his own district, in the middle of December?”

  “This could turn out to be a waste of time, but it’s worth checking out,” said Glance. “We’ll bring a shovel in case we have to do some digging.”

  At age sixty, Tom Austin was still in good shape. He and Henry easily traversed the deer trail that Dana Adler had used the day before. Glance and Austin reached the bottom of the canyon and made their way across the fallen rubble to the south end of the slash heap. “I see what your hunter must have been talking about,” said Austin. “It does look like an antenna.”

  “It sure does. I guess I’ll start digging here and hope I hit something.”

  “What if the car is facing the other direction? You could dig all the way to China and not find anything.”

  “I don’t think it’s gonna make any difference anyway, Tom. The ground is like dried cement. What we need is a crew of workers with picks and digging bars.”

  “You could check with CDF and see if they have a con crew available.”

  “Today’s Sunday, so I’ll check with them first thing tomorrow morning. I’m sorry I got you all the way up here for nothing.”

  “I needed the exercise. If we end up finding Norm’s car, it’ll be worth it.”

  As luck would have it, the local con crew was in between jobs when Henry contacted California Department of Forestry Captain Bob Schafer Monday morning. Arrangements were made to meet at the washout site Wednesday morning at 8:00. Henry had promised Tom that he wouldn’t go back down the canyon without him, so at 6:30 Wednesday morning, he picked Austin up at his home in Chico.

  A crew of twelve prisoners from the Glenn County Jail conservation camp began digging with picks, shovels, and digging bars at 9:15. At 12:30, a crew member nicknamed Jinx shouted, “Captain Bob, my bar just hit something hard, and I don’t think it was a rock.”

  “What did it sound like?” said Schafer.

  “It sounded like the roof of a car.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m pretty sure. I’ve wrecked enough cars to know what that sounds like.” The rest of the crew laughed.

  Captain Schafer instructed three other inmates to begin digging around the bar, in hopes of clearing enough dirt and debris to make an identification. When they had completed their task, the captain pulled a small flashlight from his belt and shined it into the hole. “Whatever’s down there is painted dark green,” he said.

  Shivers ran down Henry’s spine as he hurried to see for himself. Have we found Norm Bettis? he wondered. How will I break it to Martha?

  “Not many other cars are painted that color,” said Austin. “A lot of it is rusted, but I definitely see game-warden green down there.”

  It was 4:00 p.m. before the car was completely exposed. As anticipated, it turned out to be a dark-green Ford sedan with Fish and Game insignias on the doors. The windshield, back window, and all the side windows were broken out. The inside of the car was caked with dried mud, from floorboard to roof.

  “I wonder if anyone’s inside,” said one of the inmates. Seconds later, the driver’s-side door fell open, a slab of dried mud fell away, and the skeletal remains of a hand and partially clothed left arm were exposed.

  “Looks like you found your missing game warden,” said Captain Schafer.

  “Not necessarily,” said Austin. “Norm was only five-eight. Look at the length of this man’s arm. It hangs clear to the floorboard. And he’s not wearing a wedding ring. Norm never took off his wedding ring.”

  “The ring could have fallen off,” said Schafer. “What’s left of his shirt is the same khaki color as the uniform shirt Hank is wearin’.”

  “But it doesn’t fit him,” said Henry. “Look, the cuff is hanging barely past his elbow. I think what we need to do right now is secure the possible crime scene and not touch another thing.”

  “What about the door?” said Austin. “Should we leave it hanging open like that?”

  “No, let’s push it closed and prop one of these branches against it,” said Glance.

  “Hank, I need to get this bunch back to camp before 6:00,” said Schafer. “If you need us tomorrow, give me a call. You have my card.”

  “Bob, may I ask one more favor?” said Henry.

  “Absolutely.”

  “When you get back to camp, would you please telephone the Glenn County Sheriff’s Office and ask them to send out their homicide investigators. You can explain how to get here better than I can, and I’d rather not put this out over the radio.”

  “No problem. It will probably take me an hour and a half to get to a phone. Is that all right?”

  “Yes. Thanks so much for everything.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’m glad we could help.”

  Three hours after Schafer and his crew had left, an unmarked sheriff’s unit and a marked sheriff’s unit arrived at the wooden barrier where Henry’s patrol truck was parked. The first officer to step out of the unmarked unit was Detective Brad Foster.

  “Hello, Hank,” said Foster. “Did you finally find your missing fish cop?”

  “How did you know about that, Brad?”

  “Don’t you remember? You told me about the game warden who disappeared four years ago, when we were living in Mrs. Iverson’s pit.”

  “That’s right. I forgot about that. Brad Foster, this is Tom Austin. He just retired from Fish and Game a month ago and has been working this case with me, off and on, for the last two years.”

  “I met Tom at your wedding,” said Foster, shaking Austin’s hand. “These are my evidence experts, Sergeant Jack Weaver and his assistant, Deputy Holly Ward. Our uniformed officer, over there talking on the radio, is Deputy Bill Jennings. What are we looking at, Hank?”

  “As soon as we determined that it wasn’t Norm Bettis in the front seat of that car down there, the scene changed from a possible accident to a homicide. We didn’t want to contaminate any evidence, so we secured the area and I asked the CDF captain to telephone your office. I’m glad they chose you to respond, Brad.”

  “They didn’t exactly choose me. Our veteran detective is on vacation in Hawaii. The captain caught me in the hallway, told me about the call, and said to grab the evidence-collection crew and get up here as quickly as possible. He said the sheriff knew Norm Bettis personally and wants to be kept abreast of anything we find.”

  “I’ll point the car out from the edge of the cliff,” said Henry. “It’s getting dark, but you should still be able to see it from here.”

  “Wow! That’s a long way down,” said Foster. “How do we get there?”

  “The only way down is that narrow deer trail, and I’m not sure it would be safe carrying all your evidence-collection gear down there and back in the dark.”

  “That’s why we brought Officer Jennings along,” said Foster.

  “To use as a pack horse?” said Austi
n, laughing.

  “No, to guard the scene until tomorrow morning. He’s on duty tonight, so he can sit here in the comfort of his patrol unit until we return.”

  “I think that’s a wise decision,” said Glance, pointing into the canyon. “The man sitting in the front seat of that car has been there for fifteen years. One more night shouldn’t make any difference.”

  “Are you sure it’s not your game warden?” said Foster.

  “Tom and I don’t think so.”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  “I have a good idea. Unless you’re in a hurry to leave, I’ll share my thoughts with you.”

  Brad Foster and the rest of the sheriff’s investigators stood at the hood of Glance’s patrol truck for the next hour while Glance and Austin briefed them on what they’d learned so far. “Hank, are you absolutely sure it’s Hollis Bogar in that car down there and not Norm Bettis?” said Foster.

  “Let me put it this way, Brad. I’m positive it’s not Norm Bettis, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s Hollis Bogar.”

  “If you’re right, we’ve got a murder investigation on our hands,” said Foster. “How ’bout we meet here at 8:00 tomorrow morning and get busy?”

  “Ha!” scoffed Austin.

  “Is there a problem?” said Foster.

  “Tell ’em, Hank.”

  “I was ordered by my captain not to spend any more time on the Bettis murder investigation. He also told me to stay away from Blake Gastineau.”

  “Why?” said Foster. “As much as you already know about this case, I’d be a fool not to have you investigate it with me.”

  “I questioned Blake Gastineau twice about his association with Hollis Bogar and Richie Stillwell. Gastineau complained about me to Assemblyman Dell Kickbusch, Kickbusch complained to the head of our department, the head of our department complained to my captain, and—”

  “And you got an ass chewin’, is that it, Hank?” said Foster.

  “That’s about it. I’m learning about politics the hard way.”

  “Kickbusch is an asshole,” said Austin. “A couple years ago, the warden up in Susanville caught him and two of his rich friends comin’ out of a private ranch with three untagged deer. Kickbusch has never let us forget it.”

  “Don’t give up yet,” said Foster. “I’ll call the sheriff when I get back to the office and ask him to make a few phone calls.”

  “It’s kinda late,” said Henry. “Do you think it’ll do any good?”

  “Bob Carlson has been Glenn County sheriff since before you or I were born, Hank. During his time in office, he’s made a few friends in high places. Higher than Mr. Kickbusch. Be sure to stay close to the phone when you get home tonight.”

  It was 11:15 p.m. when the telephone rang at the Glance residence. Henry was in the bathroom brushing his teeth, so Anne answered.

  “Hello, Anne. This is Chuck Odom. Is Hank available?”

  “Yes, Chuck. I’ll get him.”

  “Henry, Chuck is on the phone.”

  “How’d he sound?”

  “Not too happy.”

  “Hello, Chuck.”

  “Hank, I’ll make this short. You have my permission to assist the Glenn County Sheriff’s homicide investigators with the Bettis murder investigation.”

  “Are there any restrictions?”

  “If you stay within the state of California, there are no restrictions. Keep track of your expenses, and turn in your paperwork on time.”

  “Thank you, Chuck.”

  “Good night,” said Odom, hanging up the phone.

  “What did he say?” said Anne, as Henry climbed into bed.

  “He said I have his permission to work the Bettis investigation with the Glenn County Sheriff’s Office. Chuck is used to going to bed with the chickens. For him to be up this late, he must have just received a call from somebody upstairs.”

  “Henry, you’re doing the right thing, and that’s all that matters. When you finally catch the scoundrels responsible for Norm Bettis’s murder, all will be forgiven.”

  “I hope so, Anne. I sure hope so.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  It was Thursday morning, August 26, 1971, when Warden Henry Glance and the Glenn County Sheriff’s homicide investigation team arrived at the site where Norman Bettis’s patrol car was found. Sergeant Weaver and Deputy Ward stepped off a perimeter around the car and marked it with yellow crime-scene tape. As if they were paleontologists searching for ancient fossils, Weaver and Ward donned plastic gloves and began chipping sections of dried mud from inside the vehicle.

  “This guy was at least six-three or six-four,” said Sergeant Weaver, having removed enough dried mud from the skeleton to make a reasonable assertion. “It looks like he tried to wear the uniform shirt, but it was too small.”

  “He’s also wearing blue jeans,” said Foster. “I guess it’s safe to assume this guy isn’t your game warden, huh, Hank?”

  Deep in thought, Henry nodded. “He was probably wearing Bettis’s hat too. I bet we find it in the car somewhere.”

  “What do you think caused the mountain to cave in?” said Deputy Ward.

  “It looks like much of the mountain was clear-cut at some point,” said Henry. “By removing all the vegetation that anchors the soil, it makes steep hillsides, like this, vulnerable to erosion. All it takes is a couple gully washers, and down it comes.”

  “Do you think it was raining when the mountain came down?” said Foster.

  “According to the man I spoke with in Pearl’s Diner, it was raining like hell the day Bettis disappeared,” said Glance.

  “What day was that?”

  “December 13, 1956.”

  “Jack, can we pull this guy out of the car and search him for identification?” said Foster.

  “As soon as Holly takes a couple more photographs, we’ll lay him on that tarp over there,” said Weaver.

  “There’s the hat you were talking about,” said Ward, as Weaver and Foster lifted the body from the car.

  “Believe it or not, that flattened piece of cloth was a Stetson at one time,” said Henry.

  While Weaver and Ward gently rolled the body to one side, Detective Foster reached into the driver’s back pocket and pulled out a brown leather wallet. “Looks like he just got paid, Hank. There’s four twenties, a ten, and a five in here.”

  “That’s a lot of cash for this guy to have on him,” said Glance. “Does he have a driver’s license?”

  “No driver’s license,” said Foster, “but there’s something here with his name on it. Looks like a 1955 hunting license. Okay, Hank. Last night you were ninety-nine percent sure the man in the car was Hollis Bogar. How sure are you now?”

  Henry leaned over and examined the dead man’s exposed, upper front teeth. “Now I’m a hundred percent sure,” he said.

  “What convinced you?” said Deputy Ward.

  “I already had a good idea it was Bogar, based on the process of elimination,” said Glance, “but it was that grin that confirmed my suspicion. Hollis Bogar’s rap sheet listed a badly chipped upper front tooth.”

  “Jack, would you bring me an evidence envelope for Mr. Bogar’s items?” said Foster.

  “I’ll be right there, Brad,” shouted Weaver from inside the car. “I just found the keys.”

  “Where were they?” Foster shouted back.

  “In the ignition.”

  “Give it a turn and see if she starts.”

  “I already did,” said Weaver, laughing. “I think the battery’s dead. Do you wanna look in the trunk?”

  “I guess we’d better,” said Foster. “Hank, would you like to do the honors?”

  “You go ahead, Brad,” said Glance. “There’s nobody in there.”

  “I should know better than to disagree with you, Hank, but this time
you’re mistaken.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “This Bogar character hit Warden Bettis over the head with something. His plan was to drive to the edge of the cliff, place Bettis in the driver’s seat, and push him over the side. If someone finds the car, it looks like Bettis accidentally drove off the cliff. Unfortunately for Bogar, the mountain caved in before he could carry out his plan.”

  “You’ve got this case wrapped in a nice, neat bow already, huh, Brad?” said Henry, smiling.

  “Yup! I think we’re gonna find your game warden and solve the murder in one day. Sometimes the simplest explanation is the best explanation.”

  “I agree with your theory, Brad, except for one important detail.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Warden Bettis isn’t inside the trunk.”

  “If he’s not in the trunk, where is he?” said Deputy Ward, listening to Glance and Foster banter back and forth.

  “I don’t know where he is now,” said Glance, “but at the time this car went off the cliff, Bettis was probably in the trunk of a second car.”

  “A second car?” said Foster “What second car?”

  “Think about it, Brad. Do you think Bogar intended to walk all the way back to Gridley after pushing Bettis and this car off the cliff?”

  “I have an idea,” said Deputy Ward. “How ’bout we open the trunk and find out which of you is right? It’s almost noon, and we still have a lot of work to do.”

  Despite being severely damaged, the trunk popped open easily. The only items inside were a set of jumper cables, a handyman jack, and a wooden box containing C-rations and two rolls of toilet paper.

  “You were right again, Hank,” said Foster. “Why aren’t you smiling?”

  “Because there’s no shovel.”

  “No shovel?”

  “The department issues a handyman jack and a shovel to every warden, in case he gets stuck in the mud. I’ve learned a lot about Norm Bettis during the last two years. He was fastidious to the extreme, and it wasn’t like him to go on patrol without a shovel in his car.”

  “Brad,” shouted Weaver, “I found a little green book. I think it’s a diary of some kind.”