“That must be his 1956 diary,” said Glance. “It’s the only one missing from the box Norm’s wife gave me.”
“All the pages are stuck together, and it looks like an envelope is sticking out from between the last fifteen or twenty pages,” said Weaver.
“We don’t want to tear the pages or smear any information that might be inside,” said Foster. “Let’s wait until we get back to the office before we try to open it.”
“Here’s something else,” said Weaver. “It’s an aluminum paper case.”
“Secure that too, Jack,” said Foster. “We’ll open it back at the office.”
“Okay,” said Weaver. “The only other things I’ve been able to find are a bunch of scattered keys and a pair of smashed sunglasses.”
“I see that the coroner has arrived to take charge of the body,” said Foster. “Let’s pack up what we have and head back to the cars.”
Norm Bettis’s 1956 diary was a four-by-seven-inch, hardbound, dark-green book with the title Daily Reminder embossed on the cover. Stuffed between the pages marked December 13 and December 14 was a grease-stained envelope with a partial license number handwritten in pencil across the front. The first few characters on the envelope read WDO 8. The last two numerals had rotted away, along with the other half of the envelope. Detective Foster instructed Deputy Ward to run all the numerical possibilities and combinations until she came up with a plausible suspect vehicle. “By plausible, I mean any vehicle registered to a Northern California address,” said Foster.
“This may take some time,” said Ward. “And some of these cars may no longer be in service.”
“I know, Holly,” said Foster. “Just do the best you can, and stay on it until you come up with something.”
Norm Bettis’s 1956 diary turned out to be badly damaged by a combination of mud, moisture, and age. Most of the pages were stuck together and fell apart when an attempt was made to separate them. “I forgot to tell you that Bettis wasn’t much of a report writer,” said Henry. “I learned that after going through thirty years of his previous diaries. Most of his pages were empty, and what he did write was usually chicken scratch.”
“What do you think this is?” said Foster, looking at the page marked December 13. Bettis had scribbled four entries, one per line, in the middle of the page.
“Whatever he wrote is illegible,” said Glance. “But the fact that he made four separate entries may be a clue.”
“A clue to what?” said Foster.
“A clue to the number of possible suspects.”
“And how many would that be?”
“Four.”
“Remind me again who these possible suspects are.”
“Hollis Bogar is the first,” said Glance.
“In golf, we call that a gimme,” said Foster. “What else ya got?”
“Richie Stillwell is the second.”
“Didn’t you tell me he was executed in Oklahoma for killing a gas-station attendant?”
“Yes, I did.”
“When did that happen?”
“He murdered the attendant on December 22, 1956, and was executed in December 1958.”
“Bogar and Stillwell are mentioned in the diary,” said Ward, listening in on the conversation between Glance and Foster.
“On what page?” said Foster.
“August 12,” said Ward. “That’s one of the few pages in the diary that wasn’t destroyed. I read Warden Bettis’s entry before you gentlemen came in this morning.”
“Please tell us what it said, Holly,” said Foster.
“I’ll do better than that. Here’s a xeroxed copy.”
Contacted Hollis Bogar and Richie Stillwell behind locked Forest Service gate off Bald Mountain Road. Subjects claimed they weren’t hunting. After confiscating their key and locking them out of the property, I returned to the contact site and found where they’d hidden a .30-30 rifle, a buck knife, and a canvas bag containing a rag and six .30-30 rounds. Expecting them to return for their rifle, I left my business card and a note in the rifle’s place. Stillwell was hostile and uncooperative throughout the contact.
“Now we have a motive and a prime suspect,” said Foster. “If Stillwell murdered the Oklahoma gas-station attendant nine days after Bettis disappeared, I think there’s pretty good odds he killed Bettis too.”
“Stillwell may have had a motive,” said Glance, “but I’m convinced there were more people involved in this conspiracy than just he and Bogar.”
“So now we have a conspiracy on our hands?” said Foster.
“I believe so,” said Glance.
“Who’s your third suspect—that bigshot developer over in Butte County? Wha’d you say his name was?”
“Blake Gastineau. Let’s forget about him for now and see what’s inside that aluminum paper case.”
“Good idea,” said Foster. “Holly, what did you find in the aluminum paper case? I saw you looking at it earlier.”
“I found a stack of nineteen gas-station receipts,” said Ward.
“Was there one dated December 13?” said Glance.
“Yes, there was, and it was issued by Bill’s Friendly Service in Gridley. You’ll be interested in knowing that the slip was signed by Norman Bettis. The initials EK were written at the bottom-right corner.”
“Bill’s Friendly Service is now a TV repair shop,” said Glance, “but if Bill is still around, he may be able to shed some light on the subject.”
“What’s Bill’s last name?” said Foster.
“I have no idea. He was out of business long before I moved to Gridley. I shouldn’t have any trouble finding out and contacting him if he’s still in the area.”
“What do you think about this?” said Foster. “This afternoon I’ll take the diary down to the DOJ lab in Sacramento. Maybe they can decipher whatever it was that Warden Bettis wrote on December 13, 1956. Holly, when Jack gets back, I’d like the two of you to work that partial license-plate number until you come up with something we can use. Hank, I’ll leave it up to you to find Bill of Bill’s Friendly Service. Good luck.”
THIRTY-TWO
Henry returned to Gridley about four o’clock, after having spent all morning and most of the afternoon working the Bettis murder case with Brad Foster and members of the Glenn County homicide investigation team. Rolling into town on the Colusa Highway, he continued east on Sycamore Street and stopped at the post office. “Hello, Lucille,” said Henry, to the middle-aged clerk at the counter. “I wonder if you could help me with something.”
“I will if I can, Hank.”
“Do you happen to know the former owner of Bill’s Friendly Service?”
“I guess I should know him,” said Lucille, a friendly smile on her face. “He lives across the street from me.”
“May I ask his last name?”
“Wha’d he do—catch too many fish?”
“No,” said Glance, returning her smile. “I’d just like to ask him a few questions.”
“It’s Oliver.”
“Would you mind giving me his address?”
“Just a minute,” she said, dialing the telephone on the desk behind her. “Millie, this is Lucille. No, I’m not calling to give you that recipe you asked for. There’s a nice-looking young man here at the post office, wear-in’ a badge and a gun. No, he’s not comin’ to arrest Bill, but he would like to talk to him. Do you mind if I send him over? Okay, thanks.” Hanging up the phone, Lucille grabbed a piece of scratch paper.
“I really appreciate your help,” said Henry. “Thanks so much.”
“You’re welcome. Here, I drew you a little map. Go west on Sycamore until you come to Oregon Street. Turn right, go three blocks, and it’s the green house with the white trim.”
“What side of the street is it on?”
“It’ll be on your left.
Bill will be out on the front porch waiting for you. More than likely, he’ll be wearin’ one of those sleeveless white undershirts so he can show off his tattoos.”
Henry found Bill Oliver sitting on his front porch, drinking a beer. As Lucille had predicted, the seventy-five-year-old former chief petty officer was wearing a sleeveless white undershirt. Oliver proudly displayed an anchor on his left shoulder and a hula dancer on his right.
“Mr. Oliver?”
“Yes,” said Oliver, standing and extending his hand. “Lucille said you wanted to talk to me. You’re welcome to call me Bill. Most of my friends call me Chief.”
“Bill, I’m Warden Hank Glance, with the Department of Fish and Game. I’ve been working with the Glenn County Sheriff’s Department on the recently reopened Norman Bettis murder investigation.”
“I haven’t heard Norm Bettis’s name mentioned in years. Would you like a beer?”
“No thanks.”
“How ’bout a glass of iced tea?”
“Sure, that would be great.”
“Millie,” Oliver shouted through the screen door, “bring our guest a glass of iced tea.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“How many times have I told you not to call me sir?”
“I know, I know,” said Millie. “You worked for a living.”
“Did you know that Warden Bettis bought gas at your station on the day he disappeared?” said Glance.
“I didn’t know that,” said Oliver. “My bookkeeper used to keep track of all the gas receipts.”
“I have a copy of that particular receipt, and the initials EK are at the bottom right-hand corner. I was hoping you could tell me who that is,” said Glance.
“Of course. That would have been Elwood Keane. Nice kid.”
“Do you happen to know where I might find Mr. Keane?”
“You aren’t gonna believe this, but Elwood was in the Seabees and shipped out for Antarctica about the time that gas receipt was signed.”
“Antarctica? You mean the South Pole?”
“That’s what I mean. He was attached to a naval construction battalion that was building a scientific research station down there.”
“Have you heard from him since then?”
“Yes, I got a letter from Elwood four or five years later. He said he had finished his stint in the navy, married a girl in New Zealand, and settled down in some little fishing village.”
“Did he happen to give you his address or phone number?”
“I think he included a phone number in his letter. Come on in. I’ll see if I can find it for ya.”
“Here’s your tea,” said Millie.
“Thank you very much.”
“Millie, this is Warden Hank Glance.”
“Good to meet you,” said Millie. “They must be making game wardens younger and better looking these days.”
“I remember putting it in my desk,” said Bill. “Here it is. I never did try to call Elwood, considerin’ the price of a long-distance call to New Zealand.”
Henry sat and visited until he’d finished his iced tea. “Thanks for the information,” he said. “It’s been great meeting you both.”
“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help,” said Bill. “And please give my best to Elwood.”
That evening, Henry explained to Anne that he would be staying up until midnight to call Elwood Keane.
“Why would you call someone at midnight?” said Anne.
“Because he’s a possible witness in the Bettis murder investigation. And because he lives in Riverton, New Zealand. If my calculations are correct, it will be seven o’clock tomorrow evening where he lives.”
“I hope you’re right. I’ve had a long day, so I’m going to bed.”
At the stroke of midnight, Henry dialed the New Zealand phone number Bill Oliver had given him.
“Hello,” said a female voice.
“Hello, this is Fish and Game Warden Hank Glance in California. I’m trying to reach Elwood Keane. By any chance, is he at this number?”
“I can barely hear you,” said the woman. “Who do you want to speak to?”
“Elwood Keane.”
“Just a minute, please. Elwood, there’s someone in California who would like to talk to you.”
“Hello, this is Elwood.”
“Mr. Keane, this is Fish and Game Warden Hank Glance. I’m calling from Gridley, California. Bill Oliver, one of your former employers, gave me your number.”
“I remember Bill. How’s he doing?”
“He’s retired now and doing well. He said to give you his best. The reason I called is I’m investigating the murder of a game warden you may have known named Norman Bettis.”
“A murder! When did this happen?”
“Warden Bettis disappeared on December 13, 1956. We’re investigating the case now because we recently discovered his patrol car and some possible clues to his disappearance. One of those clues is a gas receipt from Bill’s Friendly Service dated December 13, 1956, with your initials on it . . . Mr. Keane, are you still there?”
“Warden Glance, this is Matilda Keane. My husband has begun to hyperventilate. I think he’s going to be all right, but he’s going to need a few minutes to recover. May he call you back?”
“I don’t want you to have to pay for the call,” said Glance, “so please ask Mr. Keane to call collect. I’ll be waiting by the phone.”
Henry was reading at the kitchen table when the phone rang five minutes later. “Hello.”
“This is the overseas operator. Will you accept a collect call from Elwood Keane in New Zealand?”
“Yes, operator.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Keane.”
“Warden Glance, I’m so sorry about what happened. When you said Warden Bettis disappeared on December 13, 1956, it was like being hit with a bolt of lightning. After all these years in Antarctica and New Zealand, I had no idea. If I had, I would have contacted the police years ago.”
“It sounds like you have something to tell me,” said Henry.
“I remember it like it was yesterday. Those four duck poachers drove into the station just after daylight, demanding that I serve them first.”
“Did you know these guys?”
“I went all the way through school with three of ’em. We were in the same grade and graduated from high school together.”
“Do you remember their names?”
“Blake Gastineau was the ringleader. Hollis Bogar was the class bully. He did whatever Gastineau told him to do, including beating up on other kids. Jimmy Riddle was driving the car. The fourth guy was a cocky little squirt with a big mouth. I think he was Bogar’s younger cousin. Warden Bettis may have mentioned his name to me, but I don’t remember.”
“Does the name Richie Stillwell ring a bell?”
“That’s it!” said Keane. “The others called him Richie.”
“Would you mind telling me whatever details you can remember about that morning?”
“The sun wasn’t even up yet when they drove into the station. I told Warden Bettis about ’em when he came in a couple hours later.”
“Mr. Keane, are you still there?” said Glance, after a thirty-second pause.
“I’m sorry, Warden Glance.”
“Please call me Hank.”
“Hank, it just dawned on me that if I hadn’t given this information to Warden Bettis, he might still be alive. I had debated whether to tell him what I’d seen and was shipping out the next day, so I was reluctant to get involved in anything.”
“What had you seen?” said Glance.
“It was almost an hour before shooting time and these guys came in the station with blood and feathers all over the rear bumper of their car. Bogar had fresh mud on his pantlegs.”
“Being a game
warden myself, I can honestly say you did the right thing by telling Warden Bettis about it. Most of our important cases result from information provided by the public. What happened next?”
“I told Warden Bettis about my suspicions and even gave him the license number of the car Riddle was driving.”
“By any chance, was the license number you gave Bettis written on an envelope?”
“I believe it was. I also suggested he check out the packing shed on Old Man Riddle’s property.”
“Tell me more about this packing shed. I think I read something about it in Bettis’s diaries.”
“I had informed on them back in high school.”
“Who’s them?”
“Blake Gastineau, Hollis Bogar, and Jimmy Riddle. They had killed a bunch of pheasants on Riddle’s grandfather’s farm. Warden Bettis caught them in the act of picking and cleaning the birds in Old Man Riddle’s packing shed. I think Bogar had to spend some time in reform school for that.”
“Do you remember the make of the car they were driving when they pulled into the station?”
“Not really. I think it was large, maybe a Buick or an Oldsmobile. Bogar got out of the car at one point and threatened me. I remember that.”
“If things work out and we’re able to put together a case against these guys, would you be willing to come back to the states and testify?”
“Absolutely! I feel terrible about what happened to Warden Bettis. The least I can do is testify at the trial. I can just see the looks on Gastineau’s and Bogar’s faces when they see me on the witness stand.”
“Gastineau, but not Bogar.”
“Why not Bogar?”
“Because Bogar’s dead. We found him at the bottom of a canyon in Warden Bettis’s patrol car.”
“Was Warden Bettis in the car also?”
“No, we haven’t found him yet. Do you have any idea where I might find Jimmy Riddle?”
“All I remember is he lived with his mother out west of Gridley, on his grandfather’s farm. It’s the same farm where the packing shed is located.”
“That’s okay,” said Henry. “I should be able to find it.”
“Riddle wasn’t really such a bad guy,” said Keane. “I think he just got mixed up with the wrong crowd. I don’t know anything about Bogar’s cousin.”
The Case of the Missing Game Warden Page 26
