“Stillwell is dead too,” said Glance. “He was executed for murdering a gas-station attendant in Oklahoma.”
“I guess that leaves Gastineau and Riddle, doesn’t it?” said Keane. “Good luck with your investigation, and be sure to let me know if I can help.”
“You’ve been a huge help, and I really appreciate it,” said Henry. “I’ll definitely be in touch as this investigation progresses.”
THIRTY-THREE
Warden Glance called Detective Foster on the morning of August 30, 1971, to tell him what he’d learned about Bill’s Friendly Service gas station and the attendant with the initials EK. “I located the previous owner of the station,” said Henry. “He’s a retired navy chief named Bill Oliver. Oliver said the initials EK were those of a man named Elwood Keane, who happened to be filling in at the station on December 13, 1956. Keane belonged to a U.S Navy construction battalion called the Seabees and was scheduled to ship out for Antarctica the next day.”
“Antarctica?” said Foster.
“You heard correctly. Keane wrote a letter to Oliver, dated January 14, 1961, telling him that he had finished his stint in the navy, gotten married, and settled down in a little fishing village called Riverton. Riverton is on the southern coast of New Zealand, where Keane spent most of his leave time while he was stationed in Antarctica. Fortunately, the phone number Keane provided at the end of his letter to Bill Oliver is still good.”
“You called him in New Zealand?”
“I did. Since New Zealand is nineteen hours ahead of us, I called him at twelve o’clock last night. When I told Keane about Warden Bettis’s disappearance, the poor man practically went into shock.”
“Why?”
“He blamed himself for Bettis’s death. Keane said if he hadn’t told Bettis about the four duck poachers who drove into the station early that morning, Bettis might still be alive.”
“Before you go any further, let me guess who those four duck poachers were.”
“Sure. Give it your best shot.”
“Blake Gastineau, Hollis Bogar, Jimmy Riddle, and Richie Stillwell.”
“That’s right! How’d you know?”
“I just received a call from the DOJ lab in Sacramento. They were able to decipher the blurred names on Bettis’s December 13, 1956, diary page. Some numbers and two more obscure words were scribbled in pencil at the bottom of the page. The numbers were probably Bettis’s odometer reading at the time.”
“What were the two words?”
“The technician at the lab said she’s pretty confident about the second word but not at all sure about the first.”
“What was the second word?”
“Shed.”
“What letter does the first word begin with?”
“Either a P or an R.”
“I’ll bet Bettis wrote the words ‘packing shed,’” said Henry. “It fits perfectly with the story Keane told me last night. Keane had informed Warden Bettis about Blake Gastineau, Hollis Bogar, Jimmy Riddle, and Richie Stillwell driving into the station before shooting time on December 13, 1956. The rear bumper of Jimmy Riddle’s car was smeared with fresh blood and down feathers. Bogar’s pantlegs were lathered in mud, indicating he’d been out all night tromping through some wet rice field.”
“What’s this have to do with a packing shed?”
“Keane had grown up with Gastineau, Bogar, and Riddle. They all graduated from Gridley High School together. According to Keane, he had once turned these guys in to Bettis for taking overlimits of pheasants. Bettis caught them in the act of picking and cleaning the pheasants in a packing shed belonging to Jimmy Riddle’s grandfather. On the day Bettis disappeared, Keane had suggested to him that the poachers—Gastineau, Bogar, Riddle, and Stillwell—might have taken their ducks to the same packing shed.”
“I think I know where that shed is,” said Brad. “Jack and Holly were able to put a name and address with that partial license number we found on the envelope stuck in Bettis’s 1956 diary.”
“Incidentally, that license number was written on the envelope by Elwood Keane,” said Henry.
“I figured as much,” said Brad. “The registered owner of the car was James Jebediah Riddle, and he lived at 58723 Road 29, Gridley, California.”
“How soon can you be here?”
“I’ll be at your place in an hour, Hank. We’ll take my car, so be sure to wear civvies.”
It was 10:15 a.m. when Glance and Foster arrived at the farm on County Road 29 where Jimmy Riddle had lived for most of his life. “Look at this old, two-story brick house,” said Foster, as he and Glance cruised up the gravel drive leading to the residence. “It must be a hundred years old.”
“They don’t make ’em like that anymore,” said Henry. “Let’s knock at the door and see if anyone’s home.”
“Good morning,” said Detective Foster, displaying his identification. “Are you Mrs. Riddle?”
“No,” said a slightly overweight, middle-aged woman wearing a cloth apron. “I’m Margie Palmer. My husband and I bought this place from James Riddle six months ago.”
“Would you happen to know where we can find Mr. Riddle?”
“No, but my husband, Lyle, may be able to help you. He’s down at the shed.”
“How do we get to the shed?” said Foster.
“Just follow the driveway around the house and down the road. You’ll run right into it.”
Near the packing shed, Henry noticed a rusted-out Oldsmobile up on blocks, with all of its tires missing. “Stop right here,” he said.
“What’s up?” said Brad.
“I wanna check out that old yard car.” Seeing no license plate on the front bumper, Henry led Brad to the rear of the car. “Does this license number look familiar?” The plate read WDO 876.
“You’re lucky you got here when you did,” said a voice coming from the shed. “The auto wreckers are coming to haul it away tomorrow. Ten bucks, and that fine automobile is yours.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” said Foster, laughing. “Are you Lyle Palmer?”
“I am. What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“I’m Detective Brad Foster, and this is Warden Hank Glance. We’re here investigating a possible murder.”
“A murder! What murder?”
“It happened almost fifteen years ago and may have occurred in this packing shed,” said Foster.
“Are you kidding?”
“I wish we were. Your wife said you might be able to help us find the former owner, James Riddle.”
“I have his address,” said Palmer. “Last I heard, he was still living in a run-down apartment in Live Oak.”
“Would you mind if we look around your shed?” said Glance.
“It’s a mess, but help yourselves. We’ve been hauling moth-eaten old furniture and junk away since the day Margie and I moved in.”
“Did you happen to find anything unusual or out of place?” said Glance.
“No, not really,” said Palmer, his voice quavering.
“Mr. Palmer, you seem nervous,” said Foster. “Is there something you’d like to tell us?”
“I didn’t know a murder was committed here.” Glance and Foster patiently waited for Palmer to continue. “A couple weeks ago, I removed an old Morris chair from the back of the shed over there.”
“And?” said Foster
“And I found a gun lying under it.”
“A gun?” said Glance. “What kind of gun?”
“A Smith and Wesson .38 revolver. My brother was here at the time and saw me pick it up.”
“Was it loaded?” said Glance.
“It contained five live rounds and one expended shell casing.”
“Did you think to contact the police?” said Foster.
“I did at first, but my brother offered me a hundred b
ucks for the gun, so I sold it to him. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea.”
“What’s your brother’s name?” said Glance.
“Look, I don’t want to get him in trouble. How ’bout I make a quick phone call and see if he’ll bring the gun back?”
“Okay,” said Foster. “We’ll follow you to your house and wait outside while you make the call.”
“I guess that would be all right. I don’t want to alarm my wife. She can get pretty excited.”
While Glance and Foster stood outside the screen door, they heard Palmer talking to his brother on the kitchen telephone. “Tim, this is Lyle. Do you still have that gun I sold you? Good. I need it back . . . because two officers are here and the gun may have been involved in a murder.”
“A murder?” blurted Margie Palmer. “Lyle, what’s this about a murder? I knew there was something fishy about this place when you bought it so cheaply.”
“Margie, would you please lower your voice? The officers are right outside. Tim, are you still there? You need to bring the gun back right now, or I’ll give the officers your address and they can come and get it . . . yes, I’ll give you back your hundred dollars.” Palmer hung up the phone and walked outside. “He’s on his way over and bringing the gun.”
When Tim Palmer arrived, he demanded to know why the gun was being taken by the officers. “We’ll run the serial number and be right back,” said Foster.
According to the radio dispatcher, the revolver had been registered, in 1954, to a man named Lloyd Frailey. Henry immediately recognized Frailey as the Department of Fish and Game’s longtime training inspector. Further inquiry revealed that all the duty weapons issued to wardens in 1954 were registered under Frailey’s name. The revolver Foster held in his hand had been issued to Warden Norman Bettis.
Foster advised the Palmer brothers that the revolver belonged to the Department of Fish and Game and would be seized into evidence. Lyle understood, but his brother wanted his money back. “I guess you guys will have to work that out,” said Foster. “We never did look around inside the shed. Would you mind if we do that before we leave?”
“Sure, go ahead,” said Lyle. “I’m gonna run back to the house and give my brother his hundred bucks so he’ll quit whining. I’ll be right back.”
While Foster inspected the inside perimeter of the building, Henry walked across the shed’s cement floor, looking upward. “What are you looking for?” said Brad.
“The gun contained one expended shell casing,” said Glance. “That means Norm got off a shot. If there was a tussle, there might be a bullet hole in the ceiling.”
“I’m back,” said Palmer.
“Mr. Palmer,” said Glance, “would you please show us where you found the Morris chair and the gun.”
Palmer took several strides toward the south wall and stopped. “It was right about here,” he said. “Keep in mind that I had to move a lot of other furniture that was piled in front of the chair. This place was a mess.”
“Does this look like a bullet hole to you?” said Glance, pointing toward a tiny, round hole at the center of the metal roof.
“It sure does,” said Foster. “I can see the sun shining through.”
“Where do we go from here?” said Glance, as he and Foster drove away from the packing shed and past the Palmers’ house.
“We’ve added a few more pieces to the puzzle,” said Brad, “but we’re still a long way from filing a murder complaint.”
“We have two living suspects,” said Henry. “I’d like to save Gastineau for last, so that leaves Jimmy Riddle.”
“I have to meet a man in Hamilton City about a stolen car this afternoon,” said Brad. “How ’bout we pay Mr. Riddle a surprise visit tomorrow morning?”
“What about Mr. Palmer? Are you sure he won’t call Riddle and let him know we’re coming?”
“While you were checking out the inside of that Oldsmobile, I had a little talk with Palmer. I read him the riot act about not reporting that gun. I also made it clear that he wasn’t to contact Riddle until we’ve had a chance to talk to him.”
“How’d he react?”
“He said he hasn’t seen Riddle in six months and didn’t think he had a phone. Besides, I’ve got a feeling there’s hard feelings between Riddle and Palmer.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Remember when we overheard Palmer’s wife sayin’ that Lyle bought the property for half what it was worth?”
“Yeah.”
“He didn’t come out and say it, but I surmised from my conversation with ol’ Lyle, back there, that Jimmy Riddle is in poor health.”
“So ya think Riddle was in desperate need of money and Palmer swindled him?”
“That might explain why Palmer didn’t wanna go to the police when he found that gun,” said Foster.
At 9:00 a.m. on the morning of August 31, 1971, Henry Glance knocked twice on Jimmy Riddle’s apartment door. Hearing someone hacking his guts out inside, Glance knocked again.
“If you’re a bill collector, go away,” came a shout from inside. “I already gave you bloodsuckers everything I have.”
“We’re law enforcement officers,” Foster shouted back. “We’d like a few minutes of your time.”
“It’s not locked. Come on in.” Foster opened the door and peeked inside. “I’m in here.”
Following a trail of clothes, towels, cigarette butts, and pill containers, Glance and Foster made their way down the hallway to the bedroom. The pungent odor of tobacco-stained walls permeated the room where forty-year-old Jimmy Riddle lay propped up on the bed.
“Mr. Riddle, I’m Detective Brad Foster, and this is Fish and Game Warden Hank Glance. We were out at your former property on Road 29 yesterday. The new owner told us we might find you here.”
“Did he tell you I have stage-four lung cancer and had to sell my place for half what it’s worth to pay my medical bills?”
“No, he didn’t mention that. We realize this is probably not a good time, but we’d like to talk to you about another Fish and Game warden who disappeared fifteen years ago. His name was Norman Bettis.”
As Glance and Foster waited for a response, the expression on Riddle’s pasty-white face morphed from anger to a pleasant smile.
“Mr. Riddle, are you all right?” said Henry.
“I had a dream that you guys would come. You have no idea how long I’ve waited to shed this burden.”
“Does that mean you’re willing to talk to us?” said Foster.
“If you’ll call me Jimmy, instead of Mr. Riddle, I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
Riddle gave Detective Foster permission to record his statement. Although he was not in custody and had volunteered to discuss Norm Bettis’s disappearance, officers Foster and Glance decided to avoid any legal challenges later and read Riddle his Miranda rights. Riddle waived his rights and eagerly began.
Part four
THIRTY-FOUR
Glance and Foster drove straight to the Glenn County District Attorney’s office after leaving Jimmy Riddle’s apartment. Foster had called from Gridley and arranged for Sheriff Bob Carlson and District Attorney Frank Braden to meet with them at one o’clock. During the meeting, Foster and Glance took turns detailing all the evidence and information they had gathered so far, including Warden Bettis’s patrol car, Warden Bettis’s duty weapon, Hollis Bogar’s body, Elwood Keane’s statement, Richie Stillwell’s involvement, and most importantly, Jimmy Riddle’s recorded eyewitness account of Norman Bettis’s demise.
“Does your witness know he can be charged as an accomplice?” said Braden.
“He’s aware of that,” said Foster. “Mr. Riddle has stage-four lung cancer and is not expected to live much longer. He said he wanted to get this off his chest before he dies.”
“Let’s hope he lives long enough
to testify,” said Braden. “I don’t suppose this Stillwell character would be a reliable witness.”
“Stillwell was executed for murder in 1958,” said Glance.
“Here in California?”
“No, in Oklahoma. He robbed a gas station and killed the attendant.”
“These are model citizens we’re dealing with,” scoffed Braden. “I’m pleased with everything you officers have come up with, but we need a body or some type of physical evidence to prove that Warden Bettis is dead.”
“James Riddle has described to us where the body is buried,” said Foster. “It’s close to the location where we found Warden Bettis’s patrol car. Warden Glance and I plan to take a crew up there in the morning.”
“I hope you’re successful,” said Braden. “Before I take this to the grand jury, we’ll need something other than Riddle’s testimony.”
“We’re going the grand-jury route?” said Sheriff Carlson.
“Absolutely,” said Braden. “We don’t want our key witness to die on us before going to trial. I’ll expect a detailed narrative of the information Detective Foster and Warden Glance just provided on my desk by 8:00 tomorrow morning. As soon as I hear from you officers after your dig tomorrow, I’ll prepare an indictment proposal and summon the grand jury. Keep in mind that once the media gets wind of this, it will be all over the local and national news. Bob, you and I will need to prepare a unified statement.”
“Brad, did you and Hank say that our witness is living in some seedy apartment in Live Oak?” said Carlson.
“Yes,” said Foster.
“As sick as Riddle is, all it would take is a pillow and a little pressure to put him out of his misery,” said Carlson. “Let’s find him a safe place to live between now and the trial. I’ll make a few phone calls.”
Bob Carlson had been sheriff of Glenn County for so long, he knew just about every voting-age adult by his or her first name. By the end of the day, August 31, 1971, Carlson had arranged for Jimmy Riddle to be moved to an immaculately clean Victorian boarding house in Willows. A qualified nurse would check on Riddle and provide for his health-related needs every day until the trial was over.
The Case of the Missing Game Warden Page 27
