The Case of the Missing Game Warden

by Steven T. Callan

  “Evidence found in Warden Bettis’s patrol car led Detective Foster and me to the former home of James J. Riddle,” said Glance. “The property had been sold, six months earlier, to Mr. Lyle Palmer. While cleaning out the shed and removing old furniture, Palmer found a .38 caliber revolver that had been issued to Warden Norman Bettis by the California Department of Fish and Game. The six-shot revolver was still loaded, with one cartridge having been fired. Palmer provided Detective Foster and me with the current address of the former owner of the farm, James Riddle.”

  “Did you contact Mr. Riddle?” said Braden.

  “Yes. At 9:00 a.m., on August 31, 1971, Detective Foster and I conducted a taped interview of James Riddle at his apartment in Live Oak. Information provided by Mr. Riddle enabled Detective Foster, Chief Deputy Coroner Roy Giles, Sergeant Jack Weaver, Deputy Holly Ward, and me to locate and uncover the remains of Warden Norman Bettis. Bettis’s remains were discovered within fifty yards of the cliff on Logging Spur A-26, at the bottom of which Bettis’s patrol car and Hollis Bogar’s body had been found.”

  Deputy Coroner Roy Giles testified that extensive damage to the left side of the victim’s skull likely resulted from a powerful blow. Based on measurements, the blow could have come from a blunt instrument, such as the blade of a shovel. Found on the side of the canyon, approximately sixty yards from Norman Bettis’s remains, was a Department of Fish and Game-issued, long-handled shovel. The shovel was identified by Department of Justice forensics expert Russell Gibbons as the possible murder weapon.

  On Friday, April 28, 1972, after sixteen days of testimony and cross-examination involving eleven prosecution witnesses, James Riddle was called to testify. The spectator section stirred with excitement as a uniformed nurse and a bailiff helped the prosecution’s star witness navigate his way across the courtroom to the witness stand—a straight-backed wooden chair with a microphone in front of it. Ashen and with most of his hair missing, Riddle was dressed in dark-colored slacks, a white dress shirt, tie, and a sportscoat that hung from his bony frame like a wet sheet over a clothesline.

  “This guy looks like he’s ready to die,” whispered attorney Spratt to his client.

  “I barely recognize him,” Gastineau whispered.

  BAM-BAM-BAM. The courtroom was called to order. “Please state your full name for the record,” said the judge.

  “James Jebediah Riddle.”

  “Mr. Riddle, I understand that your voice is weak, but please try to speak up so the jury can hear you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Riddle,” said the district attorney, “how long have you known the defendant, Blake Gastineau?”

  “Since the first grade,” said Riddle. “We grew up in Gridley together.”

  “At what point did you and Mr. Gastineau begin killing and selling wild ducks for profit?”

  “Objection!” bellowed attorney Spratt, slamming his fist on the defense table and coming to his feet. “This line of questioning is inflammatory.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Spratt,” said the judge. “Mr. Burke and Mr. Braden debated that issue earlier in the trial, and I made my decision. Your objection is overruled. Please repeat your question, Mr. Braden.”

  “Mr. Riddle, at what point did you and Mr. Gastineau begin killing wild ducks for profit?”

  “I guess we were about sixteen when the three of us started workin’ for Hollis Bogar’s old man,” said Riddle.

  “When you said the three of us, who were you referring to?”

  “Blake Gastineau, Hollis Bogar, and me.”

  “What was Hollis Bogar’s father’s name?”

  “I never knew his real name. Everyone called him Dud.”

  “And the three of you worked for Dud Bogar, killing ducks? Is that correct?”

  “That’s right, but we only pulled drags occasionally while we were still in high school. After graduation, we started doin’ it full time.”

  “Please explain to the jury what you mean by pulling a drag,” said Braden. Riddle began coughing heavily. “Mr. Riddle, would you like a drink of water?”

  “It’ll pass in a minute,” said Riddle, sipping on a glass of water. “About one or two o’clock in the morning, we’d sneak up on huge flocks of feedin’ ducks and empty our shotguns on ’em. All three of us used semiautomatic shotguns with extenders so we could fire as many as eleven shots without reloading. By the time we finished shootin’, there’d be ducks lyin’ dead all over the field.”

  “How often was full time?”

  “During the winter months, when the ducks were in, we’d pull a drag once or twice a week.”

  “On average, how many ducks would you kill each time you pulled a so-called drag?”

  “We’d kill at least a hundred, sometimes more,” said Riddle. “If the shootin’ was extra good, we’d pick up the mallards and sprig and leave the others lay.”

  “When you said you’d leave the others lay, what were you talking about?”

  “All the smaller and less desirable ducks, like teal, gadwalls, wigeons, and spoonies.”

  “You mean you’d just leave them in the field to rot and go to waste?”

  “Objection, Your Honor. Where is Mr. Braden headed with this?” said Spratt.

  “I’m establishing motive, Your Honor,” said the district attorney.

  “Objection overruled. Mr. Braden, make your point.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Please continue, Mr. Riddle.”

  “Yeah, we couldn’t carry ’em all, and we didn’t have time to chase down the wounded ones, so we’d just pick up the dead mallards and sprig.”

  “What is a sprig?”

  “That’s what we called pintails.”

  “And you got paid for the ducks you killed?”

  “Yeah,” said Riddle. “Dud would run ’em down to his buyer. The buyer would pay him, and Dud would pay us.”

  “When did Blake Gastineau become the leader of this commercial operation?”

  Riddle coughed briefly, took another drink of water, then continued. “I think it was during the summer of 1954 that Dud turned the business over to Blake.”

  “Please explain.”

  “Dud was gettin’ sicker by the day. He had lung cancer, like me, and couldn’t cut the mustard anymore.”

  BAM-BAM-BAM. “There will be order in this court,” said Judge Rhodes.

  “Your Honor,” said Braden, “may we request a short recess?”

  A ten-minute recess was granted, during which District Attorney Braden, Warden Glance, Detective Foster, and James Riddle held a short conference in a sectioned-off space behind the law library at the back of the courtroom. As diplomatically as possible, Braden explained to Riddle that they had tried to keep his medical condition a secret.

  “The cat’s outta the bag now,” said Foster.

  “Don’t be surprised if the defense starts using delaying tactics,” said Braden. “Mr. Spratt has a reputation for dirty tricks.”

  “Now I get it!” said Riddle. “You guys are afraid I’ll kick the bucket before the trial’s over. Don’t you worry. I ain’t goin’ nowhere any time soon.”

  Braden patted his star witness on the back, as Glance and Foster helped Riddle return to the witness stand.

  “Mr. Riddle, you were telling the jury about Mr. Gastineau taking over the operation,” said Braden.

  “Yeah,” said Riddle. “It was that summer, in 1954, that Dud introduced Blake to his buyer and told Hollis and me that we’d be takin’ orders from Blake from then on.”

  “Why Blake and not Hollis? Wasn’t Hollis Dud’s son?”

  “Hollis was Dud’s son, all right, but he was dumber ’n a rock. Blake was a pretty slick operator, even in those days. I think Dud recognized the businessman in him.”

  “What kind of changes were made?”

  “Blake w
as the new boss, and he would run the ducks down to the buyer every week.”

  “Did you know who the buyer was?”

  “Dud never would tell us, and Blake kept it a secret for a while. One day, Blake let it slip that his buyer was a guy named Pinky, who ran a turkey farm near Lincoln.”

  “What other changes were made?”

  “I became the driver and lookout. We brought in Richie Stillwell to take my place as one of the shooters.”

  “Did the four of you have a place to hide all the ducks you killed?”

  “We did,” said Riddle, coughing again. “My grandpa had this old packing shed at the back of the property. After he died, we began using the shed to draw and hang our ducks before Blake took ’em down to his buyer.”

  “It’s three o’clock,” said the judge, “so we’re going to adjourn until Monday morning at 8:00. Jurors are instructed not to discuss this trial with anyone. You’re excused.”

  Sheriff Carlson, who had been watching the trial from the spectators’ gallery, stood up and walked toward the prosecution’s table. Waiting for everyone else to leave the courtroom, Carlson advised Glance and Foster that two uniformed officers were waiting to return James Riddle to his temporary residence at the boarding house. “Your man is doin’ a damn good job so far,” said Carlson. “I’m gonna make sure he stays safe and sound between now and the time he resumes his testimony on Monday.”

  Henry couldn’t wait to get home and spend the weekend with Anne. It had been almost a month since he’d said anything to her besides hello and goodbye. When he parked his patrol truck in the barn and closed the double doors behind him, Anne was standing on the back porch, waiting with open arms. “Hello, handsome stranger,” she said. “How’d you like to come inside and get better acquainted?”

  It was almost 7:00 p.m. when Henry and Anne awakened from their impromptu afternoon nap. Anne had planned to prepare Henry’s favorite dinner, fried chicken and corn fritters, but Henry said it was too late for her to go to all that trouble. Instead, they jumped in Henry’s Beetle and zipped down to Pearl’s Diner. Pearl stayed open until 8:00 on Friday nights, and Henry wanted to tell her what a great job she’d done testifying at the trial.

  “I was glad to do it,” said Pearl, handing Henry and Anne each a menu.

  “I didn’t get to see your testimony, since I was a witness also,” said Henry, “but the DA told me he loved the way you stood up to the defense attorney’s badgering.”

  “Do ya think we’re gonna win?” said Pearl.

  “If the jury makes their decision based on the evidence and isn’t fooled by that dog-and pony-show the defense is putting on, I think we have a good chance,” said Henry. “The jury foreman is a retired constitutional law professor from Chico State. Hopefully, he’ll see through all the theatrics and steer ’em in the right direction.”

  “What’s his name?” said Anne

  “I think it’s Carr.”

  “My dad used to talk about him,” said Anne. “He said students loved sitting in on Professor Carr’s lectures. Many of them weren’t even registered in his class.”

  “What was the attraction?” said Pearl.

  “Every court case he talked about was a fascinating story. The students wanted to find out how they ended.”

  “I’m anxious to find out how this one ends,” said Henry. “It seems like I’ve been working on it forever.”

  “Henry, you’ve done your best, no matter how it ends,” said Anne.

  Before leaving the restaurant, Henry and Anne invited Pearl and her husband to a barbeque they planned to host on Sunday afternoon.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “What a gorgeous afternoon,” said Henry, pouring charcoal briquettes into the barbeque while waiting for the guests to arrive.

  “It’s too bad Pearl and her husband can’t make it,” said Anne, covering the front-porch table with a multicolored vinyl tablecloth.

  “Pearl said she’d try to come by if business was slow at the diner. I guess her husband is out on the road. He’s a long-haul truck driver.”

  “Is everyone else coming?”

  “I think so. Tom and Mary Austin, Brad and Susan Foster, and Martha Bettis all said they’d be here. Martha was determined to bring a cake or something. I told her we had everything covered and to just bring herself.”

  “That’s good,” said Anne. “Here comes somebody up the driveway now. It looks like Martha.”

  It was approaching 6:00 p.m. when everyone had finished eating and was sitting around the wooden front deck sipping on a glass of wine. “It’s been a wonderful afternoon,” said Martha. “Henry and Anne, I’m so glad you invited me. I haven’t enjoyed myself this much in years.”

  “Maybe now you’ll have some closure,” said Tom.

  “I hope so,” said Martha. “But before I move on with my life, I must do two things for Norman.”

  “What are they?” said Mary Austin.

  “I need to give him a proper burial and a send-off of some kind.”

  “You mean a church service?” said Susan.

  “Not necessarily a church service. Heaven knows, Norman wasn’t the most religious man in the world. He cussed like a sailor and left that obnoxious parrot of his with quite a vocabulary.”

  “Yeah,” said Tom, chuckling. “Hank met Oscar the day we came by to see you.”

  “What do they call it when a group of friends gathers to pay their respects?” said Martha.

  “A celebration of life?” said Anne.

  “Yes, that’s it. A celebration of life.”

  “Maybe Hank could play his guitar and sing something,” suggested Brad. “He used to entertain the rest of us down in Mrs. Iverson’s pit.”

  “I don’t think that’s what Martha had in mind,” said Henry. “Besides, I only know the words to a few folk songs.”

  “Henry, I’d love to have you play something at the celebration,” said Martha. “Norman loved folk music. He was always singing in the shower. The neighbors could hear him from clear across the street.”

  “Then it’s settled,” said Tom. “As soon as the trial’s over, we’ll start making arrangements.”

  The trial resumed on Monday morning, May 1, 1972, with defense attorney Gerald Burke pleading with Judge Rhodes for a continuance.

  “What kind of problem?” said Rhodes. “Is he hurt? Is he in the hospital?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Burke. “Mr. Spratt’s secretary spoke with my secretary and said Mr. Spratt would be delayed.”

  “You’re not sure?” roared the judge. “Do you expect me to keep the jury waiting indefinitely?”

  “Well,” said Burke, having already awakened the sleeping bear, “I was hoping for a continuance until I’m able to find out more.”

  “It’s against my better judgment, but I’ll give you until eleven o’clock this morning,” grumbled the judge. “Unless Mr. Spratt is lying in a hospital bed somewhere, I’ll expect him to be here. If he’s not here, I’ll expect you to take over.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “One more thing,” said Judge Rhodes, as Burke turned and slinked away. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, you know. If I find out this is a stunt to prolong the trial, I’ll not only hold you and Mr. Spratt in contempt, I’ll see to it that you’re both disbarred. Is that clear?”

  “But what if I can’t reach Mr. Spratt?”

  “You’re wasting valuable time, Mr. Burke.”

  At 10:55 a.m., Marvin Spratt arrived at the courthouse behind the wheel of a 1952, turquoise-blue Cadillac. At 11:00 a.m., court was back in session.

  “Mr. Riddle, please tell the jury what happened on the morning of December 13, 1956—the day Warden Bettis disappeared,” said District Attorney Braden.

  “I remember it was cold and rainy,” said Riddle. “Me and Hollis were busy gutti
n’ and hangin’ ducks in the packing shed while Blake was sittin’ on an old couch, writin’ figures on his notepad.”

  “Where was Richie Stillwell while this was going on?”

  “I’m not sure. He was probably snoozin’ somewhere. Richie loved to kill things, but he was worthless when it came to doin’ any work. The rest of us were workin’ away, when I heard this strange voice. At first, I thought it was Hollis foolin’ around. When Hollis said it wasn’t him, I looked up and saw the game warden standin’ there watchin’ us.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “I remember him sayin’ somethin’ like, ‘You guys never learn, do ya?’ Then he started tellin’ us to put our car keys and identification on the table in front of him. I figured we were screwed, so I started doin’ what the man with the badge and the gun said.”

  “Please continue,” said Braden.

  “That’s when the three of us saw Richie sneakin’ up behind the game warden, with a shotgun in his hand. When the game warden realized we weren’t lookin’ at him, he turned around and saw Richie.”

  “Did Warden Bettis say anything?”

  “Yeah, he started yellin’ at Richie to put the gun down. When Richie refused and kept on comin’, the game warden drew his pistol. He was pointin’ it at Richie and tellin’ him to stop, when Richie slammed the butt of his shotgun into the game warden’s forehead. The game warden fell backward, hit his head on the cement floor, and his gun went off, blowin’ a hole in the roof.”

  “What happened then?” said Braden.

  “Me and Hollis ran over to check on the game warden. Richie just stood there mumblin’.”

  “Do you remember what he said?”

  “Somethin’ about payback for takin’ his rifle.”

  “Would this have been the .30-30 rifle that Stillwell stole from his grandfather?”

  “That’s right,” said Riddle. “The one with the fancy engravin’. Richie was real fond a that rifle and wouldn’t let the rest of us even touch it.”