Vengeance Road

by Rick Mofina

  What was the deal with Styebeck’s old man?

  To find out, Gannon had put in calls to Huntsville and Austin requesting Texas officials confirm the employment of people with the family name of Styebeck in the state-prison system.

  The next morning he got a callback from Austin.

  “Mr. Gannon, this is Bobby Sue Yarrday, with the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, responding to your request.”

  “Yes.”

  “A preliminary search of our records shows that a Deke Styebeck was employed by the Texas Department of Criminal Justice as a correctional officer in Huntsville until 1964 when he was terminated.”

  “Can you tell me the reason for his termination? Or provide copies of his file, or any disciplinary proceedings?”

  “I am unable as of yet to determine the circumstances of his dismissal, but I will continue to look into it and see about records.”

  “Thanks. What about other information, like his date of birth, marital or family status? Does any of that show?”

  Bobby Sue hesitated.

  “Because they are confirmed as deceased, I can tell you that Deke Styebeck’s parents were Gabriel and Adolpha Styebeck. That’s Pastor Gabriel Styebeck.”

  “Pastor?”

  “Yes, of Shade River, Texas. That’s in Angelina County, near Lufkin.”

  Now Gannon had another key piece of data.

  He called the Huntsville Item and requested a news-library search of any archived reports naming Correctional Officer Deke Styebeck. Gannon wanted the period from 1960 to 1967 checked.

  “It’s fairly urgent,” he said and provided his credit-card number.

  Then he went online, found listings for churches in Shade River, Texas. He sent e-mails and made calls starting with the office of Pastor O. B. Woodridge at the Southern Church of the Spirit.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Pastor Woodridge?”

  “No, I’m his son, Willard.”

  “Jack Gannon. I’m calling from New York. I’m a freelance writer and I’m conducting some historical biographic research. I was wondering if you could point me to anyone who might recall Pastor Gabriel Styebeck and his wife, Adolpha?”

  “No, doesn’t ring a bell. I think you’d have better luck with Yancy, our local historian.”

  “Yancy?”

  “Yancy Smith on Hickory Road. He’s in the book.”

  Gannon found the listing online and called. The phone was answered promptly on the first ring.

  “’Yellow.”

  “Yancy Smith?”

  “You got him.”

  Gannon repeated his request and was heartened by Smith’s answer.

  “Yes,” Smith said. “Pastor Gabriel Styebeck. He was with the Shining Glory Church. Yes, his wife was Adolpha. They had a son, Deke. A bit of a tragic story, actually.”

  “Tragic, why?”

  “Well…” Smith paused. “Sorry, I should be getting ready for a specialist’s appointment in Dallas this afternoon. My daughter-in-law is driving me.”

  “Wait, please. Can you just give me a quick summary?”

  “Well, no one really knew the details. I believe Deke was part of the execution team at The Walls. Word was he was a difficult man to live with before he died.”

  “How so?”

  “They said it had something to do with Pastor Gabriel and Adolpha and a strict upbringing. But Deke was adopted by the Styebecks when they were ministering in Canada.”

  “Adopted? Do you know much more on that?”

  “I think we have some old church bulletins from the Shining Glory Church. Can you hang on? My files on all of Shade River’s churches are in the other room. Just hold.”

  Gannon heard a dog yelp, heard Smith go into another room, say something to someone. Several moments passed before Smith returned.

  “Hello?”

  “Still here,” Gannon said.

  “I found something, but I’m afraid it isn’t much.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “There’s mention in a bulletin from 1937 welcoming the return of Pastor and Mrs. Styebeck, and their boy, Deke. They’d been in Alberta.”

  “Alberta?”

  “Yes, Brooks, in the southeastern part of the province. The bulletin welcomes them and their new son. See, Deke was thirteen. He was adopted because Adolpha couldn’t bear children. Most of Shade River knew that. But soon the rumors started to fly that they got Deke after some terrible tragedy in Alberta. The pastor and his wife never spoke of the circumstances of the adoption. Guess they wanted to protect their boy.”

  “Can you scan and e-mail me that bulletin?”

  “I think so.”

  Now Gannon had another piece of the Styebeck puzzle.

  Without stopping, he began contacting newspapers in Alberta, big ones in Calgary, small ones in Brooks and Medicine Hat. He was trying to reach retired reporters or historians who could help him research a tragedy that happened near Brooks, Alberta, in 1937.

  During the next few hours, as he waited for responses, the Huntsville Item sent him a small news clipping from 1964 that reported on the dismissal of Deke Styebeck, a guard at The Walls, after an altercation with a condemned inmate following a stay of execution.

  That doesn’t tell me much, Gannon thought before his phone rang.

  “Gannon.”

  “Mr. Gannon, Ross Sawyer. I’m told by some news friends that you might want to talk to me about what happened in 1937.” The man cleared his voice. “I was with the Alberta Tribune back a bit, before I retired.”

  “Yes! Mr. Sawyer. Thank you. Can I ask you a few quick questions?”

  “You sure can. I was just sorting through some old files and notes right here. Family’s been at me to write my memoirs. I turn eighty next month and promised to start.”

  “Yes, Mr. Sawyer, I need to know all about Deke Styebeck’s connection to Canada.”

  “Deke Styebeck. Yes, you’re talking about the murders.”

  “What murders?”

  “You’re talking about the Rudd massacre in ’37 out by Brooks.”

  “A massacre?”

  “Seven members of the Rudd family were murdered. Deke Rudd, the thirteen-year-old boy, was the only survivor. He was adopted by an American pastor and his wife. This all happened before my time. But I interviewed Superintendent Ian Macdonald a few years ago, before he died. His son’s a Mountie at the Brooks Detachment, you know.”

  “Superintendent Macdonald?”

  “At that time, Ian Macdonald was a rookie and part of the investigation team on the Rudd-family killing. He was quite forthright in recalling the case because I was going to write a book on it. Guess I got a lot of books to do.” Sawyer laughed at himself.

  Gannon had a quick, wild thought.

  “Mr. Sawyer, if I came to Alberta, could I impose upon you to let me review your files and point me to Brooks where this all happened?”

  “I’d be happy to help you out. When you coming?”

  “Just as soon as I can.”

  39

  Before the New York State Police came to search the home of Detective Karl Styebeck, he’d taken precautions.

  That knowledge passed unspoken between Brent and Styebeck like a bluff between players at a high-stakes poker table as they watched investigators examine the house room by room.

  Brent regarded Styebeck as a liar who was shielding himself with deception, and he expected the search to yield nothing of use to his investigation.

  For her part, Alice Styebeck struggled to be cordial as strangers wearing latex gloves probed their rooms, their furniture, their clothing, their lives.

  “I volunteered to let them search without a warrant. It’s necessary for me to help the investigation because of the people I deal with, Alice,” Karl had told her earlier.

  His face betrayed nothing now as he watched them search his garage, but his breathing quickened slightly as he watched them sift through and collect the ashes of his steel trash drum.

&n
bsp; No one understood that he would take care of things his way and everything would be resolved, everything he’d carried all these years.

  Watching them he knew this was his crucible and it took him back to the crucible he’d faced as a boy in Texas, in 1969….

  The rapid whirring of his father’s table saw drew Karl to the barn.

  The smell of lumber, the snap of a measuring tape, and nails being hammered signaled that something was being created.

  Returning home from school, hope rippled through Karl, for his father had spent the past few years mourning his prison job and deluding himself into thinking he would return to it.

  Every time he got word of a reinstated prison official, Deke would go on at the supper table about his belief that “at long last” his situation would be reviewed and his termination overturned.

  When it didn’t happen, Deke went out to the barn alone and listened to the radio with a bottle between his legs. Karl and Orly would slip out of their beds and watch him through the barn’s weather-worn planks. Some nights Belva would light a lamp and sit with her husband. They’d read Scripture. Deke would write on the barn walls, covering them with passages and apocalyptic ramblings.

  Sometimes Deke would drive off into the night, or to town, and stare at the prison like a ghost.

  At fourteen, Karl knew his father was contending with a prolonged breakdown. But on this day, Karl’s hopes were lifted by the sounds of carpentry. When he entered the barn, shafts of light caught the sawdust that flecked his father’s hair and moist face.

  The light illuminated his younger brother, Orly, sitting there in a big chair their daddy was making.

  Not just any chair.

  An exact copy of Old Sparky, the electric chair used to execute prisoners. Karl had seen pictures. Everybody knew the most infamous chair in all of Texas.

  “Hey, Karl!” Orly was twelve and his arms looked small on the rests; his feet dangled down but did not reach the ground. “I’m going straight to hell!”

  Karl searched for wiring and saw none. He looked at his father.

  “What’re you making this chair for?”

  Deke’s stare went clear through him.

  “For my work.” He pointed the handle of a clawhammer at Karl. “And you can help by keeping your mouth shut. Nobody outside this family needs to know our business. Got that?”

  Deke then pointed the hammer at Orly and repeated, “Got that?”

  Orly said, “Yessir.”

  Karl grew uneasy.

  But he didn’t press the matter with his father, choosing instead to raise it privately with his mother that night when she was cleaning up after supper and Deke and Orly had gone out to the barn.

  “I just don’t understand,” Karl said to his mother, after asking why his father was building a death chair in their barn.

  Belva stopped her work, dried her hands on her dish towel and clasped her son’s shoulders.

  “Your daddy’s had a vision.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s too complicated to explain.” Belva’s face was serene, like she was in another place. “But I trust in it. We have to help your daddy answer to it. Now, karl, just like you, people won’t understand it. The best way to help your daddy is to hush up about it, okay?”

  He was confused.

  “Karl?” His mother smiled and searched his eyes for a connection.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now you don’t breathe a word of this to anybody, understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am….”

  Several hours passed before the investigators finished their work at the Styebeck home.

  Alice Styebeck blinked back her tears, thankful Taylor was in school, thankful no press had been around, although she saw neighbors gawking at all the unmarked vehicles.

  As the detectives left, Karl put his arm around her waist, assuring her it was all part of his work on the investigation.

  “We’re going to get the guy who killed Bernie Hogan,” he said.

  Looking into his face, Alice struggled to believe him.

  40

  “What do you think, Paul?”

  Michael Brent was on his cell phone to Paul Labray at the lab. Esko was driving.

  Brent and Esko were returning to the State Police Barracks at Clarence. They’d just finished an interview in downtown Buffalo with a pizza-delivery driver.

  “I maybe might have seen that girl that got murdered talking to a man that night. Maybe. I’m all mixed up, man. Sorry.”

  Brent was cursing the pizza guy’s unreliability.

  It had been a day since they’d searched Styebeck’s home and things didn’t look promising. But now the lab in Olean had something on the rental car Styebeck had used. Labray gave Brent a quick summary. The tread of the tires on the Malibu rented by Karl Styebeck were consistent with the casts taken from tire impressions near the Hogan murder scene.

  “I think,” Labray said, “this puts Detective Styebeck closer to the homicide.”

  “A lot closer,” Brent said. “Nice work, thanks.”

  Brent hung up, punched in Lieutenant David Hennesy’s number and relayed the update. Esko’s eyebrows climbed as she listened to Brent’s end of the conversation.

  “Okay,” Hennesy told Brent. “We’ll set up a conference call. Our place at four. I’ll advise Parson, call Kincaid and the lab.”

  Brent slid his phone into his pocket and watched the suburbs roll by.

  “This is something, Mike.”

  “It’s something, all right. Have to see what Kincaid makes of it.”

  An hour later, Brent, Esko and several other state police investigators gathered in a meeting room at Clarence Barracks. They’d all reviewed the attachments on the tires Labray had sent to them prior to the call.

  At 4:10 p.m., Kincaid was still running late and kept the others waiting on the line.

  “Hang on.” Kincaid’s voice crackled through the speaker with tinny crispness. “I’ve just returned from a pretrial motion on another case. Lieutenant Hennesy briefed me on the new evidence. Bear with me while I get up to speed with the material you’ve sent me. Give me a minute.”

  Moments passed. While the others looked over files, Esko tapped her pen and glanced at Brent. He didn’t look optimistic and she didn’t blame him. For they’d drawn Bob “Slam Dunk” Kincaid as the D.A. for the Hogan murder.

  Kincaid, an assistant district attorney, was one of the state’s heavy hitters. He handled violent crimes and rarely lost because he made near-impossible demands on detectives to make his case a slam dunk, absent of all reasonable doubt.

  “Okay,” Kincaid could be heard flipping papers. “Good work on the tires.”

  “So, do we bring Styebeck in now?” Brent asked.

  “You mean charge him?”

  “Yes.”

  “With what?”

  “First-degree for Hogan. This puts him at the scene and we’ve got the phone calls from the missing woman.”

  “Slow down, there. You’re forgetting Styebeck has admitted contact with Bernice Hogan and Jolene Peller. Styebeck has a right to rent a car. This evidence puts his rental car near the scene. This break does not make the case. It’s a building block.”

  “Look,” Brent said, “we’ve got witnesses putting him with the victim and the missing woman.”

  “Mostly prostitutes with axes to grind. And Karl Styebeck, being a detective with confidential informants on the street, has reason to be on Niagara talking to people. As I’ve said, he’s not challenging the fact that he had contact with Bernice Hogan and likely Jolene Peller.”

  “What about Peller’s relationship to Hogan and Styebeck?”

  “What about it? That Peller was helped by Styebeck’s outreach group is circumstantial. That Peller’s mother reported her missing is also circumstantial given the woman’s background.”

  “What about Peller’s cell-phone calls to Styebeck?”

  “No question, you’ve hit on something ther
e. That Peller’s phone surfaced in Las Vegas after calls were placed from a Chicago truck stop to Styebeck is a compelling piece of evidence. Like the tires. They are both building blocks but not enough to make the case.”

  “Well, he’s refused a polygraph after indicating he would take one,” Brent said.

  “That’s his right, Mike. But so far, he’s cooperated without playing the lawyer card. Look at his ties, his community work with his outreach group to help the girls. His contact with them. All reasonable.”

  “You’re making this harder than it needs to be, Bob,” Brent said.

  “If Styebeck gets an attorney, he’ll knock us on our asses based on what we’ve got so far. He’ll point to the fact that Styebeck’s cooperated. He’s volunteered his phone, bank, credit-card and computer records. He’s allowed you to search his house and his personal vehicles.”

  “Of course,” Brent said. “He’s smart. He’s likely got rid of anything hot. He wouldn’t have volunteered if there was anything incriminating to be found.”

  “So, what did you find?”

  “Some calls to him from public phones all over the place.”

  “And?”

  “He said they’re from informants, or associates,” Brent said.

  “To his home?” Kincaid said. “I thought you guys used safe phones.”

  “Not all the time,” Esko added. “Depends on the cop and the informant.”

  “Some of the calls,” Brent said, “were from phones at, or near, truck stops.”

  “Wasn’t there a suspicious truck seen the night before the murder?” Kincaid asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And the cell-phone calls came from a Chicago truck stop?”

  “That’s right,” Brent said.

  “You’re close, guys,” Kincaid said, “but it’s just not there. His appearance of cooperation will go a long way in front of a jury. And he is considered a community hero. At this stage, we have not removed all reasonable doubt.”

  “What do we need?” Brent asked.

  “Irrefutable evidence. You’ve got some strong pieces, but not enough. You need something like a confession, or DNA. Or something we haven’t yet thought of.”