The door opened slowly, a brown cowboy boot gingerly pushing the bottom edge out. Gradually the door widened, and Stratton could see blue jeans and then a leg from the knee down. McElroy’s left hand appeared in the light, about shoulder level, palm out and fingers spread wide. Stratton knew the open hand was for his benefit. Then the right hand appeared, palm out and fingers spread. Stratton’s eyes flicked to the rear window and Trena’s blond head. He considered her to be every bit as dangerous as Ken McElroy, but as far as he could tell, she hadn’t moved since he put the spotlight on them. She appeared to be looking straight ahead. McElroy pivoted in his seat, and his right boot stuck out. He slid from the seat and stood erect, arms outstretched, palms out and fingers open. He’s never been dumb, Stratton thought. He’s buying all the insurance he can.
“Ken McElroy,” he said, “you’re under arrest for investigation of assault with a deadly weapon.”
Stratton looked McElroy over. His rust-trimmed beige knit shirt stretched tight over his huge belly. His jeans were tight, too, and his belt disappeared under a massive layer of flesh. Knowing that McElroy often carried a .38 on his person, Stratton looked for the bulge of a hidden handgun in the tight clothing.
“What do you mean?” Ken asked.
“You’re wanted for a shooting in Skidmore,” said Stratton.
“Who got shot?” McElroy asked innocently.
“Turn around.”
Stratton came out from behind the door but kept the shotgun angled only a degree or two over McElroy’s head. Both men seemed to understand that one quick move, a lunge by McElroy or Trena’s door flying open, and Stratton would blow McElroy’s head off. Although Stratton held the weapon, they were still two to one against him.
McElroy turned around slowly, feet spread, hands out. No bulges showed in the small of his back or in the belt line of his rear pockets. McElroy might have a weapon in his boot, but he would have to make a move for it, and Stratton felt sure he could beat him.
“Walk to the back of the pickup and put both hands on the tailgate with your feet spread,” Stratton ordered. McElroy obeyed, moving slowly and deliberately, uttering no arguments or curses. Stratton turned to the other source of danger.
“Trena, get out of the truck,” he said loudly. He stepped toward the center of the road, out of her line of vision in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t want her to know exactly where he was. Stratton had known Trena for a long time, having first met her when she was fifteen. At twenty-five, she looked sorrier than hell.
“Slide over under the wheel and come out the left side of the truck,” he said. He didn’t want the truck between her and him. But the right door popped open.
Here we go, thought Stratton, lowering the barrel a fraction. Here’s where it all comes undone.
The door opened the rest of the way, and Trena stepped out. She stood on the far side of the truck bed, which covered her from her chest down. She was wearing a light blue T-shirt. She looked first at Stratton, then McElroy. Stratton could not see her hands.
“Hold it right there,” he said. “Put your hands above the bed.” He glanced over at McElroy, who hadn’t moved an inch.
“Do what he says,” McElroy said, probably realizing that he was in the line of fire between Stratton and Trena. She put her hands up, and Stratton directed her to the back of the truck. He moved McElroy to the left taillight and put Trena at the right one. Stratton thought of handcuffing them one by one, but decided it would be too risky. He had the situation under control. I could sit here until midnight, he thought, pointing the barrel of the shotgun over their heads. The voices on the radio told him that the other cars were getting close and would arrive in a couple of minutes.
“Who was it got shot?” Trena asked, not turning her head.
“The grocer in Skidmore,” Stratton replied.
“I ain’t shot nobody,” McElroy protested.
“He was home with me,” Trena said. “All night. He didn’t go anywhere.”
Stratton was still in the center of the road, out of their sight. He kicked some gravel, then crept back behind the door. If they moved, they would go for him in the center of the road, and that would give him the advantage he needed. He checked the safety to make sure it was off, then just stood and waited.
He could hear the motors humming and see the red lights flashing in his peripheral vision as two cars arrived from opposite directions—a patrol car heading south and an Andrew County sheriff’s car coming north.
“It’s all right; it’s secure,” Stratton said to the two officers as they
jumped from their cars, guns drawn. They covered McElroy while Stratton reached inside his car, grabbed the mike, and reported in that he was O.K. Two other patrol cars arrived, followed a few seconds later by three or four more police cars.
Stratton walked up to McElroy and cuffed him, hands behind his back, while another officer cuffed Trena. McElroy’s forearms were as big as an ordinary man’s legs, and his wrists were only slightly narrower. The cuffs only clicked one or two notches, and Stratton worried that they might not hold.
“The cuffs are too tight,” complained McElroy.
“You’ll live,” replied Stratton.
Stratton pulled McElroy’s jeans up and felt around inside his boot for a weapon, then put him into the right front seat of the patrol car. Patrolman Riney sat in the backseat, and Stratton pulled out his plastic card and read McElroy his Miranda rights. In the background, the radio broadcast the details of the arrest. McElroy sat quietly, staring out the window.
Before driving away with his prisoner, Stratton walked over to the truck and searched it. It was clean—no guns, no ammo, no casings, no boxes, nothing. McElroy must have run home, cleaned out the Chevy, and grabbed Trena before heading for the river. Another fifteen minutes, Stratton thought, and he would have made it
Because the arrest was made in Andrew County, Stratton drove his prisoner to the sheriff’s office in Savannah. Trena rode in another patrol car, and a deputy drove the green Chevy. While McElroy was being booked and fingerprinted, Stratton and a deputy talked with the Nodaway County sheriff, who had primary jurisdiction in the shooting. The sheriff told Stratton that because McElroy had been alone when he shot Bo, they had no grounds to hold Trena, and she should be released.
Sergeant Rhoades and Stratton felt sure that McElroy wouldn’t talk, but they asked him a couple of questions, just in case.
“I don’t know anything about it. It wasn’t me. I didn’t shoot anybody,” he responded each time. “I want to talk to my lawyer.” Alter a few minutes, Stratton and Rhoades looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and gave up.
About ten minutes after Trena was released from custody, the telephone rang in Stratton’s home. His wife, Margaret, answered, and a man’s voice
said, “Something bad’s going to happen to your husband. He’s not going to live until the trial.” Click.
Margaret called 911 and within three minutes, a St. Joe policeman was at her door. The officer called Troop H and learned that Stratton had busted Ken McElroy. The officer then called his supervisor, who told him to stay with Mrs. Stratton until ordered to do otherwise. A patrolman called Stratton at the sheriff’s office in Savannah, where he was still processing McElroy, and told him of the phone call.
Stratton called home immediately.
“What’s going on?” Margaret said anxiously.
“I got Ken McElroy tonight,” he responded.
Stratton thought he understood the call: As soon as Trena was released, she probably called one of McElroy’s friends in St. Joe and told him what had happened.
Later, as Stratton and Rhoades were talking, McElroy approached them, looked Rhoades in the eye, and said, “You got an oak bookcase in your study that has a top shelf filled with books bound in leather. Three of the books are red, three are brown, and two are black.”
Saying nothing, Rhoades and Stratton turned and walked outside. “He’s never been inside my house an
d, as far as I know, he’s never even been at my door,” Rhoades said. “He’s right on the bookcase and the colors, but wrong on the number of books.”
The men went back inside and asked McElroy how he knew about the books.
“I saw them through the scope on a high-powered rifle,” McElroy replied nonchalantly, a slight grin crossing his face.
McElroy was locked up for the night, and Stratton wrote his report. He described his captive: Ken McElroy, 5 feet 10 inches, 240 pounds, eyes blue, occupation “farmer,” tattoo “Oleta” on his left arm.
Stratton headed for home. By the time he arrived, Margaret was scared and angry.
The following morning, July 9, 1980, Sheriff Estes and troopers Riney and Richards transported McElroy from Savannah to Maryville, about twenty-eight miles. Afterward, Trooper Riney drove to Skidmore and retraced McElroy’s route from the B & B Grocery to his farm on the Valley Road and then to Fillmore, verifying that McElroy could have
made the drive in the time that had elapsed between the shooting and the arrest.
Robert Nourie, the prosecuting attorney for Nodaway County, filed a felony complaint against Ken McElroy, charging him with the class A felony of assault in the first degree. The complaint alleged that on July 8, 1980, Ken McElroy had “attempted to kill or to cause physical injury to Ernest J. Bowenkamp by shooting at him with a shotgun causing wounds to the neck and shoulder and defendant committed this offense by means of a deadly weapon.”
At a hearing that morning, Nourie strongly urged the magistrate to set a surety bond in the amount of $50,000. The magistrate instead approved a bond for $30,000. Under Missouri law, a surety bond required only a written promise by two qualified citizens to produce the defendant at the preliminary hearing and all future court hearings. If the defendant failed to appear, the sureties would have to pay the state the amount of the bond. In this case, as usual, the sureties were Tim and Mabel, the record owners of the 175-acre farm on Valley Road. Thus, McElroy was released from custody and sent back into the community on the written promise of his mother and brother that he would appear for the preliminary hearing.
McElroy and his sureties also signed a document entitled “Additional Bond Conditions,” stating that he would “keep the peace and be of good behavior until the case was finally disposed of.” The document said nothing to prevent McElroy from carrying firearms or returning to Skidmore. The magistrate set McElroy’s preliminary hearing for August 18, more than five weeks away.
25
July was often the hottest month of the year. Temperatures slid effortlessly up to 95 or 100 degrees by noon and hung there until well into the evening. The south wind rose in late morning and blew hard by midday, alternating between steady blasts and gusty swirls. On humid days, the hot, moist air was suffocating. Sometimes, when nature relented, the rain fell in the late afternoon, washing the heat and dust from the air and leaving the evening light and cool.
For the farmers, this was a good time of year, a time for “laying by.” The planting had ended, the weeds had been sprayed, and the corn and beans had turned the countryside a bright, shiny green. Plenty of work remained to be done, as always. Winter wheat planted the previous October was ripe and ready for harvesting in early July, and if the wheat was combined early enough, the farmers could plant beans in the same fields. A second cutting of hay might be ready to cut. But the long days on the tractor, from seven in the morning until nine or ten at night, had passed. Now, the farmers quit early and played softball or took their kids to fairs or bought fireworks. The small towns held their annual festivals, civic organizations sponsored fund-raising barbecues, and families had picnics on Sunday afternoons. Teenagers roamed the blacktops, driving from Skidmore to Maitland and Graham and back three or four times a night in a never-ending search for excitement.
In the fields, the corn was pollinating. The stalks had tasseled, and the wind and insects carried the pollen to the shiny yellow corn silk. The
process was delicate; if the wind blew too hard, the pollen would fly away, leaving blank spots on the cobs; if no rain fell, the cobs would be stubby and the kernels small. The farmers could only worry and wait.
Mom’s Cafe opened at 6 a.m. every day. The pickups began collecting at first light, parking at whatever angle to the broken curbs pleased the drivers. Inside, the men walked to the counter, helped themselves to coffee, and signaled the waitress for a breakfast of bacon and eggs. The center tables filled first, then the smaller ones along the walls. The worn spots on the linoleum floor underneath the chairs told of work boots resting on and rubbing the same places year after year. The bulletin board on the west wall announced auctions and sales, calf-roping contests, and specials on seeds. The screen door opened and closed with a long creak for each new arrival. A few flies buzzed around, hats stayed on heads, and people smoked wherever they sat.
At this time of year, the talk usually centered on the lack of rain, the early morning forecast from station KMA in Iowa, the price of cattle, the Kansas City Royals’ latest victory, or the plans for the Punkin’ Show, which was less than a month away. But on July 9, 1980, the talk was of the previous night’s violence.
Most everyone knew that McElroy had shot Bo with a shotgun and that Bo had survived. The conversation continued all morning, with each newcomer asking questions and adding twists, creating a version of events that was continually taking new form.
The mood was curious. Anything like a fire or a fight always created a stir in the community, and provided a welcome break in the monotony of small-town existence. There was a little of that feeling on July 9, but people were mainly subdued, uncertain what to make of the shooting. They rehashed the details again and again, pinpointing where Bo was standing, naming the boys that McElroy had sent inside, and describing the nature of Bo’s wounds. Everyone had a favorite part.
“Ol’ Stratton nailed his ass around Fillmore, right off H going south.”
“Took him by himself, I guess. Ran him down and dropped a shotgun on him before he could twitch. Got Trena, too.”
“I hear he slapped those cuffs on so tight that McElroy whined all the way to jail.”
“Stratton is a tough son of a bitch. He probably would have loved to blow ol’ Ken away.”
“McElroy’s goddamn lucky to be alive. Stratton could have dropped him on the spot.”
“McElroy knew better than to fuck with Stratton.”
The community was stunned at McElroy’s brazenness. Before, the townspeople had always been able to ignore McElroy, or to somehow rationalize his behavior. (Even when he shot Romaine Henry, many people speculated that Romaine had given him a reason.) But now that had changed. McElroy, the illiterate son of a poor farmer, had turned from a barn-burning braggart and hog thief into a murderous renegade.
The craftiness of the attempted murder also unnerved the community. McElroy had gone about his crime quite methodically— sitting in his truck and watching Bo on the dock, noting the empty streets, getting rid of the boys. If Bo hadn’t jerked to the right, he would have died, and McElroy would surely have gone free. If a jury wouldn’t convict him in the Romaine Henry case with an eyewitness, it certainly wouldn’t convict him without one.
But if McElroy’s actions were methodical, his crime was crazy. Bo was not some lowlife who had provoked McElroy by slurring a member of his family in the tavern. Bo was a nice old man who had never met Ken McElroy until the confrontation in the grocery store and, even then, he had had nothing to do with the little girl and the candy. The arbitrariness of the attack was frightening. If it could happen to Bo, it could happen to you, or your brother, or your daughter.
But, although the shooting appalled the townspeople, they did nothing more than they had when McElroy had been simply harassing Bo and Lois. Perhaps they thought this was the end of the feud between McElroy and the Bowenkamps; maybe now he would go back to stealing hogs and cattle and running crazy in Savannah and St. Joe. Besides, what could you do? If you proposed something, i
f you did anything, you would be hanging out on a limb the way the Bowenkamps were. The safest course of action was to watch and wait and look out for yourself.
Ken McElroy now stood unmasked. The hatred and jealousy he felt toward the rich farmers, the ones who inherited their land and then looked down on him and his family, the rage that consumed him when he heard they were talking about him, calling him a thief, had boiled over.
In a way, he must have felt relieved. Everything was in the open now. It was him against the community, and he was strong and it was weak. The days of brooding and agonizing and thinking about what he should do, the days of stealing the farmers’ tools and throwing them in the river, the days of firing shotguns in the air, those days were over. No one would ever call him or his kids thieves again.
McElroy wasn’t worried about the criminal case. McFadin hadn’t failed him yet. The only witness was still in the hospital, and maybe he would die. Whatever happened, McElroy knew one thing for sure—he wasn’t going back to jail. He’d rather die than spend another night locked in a cage.
In Broad Daylight (Crime Rant Classics) Page 19
