LAKE FRANCIS V

Driscoll drove straight home. It was late and he couldn’t think of anything else he could do at the time. Charlie Scheels’ rifle that Stan had so willingly turned over for the lab to check out, had fired the bullet that blew the front tire of the car, no doubt causing the driver to lose control and crash into the lake where he subsequently drowned. That made it a case of murder. It could be argued many ways in court but Driscoll’s hands would be tied. The prime suspect would be anyone who had access to that rifle. It could’ve been Charlie’s brother, Stan’s Uncle Artie, but what would the motive be? That left Stan. It happened before he and Wendy were even dating. The only thing that bothered the sheriff was that the motive was still weak. But for the time being, Stan was a suspect and could only be treated as such. Driscoll decided to give it a couple of days so he could check into it further.

This was one of those times when Driscoll hated his job. 

A new day found Driscoll at his desk at the office. It was fairly routine, mostly reviewing some notices of wanted people, who were several states away. Hinkley was running the front desk today, giving Larson a chance to go out on patrol. He had two rookies out on patrol too. Five officers to staff a county sheriff’s department that normally ran eight. But so far there wasn’t a lot of trouble; the worst thing was the state enforcing a vehicle emission law regarding diesel trucks that the owners had chipped so high that they poured black smoke out of their tailpipes—they called it ‘rolling coal.’ First one busted was the son of the county commissioner. Driscoll wanted a full staff but as much as that, he just wanted to call it quits and turn the job over to someone else.

It was back a few years now, when he allowed himself to get talked into this job. He’d managed to get the staff up to speed and things went well. Then things went south. Scheffer moved over to Flathead County to run for sheriff there; Davis went into the border patrol; Jessop had retired, only to become incapacitated from a stroke less than a year later.

The door opened and footsteps could be heard. A typical curt greeting from Hinkely and the visitors headed for Driscoll’s office. First one through the door was Stan Scheels, who was followed by Munson Beals, a very sharp attorney, whose services had been retained by Driscoll, himself, not very long ago.

“So, what’s happening, Mooney?” Driscoll asked although he was sure what the answer was.

“My client wishes to make a statement,” the lawyer said.

“What about?” Again Driscoll knew the answer but there was a protocol.

“I’m the one who shot at Jacob Weiss’ car back in 1972,” Stan said. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all the night before.

Mark leaned forward. “Are you sure you want to own up to that?” he asked. “You know that there haven’t been any charges drawn up yet.”

“I’ve lived with it since high school.”

Driscoll glanced at Mooney and got the nod of assent. “OK,” he said, then raised his voice to get Hinkley’s attention. “Hey Gator, can you get these guys set up in the interview room?”

Hinkley promptly gathered up the video camera and carried it into the special room with the one-way glass and set the equipment up. Mooney and Scheels followed. Driscoll entered the room and closed the door. After everyone was seated, Driscoll started the camera, introduced himself, then getting it on record that this concerned the car with the body of Jacob Weiss that was found at the bottom of Francis Lake. He then introduced Stanley Madison Scheels, and got it on record that Stan had come in, voluntarily with his attorney. He then turned the mike around toward Stan so he could begin his statement.

“It was June 22^nd, 1972. We had graduated high school a week before and a bunch of us were partying it up at the ‘HooDoos,’ between Sunburst and Sweetgrass. Jacob Weiss was there with Becky Clark. He was drunk and mean as a snake; he treated her like crap. Jacob used to date Wendy Peterson, as she was known back then. Wendy came to the party and told Jacob that she was carrying his baby. Jacob got violent with her and threw her on the ground—told her to get an abortion.

“I always liked Wendy and thought Jacob had gone way too far. We got into a fistfight and then Jacob grabbed Becky and took off.”

“Did Becky resist?”

“She begged everyone else to give her a ride. Terry Barnes was there and I thought she was going to get a ride with him. Next thing any of us knew, Jacob and Becky took off.

“I’d just had my dad’s guns appraised and they were in the truck. I was drunk and in a blind rage but I didn’t think about pulling a gun on him; none of us did. I just wanted to have it out, hand to hand, with Jacob and stomp him into a bloody mess, so I followed him, all the way to Choteau. They pulled up to the Circle K and then Becky got out and took off. I watched Jacob drive off, looking for her. I decided to forget about it all and headed for home; I was leaving for Camp Pendleton in a couple of days but as I was driving home I got to thinking about Jacob again and decided that this was going to end; he wasn’t going to do this to another woman again. So I headed to the lake and parked over by the tavern. It was closed for the night and everything was dark. I took Dad’s rifle and hid behind the berm.

“I dozed off and almost missed him but I heard the blast of his open headers. I saw him come around the corner, way too fast, and I aimed and fired.”

“Where did you hit him?” Driscoll asked carefully.

“The first shot hit the tire; I don’t know where the other one went.”

“Just two shots?”

“I think so; I was still really drunk.”

“So what happened after that?” Driscoll asked reasonably.

“The car went straight off the road, down the boat launch and into the lake; it went out a couple hundred yards then went under, pretty fast.

“I just stood there, I don’t remember how long, then I got into the truck and took the backroads to Cutbank then back home through Galahad and Devon.”

“What did you do with your dad’s guns?”

“I just took them all and put them away. Next morning, I cleaned the M-1 then packed my bags and got ready to ship out.”

“Did you intend to kill Weiss?”

“Hell no! I just wanted to scare him.”

The interview ended shortly after that. Stan Scheels was formally charged with Second Degree Murder and placed under arrest. He appeared in court to answer the charges and was released on bail, pending a hearing and resulting trial. The likelihood of Stan spending much time behind bars, although up to the judge, was fairly slim. Stan was a well-respected man in the community; he showed remorse but his record since had been nothing short of stellar. He had honorably served his country, then come home to run a successful ranching operation and raise a good family. It could be reasonably proven that none of the shots fired had hit Weiss. Witnesses had come forward to corroborate that Weiss was intoxicated and agitated the night he was last seen. Still, shots had been fired and Weiss had lost control of his car; Stan could be facing some severe penalties. Hopefully, the judge would show some mercy.

Sheriff Driscoll was putting the last of the reports into a file when Deputy Larson entered his office. “Cased closed yet?” she asked.

Driscoll shook his head. “Well, our end of it is pretty well done; it’s up to Scheels and the judge.”

Larson detected a hesitation in the sheriff’s tone. “Something tells me you’re not satisfied,” she observed.

“No, I’m not.” Driscoll picked up the printed copy of the statement the Stan had given, then he looked at his service record. Then he looked at the statement again. Then he re-read the statement from former cashier at the Circle K. He checked the dates, then he dropped them back on the desk and stood up.

“Dammit!” he shouted as he punched the wall, leaving a large indentation in the sheet-rock.

“What’s wrong, sheriff?”

Mark donned his official baseball cap and headed for the door. “The dates don’t match; he was already deployed!” He paused for a moment. “Get your gun, and come with me.”

Dusk was gathering when the sheriff’s Yukon pulled into the yard of the Scheels ranch. Driscoll stopped the SUV in front of the gate to the house and got out. Stan was already out the front door of the house and was halfway across the yard when the sheriff got out.

“What can I do for you now?” Scheels asked. Then he saw the look on Driscoll’s face. Stan shook his head. “No, Sheriff, please don’t—”

“I have to; I haven’t got a choice; if I don’t, someone else will.”

“Come on, Mark, one marine to another—please—Wendy’s got cancer for God’s sake.”

Driscoll stopped abruptly. He gazed at Stan. He could see that his friend was desperate. “Yes, I know, and I’m sorry. But Stan, I’ve still got to do this.”

“No!” Stan’s pleading voice was almost a wail. “There’s got to be a way around this.”

“It’s Okay!” Wendy’s voice interrupted from behind. “Stan, I’ve lived with this—we’ve lived with this—for over forty years.” She turned to the sheriff. “I was pregnant; I was carrying Jacob’s baby. He told me to get lost—have an abortion—then he tossed me aside and started tomcatting around with that Becky Clark from Choteau. I was so messed up; I just wanted to make him suffer—feel the pain. I knew where the rifle was, so I drove out to the ranch, got the rifle, and followed Jacob.

“I just waited beside the berm, just like Stan’s mother told me she did all those years before. I saw that car—I knew the sound of that motor—it came around the bend and I just lost it; I emptied the gun! I watched him drive straight into the lake! And I’d do it to that bastard again—in a heartbeat!”

Larson handcuffed Wendy Scheels and put her into the caged rear seat of the Yukon. Driscoll turned to his friend who was completely devastated by this time. He felt sorry for Stan and wished there was another way. But there wasn’t; the law was clear. At times like this Driscoll hated his job; hated being the one to tear a man’s life—his family’s life—in two. An act of passion from the distant past, never to happen again but this was still a nation of laws. Stan went up to the SUV and put his hand on the rear glass. His wife of forty years looked out at him. “Be strong,” she said as her eyes filled with tears. “I love you.”

Sheriff Driscoll felt a strong tug at his own heartstrings. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like if Tammy was taken away from him like this. He desperately tried to think of a way to help them out of this but his hands were tied; he’d just end up in a jam too. He opened the door and slid in behind the wheel then he turned to Stan.

“Stan,” he said, “Call Mooney, then come in and be with Wendy. She needs you now—more than ever…” Driscoll closed the door and started the engine.

                                                       THE END 

LAKE FRANCIS IV

 The chores were well underway at the Scheels ranch the next morning. Driscoll found Stan and Wendy in the barn treating a sick calf. He said good-morning to them.

“Stan, they’re pretty sure it’s your dad in that old car; they want to wait for the DNA test to come back before they’re completely positive, but the dental records match.”

“That’s good news,” Stan said, then he frowned, “well maybe not good news, but at least we can get some closure.” He looked at the sheriff. “That isn’t everything is it?”

Driscoll looked grim. “We believe he was murdered. They found a thirty caliber bullet in the left front tire of the car and another one lodged in the back of his jaw on the left side. It was powerful enough to penetrate the windshield and still hit him, travel along his jaw and embed itself on the jaw hinge. It wouldn’t have killed him immediately but it could’ve caused him to lose control of the vehicle and drive straight into the lake.”

Stan nodded then looked away for a moment.

“I realize that this happened more than fifty years ago so there’s not a lot to go on. I’ve looked at motive and opportunity; two people had motive: your mother, and Hunter Walker, the husband of the woman your dad was seeing. Walker lived in Dupuyer and could have easily snuck away and waited for his wife and your dad to come around that corner, shoot them and quickly run home.”

“That’s not what you think happened though.” 

“From what I learned, Hunter and his wife had been on the skids for some time, and a divorce was on the way. However, your mom wasn’t that amicable.”

Stan swung around and gazed at Driscoll. “I agree with you,” he said with a surprising amount of conviction. “Mom was off-kilter. She spent a lot of time in the psychiatric facility. She was convinced that Dad was beating her up and was going to kill her. Dad caught her many times hoarding ammo and playing with his old M-1 Garand. She used to tell me how easy it would be to knock him off; she even mentioned that if it was planned and done properly, the evidence could disappear forever.

“I just dug up a couple of shell cases behind the berm beside the boat launch. They look like thirty-aught-six to me. I just dropped them off at the lab.

“When I was in Sixth Grade,” Stan continued, “Mom came into the school, flipped out on the teacher and attacked her, accusing her of sleeping with my Dad, and causing all the trouble in our family; the teacher would’ve been in middle school when Dad disappeared. Mom was arrested and sent to the ‘bin,’ never to come out again.” Stan led the sheriff over to the house where he brought out his father’s old service rifle and gave it to him. “Check this out and see if it’s the one,” he said. “It will at least give me some closure.”

The summer wore on. The cars in the lake were down to occasional chats in the coffee shop and business was easing back to normal. Unfortunately this left Driscoll quite unsettled from time to time. The bullets they had recovered from Scheel’s body and his car had been run through ballistics and compared with fresh shots from the M-1 carbine that Stan had turned over. The results were a ninety percent match. Maybe if the suspects were still alive a case might have grown out of it but there wasn’t much sense pursuing it any further; the case of Charlie Scheels, Doug Bond, and Beth Walker was about to be officially closed. It appeared that the prime suspect would have been Roberta Scheels; she had the motive and the opportunity, and, from what those who knew her said, she was lopsided enough to actually carry something like that out.

But that still left the case of the Camaro and the demise of Jacob Weiss. Jacob had been positively identified and a surprising number of people had come forward to offer information about the night Weiss disappeared. It was right after high school graduation. There had been a party in the sandstone hoodoos just south and west of Sweetgrass. Jacob had gotten quite drunk and was being a total jerk, in addition to driving his car very hard. His girlfriend, a girl from the Choteau area, was there and was very reluctant to go home with him but Jacob had gotten belligerent, and all but forced her to ride with him. It was a hot night, and Becky managed to persuade Jacob to stop at the Circle K back in Choteau to pick up a soda. They had gotten into a big argument right after that and Becky ran off on foot. She managed to elude Jacob but still watched him patrol the town for close to an hour before he lit out like a scared rabbit. Becky Clark, now Becky Prentiss, was officially the last person to see Weiss alive.

Driscoll had been to the forensic lab in the city and had gone over the Z-28 with the lab crew and they all agreed that the hole in the driver’s door could have been caused by a gun shot. The car had been checked from one end to the other but there was no slug to be found. He was missing something.

He thought about the driver’s door and the angled hole in the skin next to the upper hinge. He mentioned it to the technician who took a probe and followed the path of trajectory, but there was nothing at the end of it. The skin was removed and the inside cavity was examined, to no avail.

The inner door panel was mostly plastic. It wouldn’t offer much resistance to a bullet coming through but it could possibly cause a deflection and alter its course.

Another week went past and they were almost ready to put the case of the Camaro and Jacob Weiss into the cold files. Driscoll was in his office dealing with a truck accident about six miles out of town. His cellphone chirped its usual tone.

“Driscoll,” was the usual greeting. He paused while the caller filled him in. He then killed the call and headed out to his vehicle. “I’m headed for the lab,” he told Larson as the door closed behind him.

In the lab, Driscoll could see that the front of the Camaro had been jacked up. Both front wheels had been removed and one of them was on a work table nearby; the tire had been separated from the rim. The technician directed Driscoll to the rim itself.

“The bullet went through the tire where the side wall joins the tread, right here,” he indicated with a plastic straw. “Now this is freaky. This is a tubeless tire, typical of what cars ran back in the 70s. But the stem was missing. I pulled the tire off the rim, and of course, it was half filled with sludge from the lake. But we washed that through the screen and found the inside part of the rubber stem. The bullet caught that at the perfect point and not only severed the stem but lodged itself—crossways—in the inner lip. Whoever shot this should’ve gone out and bought lottery tickets. We’ve got a slug.”

“What about those cases I gave you?”

“Thirty-Aught-six, but too rough to get a good match. Fifty percent at best. I’ve sent them to Washington to let the FBI have a go at them.”

“And the slug?”

“They’re just setting it up now.”

Driscoll followed the technician into the ballistics lab where the slug was being set up under the microscope. The technician made a final adjustment then let the sheriff examine it.

“The one on the right is from the jaw of the driver of the old car; the one on the left is the one that just came from the valve stem.”

“I’ll be damned!” Driscoll said.

The sheriff didn’t bother to check the time when he drove into the Scheel’s yard. He knew it must have been after eleven but not much later because he could see the flash from the television, indicating that Stan, or Wendy, or both, were watching the nightly news. Through the curtains, Driscoll noticed two figures stand up as soon as he rang the doorbell. They both looked quite tired when they opened the door.

“Sheriff,” Wendy said, “come in.”

“You picked one heck of a time for a visit,” Stan added.

They sat at the kitchen table and Mark readily accepted a cup of coffee. He gazed at his host and hostess. He never saw it before but Wendy looked awfully tired. Driscoll told her so.

“We just got some bad news today, Sheriff,” Wendy said. “Looks like I’m going to be headed for Great Falls again—St. Jude’s.”

When someone talked about places like St Jude’s that meant one thing and one thing only: the Big-C. “Sorry to hear that.” Mark was truly sympathetic.

Wendy sighed. “I’m not giving up. They took a breast from me ten years ago; looks like they’ll be taking the other one now.”

“We’re praying that it hasn’t gone malignant,” Stan added.

“I’ve got friends in Conrad,” Mark said, “she got sick about five years ago; had to lose one. But she’s doing really good now.”

“Well, I hope she continues to test negative,” Wendy said. “It’s a terrible disease.”

“I can’t imagine. My mother smoked like a factory for most of her life; no physical problems whatsoever; got an infection from a knee injury, and died from it at eighty-nine. My stepfather—Mac—developed prostate cancer when he was in his eighties. When they opened him up, they just closed him up again and gave him three months to live. He fooled them though; he lasted just over six.”

“So, there’s got to be an official reason you’re driving all the way up here in the middle of the night,” Scheels said.

Mark nodded and sipped his coffee. “I might as well tell you; they found a bullet in the tire of the Camaro; it’s from the same rifle—.”

 

LAKE FRANCIS PART III

 Cole Musgrove was outside of the blacksmith shop, performing an almost lost art with saddle horses: shoeing. Driscoll watched as Musgrove stood close to the horse’s hindquarters, reached down, picked up the horse’s hind foot, then, holding it up with one hand, maneuvered around and placed the foot between his leather-clad legs. He checked the fit of a new shoe. Satisfied that everything was right with the world, he expertly nailed it in place. A quick trim with a file and the job was done.

“You know I watched Uncle Frank do that countless times,” Driscoll said.

“I don’t need to do it as often as I used to,” Cole said. “We still use horses but the quad is a lot faster.”

“Yeah, but a quad is no match for a pissed-off bull.”

“Roger that; it takes a real good horse to handle a mean bull; a quad is no match.” Musgrove paused to remove the heavy leather apron. “What can I help you with, Sheriff?”

“Well, I’m sure you heard about the cars we found in Francis Lake yesterday; trying to figure out what happened. We got a good idea of who was driving the older car; at least it was registered to Charlie Scheels, whom you know has been missing for over fifty years. The other two, I’m not clear. One of the bodies is a woman.” Mark paused and retrieved the leather chaps which had dried and responded to a good cleaning. He pointed to a set of elaborately tooled initials. “You wouldn’t happen to know who “DB is?”

“Doug Bond,” Musgrove replied without hesitation. “One of the best bull riders I ever saw. Of course, I was pretty young at the time; I was—hell—six years old when he disappeared. Headed for Cheyenne—National Finals—got to be 1959. Doug worked for Elroy Haige, out toward the South Butte.”

“Elroy Haige.” Mark paused for a moment. “He was on that old Roy Parks spread, part of the George Grainger ranch. Dad and Uncle Frank knew him.”

“That’s him,” Musgrove said. “Course we all got a pretty good idea who Roy Parks was.”

Driscoll nodded.

“I remember that old Chevy car that Charlie had,” Cole continued, “kind of a gun-metal silver, it was. I was told Charlie bought it just before he went to Korea and just kept driving it after he got back.

“Charlie was a rodeo cowboy too—saddle bronc. Skirt chaser when he wasn’t riding; a real philanderer. He’d get on the rodeo circuit and I’m sure he had a girlfriend in every town, and probably at least three in every city. His wife was a psychotic boot; I don’t know if he chased around because his wife was psycho or his wife was psycho because he chased around. Whatever he chased around.”

“I remember Charlie’s wife,” Driscoll said. “She used to pour drinks at Dutch’s Bar in Sunburst; she and that huge lady, uh, Dorothy Popp, only Popp was short for her real name—.”

“—Popercznick,” Musgrove added for him. “The story goes that Charlie was seeing a lady in Choteau,” he continued, “she was married—to a guy with shell-shock, who wouldn’t hesitate to cause plenty of trouble if anyone crossed him. Of course, Charlie was married too. From what I heard Dad talk about, Charlie was headed down to Cheyenne, along with Doug Bond. The night they left, they all disappeared. Dad was a deputy back then; he investigated but never turned up anything except that this lady from Choteau disappeared that same night.”

“I’ll have to follow that up,” Driscoll said. As he stood up to leave, he asked, “Charlie’s wife—?”

“Committed to the loonie bin around ’65. Died somewhere around ’68 or ’69—cut her wrists. Son—Stan, and his wife, Wendy—you know Wendy—Peterson—,”

“Oh I know Wendy,” Driscoll said. Kind of a student body—.”

“Some called her the ‘town pump,’” Musgrove interrupted.

“Dated her myself in high school,” Mark added, “but she dumped me for Darrel Buchanon; flung herself at him for a while then dumped him.”

“Well, she sure seemed to have a thing for Stan,” Cole added. “She married him, threw the nightlife away and commenced to raise seven kids; all churchgoers; all responsible citizens.”

“Guess there’s hope for all of us,” Driscoll said with a forced grin.

Driscoll left the Musgrove ranch and drove down the road, deep in thought. The case of the older car was more questions than answers. For the time being, there was the strong possibility of two suspects; a jilted husband or a jilted wife. They would need to find a slug and then see if there was a gun to match.

The Scheels spread was on the Border Road, a road that ran up to the Sweetgrass Hills themselves. Stan had served in the Marines, joining up less than a year after Driscoll, but had gotten out after his required time was completed. He had married Wendy between his time in basic training and his deployment. His paternal uncle had run the ranch while he was away; the original plan was to take it over but when Stan gave intentions of returning, the uncle readily decided to head for the eastern headquarters and left the original place to Stan. He and Wendy had built up and improved the ranch and had done an enviable job of both running a ranch and raising a large family. Driscoll drove down the tree-lined lane into the yard and parked in front of the rambling house. He could see a newer three quarter ton truck driving in from one of the pastures so he stood beside the Yukon and waited.

Stan and his wife were both in the truck. They might have been a little guarded at first but then, most people are intimidated when they come home to see a sheriff’s department vehicle in the yard. Any misgivings were dissolved within a few minutes. There were the usual pleasantries before the sheriff told them of the real purpose of his visit.

“I think we found your dad’s car,” Driscoll began, “We drug it out of Francis Lake yesterday. License plate indicates that it was last registered to your dad back in ’59, the year he disappeared.”

Stan was silent for several minutes while he comprehended the news. “I heard it on the news, about the cars in the lake,” he said finally. “You’re sure it was Dad’s car?”

“The license plate indicates it, and considering your dad had a ’49 Chevy ‘Fastback’ it looks very much like it’s your dad’s car.”

“What about Dad? I heard on the news that they found a body.”

“Three bodies,” Driscoll said, “all I know so far is that there are two men and a woman. Pondera County is following up from their end because there’s a chance—and that’s only if our suspicions are true—the woman is from north of Choteau. Since there’s a possibility that one of the victims is your dad, I’m going to need a swab from you to test for DNA.”

“What about the other guy?” Wendy asked.

“We’ve got an idea but I can’t say; we’re checking for dental records, and once we’ve established something more positive we’ll try to locate his family.”

“Doug Bond?” Stan offered as quickly as Musgrove had just done.

Driscoll gave a slight nod.

“Doug’s real name is Dallas,” Stan continued. “I don’t know how he got the Doug moniker.”

Driscoll shrugged. “Probably the same way I got called Mark.”

Wendy was surprised. “Mark isn’t your name?”

Driscoll shook his head. “My middle name was Martin; my grandmother called me Marty, and called me that till the day she died. My Uncle Cordell, Mom’s brother, got part of his jaw blown away during the war, and he had a major speech impediment. He could barely manage to call me Mark. ‘Course he was usually about twenty-three sheets to the wind and had trouble talking anyways.”

“I’m actually surprised that those cars weren’t discovered years ago when they all but completely drained the lake,” Wendy said, steering the subject back to its original course. “I can remember places you could walk across it. It seems that they found a motorcycle, a computer and a stack of rifles in there, back in the mid-eighties.”

“I think the Pondera county sheriff still has the rifles,” she added.

“Glacier County,” Driscoll corrected her. “They traced one to the murder of a Canadian RCMP officer from just north of the border about twenty years ago.”

“I read about that,” Wendy mentioned.

“Still unsolved,” Driscoll said.

They completed the swab on Stan, and Sheriff Driscoll sealed the jar. “You say there were two cars?” Stan asked.

Mark nodded. “The other one was eleven or twelve years later, almost the same place. It’s actually the one we found first; we were going after it when we discovered the older one, and we had to get the older one out of the way first.”

“I’ll be damned,” Stan said. He stood up and left the room for a moment, returning later with an old photo of his dad’s car with his dad, clad in his army uniform, posing proudly beside it. “That’s just before he went to Korea.”

“Thanks,” Mark said. “I’ll make a copy of it and return it to you.”

The work was far from done. Driscoll arrived back at the office then immediately began to sift through a mountain of old files.

Reports, missing person reports, no one even reported them missing until four days after the rodeo was over and they hadn’t returned home. Possible sightings, then the interviews. The investigation carried on for the better part of a year then was finally sent to the place where all unsolved cases went: the vault in the basement.

It was well past dark and Driscoll was beginning to realize that he had only gotten maybe two hours of sleep in the past twenty-four hours. He switched off the lights in his office then checked the phone to ensure that any calls would go to the answering service and prepared to leave for the day. He was reaching for the door when his cellphone chirped.

It was Hinkley. “Sheriff, they drug the bodies out of the cars and they’re on their way to the city morgue. They’ve got the cars loaded and are ready to take them down to the lab; they just need your authorization.”

“Just tell them to go ahead. If they need anything more, tell them to see Moffit.”

“Roger that. Coming home.” Hinkley sounded tired too. It seemed that Driscoll was always dependent on Hinkley. They had been best friends since Second Grade in school and shared nearly everything. When they graduated they both enlisted in the Marines. Both had spent a lot of years in and out of service to Uncle Sam and had looked forward to retirement before the sheriff’s position suddenly became available. And that was supposed to be a temporary job but had somehow gone through no less than two elections afterward. It seemed that Hinkley was the only member of the staff that stuck around. Well, Driscoll shouldn’t exclude Larson, who was a rookie when Driscoll became sheriff.

Tammy was happy to see her husband home. Being married to someone in law enforcement was a challenge, almost as much of a challenge as being married to a soldier. And she had been married to both. There were times when the absences were almost overwhelming but she also knew that Mark and people like him wanted to be home with their families instead of being out in the elements, chasing elusive criminals, settling domestic disturbances, or sorting out the grisly aftermath of a tragic accident. Mark had been a marine—a Navy SEAL, in fact, although when she met him he was working as a mechanic. He had later been involved in military investigations and government probes. But he always knew where home was, and he was always glad to be there.

Sandwiches and coffee on the table, they sat down and talked about the things that mattered: Roger was busy on the farm, and he and Uncle Paul were busy spraying crops. The hay crop was almost ready to cut and branding was coming up. Wesley was coming home from Afghanistan and had a good chance of not being deployed there again. He was in line for a promotion and would probably be wearing two silver bars on his uniform next time. Melissa was going to work in Yellowstone again this summer and she probably wouldn’t be home until just before classes began in Bozeman. And that left Jordan, who was a freshman in high school.

Where had the time gone? It seemed like only a few days ago when Mark was working on his motorcycle outside the shed over at the old fourplex. The end of a blistering hot day and Tammy asked if he could help put a new bed together over at her place. That was thirty years ago.

An investigation never sleeps. Driscoll managed to grab some much needed hours but come Monday morning he was up with the sun and at the office long before anything else was stirring in the community. He had an investigation to run and answers were needed. And the predawn hours were often the times when progress was the best.

Best keep the investigations separate; there was no need to put them together anyway as it was established that over ten years had passed between the times that the cars had left the road and plunged into the lake, taking a combined four lives in the process. Of course, there was the possibility that those weren’t accidents. The sheriff had just begun to read through the massive pile of files when his cellphone rang its usual.

Driscoll picked it up and listened to the caller. He woke up his computer and accessed the message. After seeing the information that was sent, he killed the call, gathered up a map, and left a message for Hinkley. He locked up the shop and climbed into his Yukon.

The first place he drove was to the lake. He unrolled the old map then examined the tracks made by the car when it was pulled from the lake. He then went and placed stakes where the old road would’ve been. About sixty yards from the boat launching ramp was a berm, tall enough to stand behind, and yet be reasonably well protected or camouflaged. He made a sketch on the map then got back into his vehicle. On an impulse, he quickly emerged again and opened the back to the SUV. He pulled out the metal detector and went back to the berm.

Probably an hour passed as Driscoll walked back and forth along the berm slowly playing the detector from side to side. A beep and the sheriff stopped and probed the ground. The first thing was a bottle cap. He dug up several bottle caps and a couple of quarters, even what looked like a fifty-cent piece. He paused and gazed at the flags he had placed to mark the approximate location of the original road. He then moved over a couple of feet and began to retreat toward the lake.

A distinct beep and he probed again. The earth was mixed with a lot of gravel due to the approach and the boat ramp; it made digging a bit difficult. Driscoll had the most success with a large screwdriver. He would dig and turn the dirt over and scan it with the detector. More bottle caps then something long and narrow. He carefully worked the object out of the loosened up dirt. A shake and a moderate tap and he slipped the object into a plastic bag.

In the course of another hour, he found another similar tubular metal object. He carefully photographed where it was found then staked the area off. After putting the detector away he got back into his SUV and drove away.  

 

LAKE FRANCIS Part II

Driscoll stood up and stepped back. He picked up his cellphone just as it chirped. He listened to the caller then said: “Call the coroner, contact Hinkley and have him bring the camera.” He checked his watch. “You might as well come down here too; it looks like we’re going to be here for a while.” Driscoll killed the call then turned toward Moffit. “It’s one of ours,” he said. The two sheriffs backed away and let the deputies probe the interior. They spoke in guarded tones as the crowd gathering around to witness the spectacle was increasing. Moffit had already brought in extra personnel to control the crowd.

“There’s two more, a deputy said, “one on the front floor and another in the back seat.”

“My God,” Driscoll murmured, “what the hell have we gotten ourselves into?”

The second car was emerging from the lake and they stopped to watch as the salvage crew winched it onto the higher ground to come to rest about ten yards away from the first.

Although covered in mud and silt there were still places where they could see some green paint showing through. The car appeared to be a late sixties GM pony car. Typical style for the era: long hood, short deck—two large doors. The once shiny chrome emblems near the leading edge of the front fenders proudly proclaimed Z-28, obviously the model of the car itself. The glass was mostly intact; that was to say that it was in place; the windshield was obviously cracked, very similar in pattern to the one in the older car. It was stained completely brown and impossible to see through. The license plates were mostly intact on this car too but it would take some careful cleaning to determine where the car had last been registered.

“Car looks vaguely familiar,” Driscoll observed as he scanned the filthy exterior, “Kid, over Sunburst way, got a ’69 Z-28, dark green, like this, for a graduation present.”

“Local kid?” Moffit asked.

“His dad was a Customs officer at Sweetgrass; family moved into Sunburst about the beginning of Junior Year.” Mark paused. “They had just the boy. I’m trying to think of his name—kind of a Mennonite sounding name—Jacob Weiss? Yes, that’s what it was. Anyways, he didn’t like it around here; preferred San Diego, where they came from; always vowed to move back. People just thought he did, I guess. He was head-strong; moved out of the house during his senior year.

“I didn’t know him very well, you know, different school. I do have to say that he was considered to be somewhat of a babe magnet. Tall, athletic, southern Californian—,” Driscoll indicated the car, “—nice car; girls kind of threw themselves at him. Graduated a year after I did. Disappeared shortly afterward, while I was in Viet Nam.”

Driscoll backed away from the car. “If this is his car, it’s been in the drink for over forty years.” He crouched down behind the car and snapped a photo of the license plate with his cellphone. The metal validation tag was still in place but it was obvious that he would need the lab to positively identify the registration. He called the number in, hoping that those on the other end might at least get started.

Driscoll examined the cracks on the windshield but was eventually satisfied that the cracks were either typical wear and tear or getting the odd rock thrown from a passing truck. Like the first car, three tires were still holding air but the driver’s front was flattened. Unlike the first car it wasn’t shredded so there was a chance that this car simply drove off the road. The fine details would be the responsibility of the lab.

 Driscoll went over to his department-issued Yukon and rummaged around in the toolbox, quickly returning with a sizeable wrecking bar and a hammer. He was in the process of prying the door open when he noticed a hole running at an angle just inside the hinge area. Surely that wasn’t a bullet hole as well? He wasn’t about to take his chances so he decided to investigate from somewhere else.

No longer a good idea to force the driver’s door open, at least for the time being, Driscoll wiped the left rear window down then took a wide strip of masking tape which he placed on the glass. Taking a ball-peen hammer, he drove the ball end of the head into the center of the window. The shattered glass held mostly intact and he was able to pull it out toward him. The stench of the decomposing interior, very similar to the older car, rushed out at him. The sheriff gave himself a moment before taking out his flashlight and beaming it inside.

He could see the rear seat frame and the springs, with mere tatters of upholstery still clinging to the heavily corroded metal. The floor was covered in muck. The front seats seemed a little more intact. He went around to the passenger’s side of the car. Inserting a pry bar next to the latch, he attempted to force the door but it wouldn’t budge. He went to the trunk and had better success forcing the trunk open.

The trunk revealed little more than a rusted spare wheel, with the spare still inflated, a rusty jack and tire iron, and a dozen beer bottles with the rusted caps still on top.

The wrecker driver came over and offered a more substantial prybar for the passenger’s side door. This gave them better success. In very little time they had the door open and were able to see what was inside.

It almost looked like everything was in one filthy, mud-encrusted piece; the buckets seats and console blended together with what seemed to be a pile of old clothes. The interior of this car, too, appeared that the headliner had detached itself from the ceiling and draped itself down on the seats. Being immersed for all those years blended everything together.

But the investigation had to continue. Armed with a couple of hastily fashioned wire hooks and plastic sticks, Driscoll and Moffit carefully probed the pile of rotted headliner and upholstery and pulled some of it away. It didn’t offer much resistance and didn’t offer much more to see. Driscoll went in again. He caught onto something more solid. Seat frame, he thought and pulled some more. It gave way and a major wad slid out the opened door.

The two law officers fairly gaped at what they saw. Sprawled across both seats and the console was the skeletal remains of a man.

They stood there in shocked silence while they comprehended what they had just seen. The case had suddenly become more than just a second car at the bottom of the lake; there were now four deaths to sort out.

          Of course by the time the local coffee shop opened the following morning, the news was out. The sheriff didn’t find it at all surprising that the speculative body count was closer to eight than four. Driscoll tried to keep a lid on that from the get-go but reporters were on the scene as soon as it was revealed that a car was found on the lake bed; there were at least three reporters within earshot when they opened up the old Chevy, and there were a couple more by the time they had the Camaro drug out. Mark tried to downplay the gossip as he filled his cup then took a seat at the table.

“So the cars were all shot up?” Leonard asked from the opposite end.

Driscoll shook his head. “Just the one, there’s no evidence that it wasn’t there long before the car went into the drink.”

“Know who it is?”

“No. We got three bodies out of the older car and one from the newer one; we’ve checked the license numbers and know where they were last registered. Right now we’re trying to identify the bodies, and, just trying to piece together what happened.” Mark couldn’t really say anything more. It didn’t really matter; the whole event seemed to take on a life of its own and he was glad it went that way.

Driscoll drove out east of town then headed north toward the Sweetgrass Hills. The old Chevy was last registered to a rancher who had run an operation in the region of Pratt’s Canyon, in the vicinity of the West Butte. The Musgrove ranch was in that same region. Mark decided to stop there and have a chat with his good friend, Cole. As he drove into the yard he wished once again that Cole’s dad was still around. The late Sheriff, Andy Musgrove, was a wealth of information, and willing to help in every way he could. It was Musgrove who had not only recommended that Driscoll become the new sheriff but encouraged him as well. But Musgrove had passed on; the only thing Mark could do when he got bogged down was to ask himself how Sheriff Musgrove would’ve handled it. But Musgrove’s only son was the only source now. Cole had often donned the uniform and assisted his dad in solving numerous cases. But Cole decided that law enforcement wasn’t for him; better to let someone more skilled—and dedicated—do that.

LAKE FRANCIS PT.1

The outboard trolling motor hummed softly as the medium-sized fishing boat made its way across the glasslike surface of the lake. The deputy kept it in a straight line while two other law enforcement officers huddled in the rear, watching the screen of a state-of-the-art electronic scanner as it revealed the secrets that littered the lake bed. Nothing really harmless, a couple of old tires, what looked like a couple of glass bottles; nothing that could cause a major environmental panic. The depth suddenly increased as the driver maneuvered the launch further away from the shore.

          

“This is quite the gadget,” Sheriff Driscoll praised as he continued to scan the screen, “about the most elaborate fish-finder I ever saw.”

          

“It’ll damn near count the scales on the fish itself,” Sheriff Moffit responded with a grin. “It’s small enough to take in a smaller craft yet it’s dead accurate. I figured we could use it, but with only one sizable lake and a couple of streams, I sort of doubt if the county will go for it.”

          

“Could possibly use something like this over my way.” Driscoll continued to view the screen. “This is almost as clear as my wife’s last Ultrasound.”

          

They were in fifty feet of water by then and the screen, although considerably darker, still showed the irregularities of the lake bed. The depth remained at fifty feet then started to rise then leveled off at forty feet. It first started to appear as a sudden increase in depth but it soon changed to a rectangular object. They both saw it together as it came into view.

          

“What the hell?” Driscoll said. “That looks like a—car.”

          

“It’s a car for sure.” Moffit motioned for the driver to cut the power and allow the craft to stop.

          

Driscoll looked up from the screen and gazed back to the shore. They were a good hundred yards out. He glanced at the boat launching ramp then to the highway beyond that. “Wasn’t the old road closer?”

          

Moffit pointed to the shore. “The road used to form a dogleg that bordered the parking lot. It almost headed straight for the ramp but veered away at the last moment. They straightened the road out and moved it about fifty yards further over to give more room in the parking lot for trailers and towing vehicles and make it a little safer. Of course, it lessened the congestion around the Lighthouse tavern.” He indicated the popular eating and drinking establishment about three hundred yards further east.

          

“How long ago was that?”

          

“Hell, I was a senior in high school; that would’ve been around 1979.”

          

“I can remember the old road,” Driscoll said. “We often took this way down to Teton Pass to ski. We quite often ran out of beer on the way back and bought more at the Lighthouse.”

          

“You could’ve gotten into trouble for that,” Moffit said with a chuckle, “Sheriff could’ve given you a rather large citation.”

          

“Where’s the law enforcement when you need ‘em?”

          

They both looked at the monitor again. “Need to get a closer look at that car,” Moffit said.

Driscoll nodded. “I’ve got scuba gear, but it’s back at my place.”

Moffit indicated the small town a couple of miles away toward the east. “Two firemen in town, they’re both qualified divers.” He nodded toward the launch pilot. “Let’s head in; I’ll get a wrecker coming.”

It was just past noon on that sunny late spring day. The divers, eager to get the opportunity, wasted no time getting their gear together and out to the sizeable lake in the western Montana plains. They were taken out to the site and lowered themselves into the still chilly water.

“Miss diving?” Moffit said to Driscoll.

Driscoll nodded. “Sometimes. Never really went crazy for it; it just went with the job. In the CRT, you did everything; diving was part of it.”

The first diver came to the surface and slid his mask up. “Sheriff Moffit, there’s two cars down there!”

“Two cars!” Both sheriffs shouted in unison.

“Yeah, went down, looks like a long time between. One’s almost buried in silt and sediment and the one you saw has to have been there at least thirty years. Looks like the second car, the one you saw, was going a lot faster; it’s just ahead of the older one.”

“Okay, winch truck’s on its way; I’m going to need you guys for a while."

They eventually needed more than a wrecker; they ended up enlisting the services of a sizeable winch truck, plus a lot of digging on the part of the diving team. It was well into the afternoon when the first car broke the surface and was pulled slowly out of its watery grave, muddy water pouring out from many passages. The crew wasted no time at all going after the second car. While they were doing that the two sheriffs began an examination of the first one.

“Looks like a ’49 Chevy Fleetline,” Driscoll said as he examined the rusted-out hulk in front of them.

“I can see the Fleetline part,” Moffit said as he scanned the long roof as it sloped down from the driver’s area to the rear bumper, “how can you tell the year?”

          

“Grill—bottom section has got vertical bars in it; ’50 model looks very close but the vertical bars are gone.”

          

“You know your old cars.”

          

Driscoll nodded. “For what it’s worth.” He wiped the mud off the front and rear license plates which were mostly legible then took pictures with his cellphone. He promptly sent them in to see if there was a chance at the identification of the registered owner. He then carefully began a systematic examination of the car’s exterior. The body was cratered with holes that were the result of many years underwater. Surprisingly three of the four tires still held air; the left front one was shredded. Mark checked the glass of the car, first the doors and the rear window then the windshield. The windshield itself was spider-webbed with cracks which could have been caused by years of traveling the local graveled roads, or the impact of hitting the lake at speed. He probed at a large spiderweb of cracks, just ahead of the driver’s side then backed away and took a photo with his cellphone.

          

“Bullet hole,” Mark said, “about .30 caliber. I’d guess the shooter was directly in front, or a few degrees off to the left.”

          

Moffit came over to look for himself. “Bullet hole, alright. I agree, about .30 caliber. Going to be a fun game trying to track down a thirty caliber rifle out of the several thousand in this country.”

          

The doors gave way easily on the old Chevy. They all but crumbled when a pry bar was inserted in the latch area. It was a four-door so access to the interior, though difficult, was a lot easier than if it were a two-door. But the years underwater damaged the car far beyond any possibilities of salvage and it had literally begun to collapse as it was drug across the grassy shore to higher ground where it sat streaming brownish liquid. The stench of the sodden, decomposing interior was nauseating so the officers gave it some time to air out before continuing. The inside seemed to be half-filled with trash, which could eventually be identified as tattered upholstery, to articles of clothing, to—Mark tried to dismiss the thought—human remains. One thing that remarkably came out intact was a pair of leather rider’s chaps, the type worn by rodeo cowboys, in the rear seat. “Rodeo cowboy,” Driscoll muttered as he noted the initials, ‘D.B.,’ then set them aside and continued to probe the interior.

With a plastic probe Sheriff Driscoll began to pull at what appeared to be a pile of trash on the front seat. The headliner had long since collapsed on the seat, covering everything that was there. Fortunately, it gave way and could be slid to the side. Another pile of trash slid off to the side revealing a gray-colored dome-shaped object. Driscoll had seen enough of those to know what he was looking at.

“We’ve got a body,” the sheriff said grimly.

20 K AND CLIMBING

Hello all, and thanks for dropping in on my page. I just want to announce that my Blogspot has now surpassed 20,000 readers. When I first set up this page I had no idea that I would get this many readers to drop in. I have to admit that I had some stories to share and if I had more than one I would have accomplished my goal. So this is an indication that I'm doing a few things right. I've got many more stories in the making so new posts will be arriving soon. There are always more memories that get inspired by something happening in ordinary daily life and I always hope to remember them long enough to put them down on paper. Many thanks to all and I sincerely hope that you will drop in again.

THE OLD WOOD BARN

Some time ago I was asked to do up a picture collage of some family photos that progressed through the years depicting the family's growth and development. The family came from a farm in the midwest and all grew up working and playing in the old barn on the place. As time went on the farm was sold and the barn stood empty for a number of years until the new owners slated it for demolition. The family requested some of the wood from which to build some picture frames. I diligently set up the collage and forwarded the copies which were mounted in the frames and given to each family member. Just before the presentation, I was asked to come up with a poem, which I was honored to compose. The poem I present to you.

THE OLD WOOD BARN

IT BEGAN WITH TWO, A COUPLE WHO, WERE DETERMINED TO BEAT THE ODDS.
FRED ASKED JANE, WHO TOOK HIS NAME, AND THAT THRESHOLD THEY DID CROSS.

TO LIFE ON THE FARM, WITH THE OLD WOOD BARN, TO A WORLD OF HOPES AND DREAMS.
THE GOING WAS TOUGH AND DOWNRIGHT ROUGH, BUT CONTINUED 'NEATH THOSE BEAMS.

THE WINTER CAME, THEN SUN AND RAIN, THE LIVES THAT IT DID SAVE,
THROUGH WORK AND PLAY, THROUGH NIGHT AND DAY, THE SHELTER THAT IT GAVE.

THE CRIES AND GROANS, THE BROKEN BONES, NOT EVERYTHING WAS GOOD,
BUT TOOK IN STRIDE, WITH LOTS OF PRIDE, THE BARN ALL MADE OF WOOD.

BUT LIFE GOES ON, THE KIDS ARE GONE, THE BARN NOW EMPTY STANDS,
A SENTINAL, REMINDING ALL, WHAT HAPPENED ON THIS LAND.

AS IN ALL LIFE, FROM DAY TO NIGHT, NOTHING FOREVER LASTS,
BUT ALWAYS KNOW, THIS WOOD WILL SHOW, A PORTAL TO THE PAST.

TO DAYS GONE BY, AND MEMORIES HIGH, AND TIMES SO FREE FROM STRIFE,
YET LOOK FORWARD TO, THE FAMILY WHO, LIVES EVERLASTING LIFE.