No Leads to the Killer

NO LEADS TO THE KILLER

  by Darryl Matter

  Copyright 2015 by Darryl Matter

  * * * * *

  Sheriff “Red” Taylor hung his Stetson on the peg behind the door and sat down at his desk—much as he’d done every morning for the past thirty-six years. A glance at his calendar reminded him that his sixty-fifth birthday was only one month away. October 22, 1927 wasn’t far off now. On that day he would retire.

  Ted Henderson’s letter was still on Sheriff Taylor’s desk, and the sheriff read it again that morning, just as he’d done every morning that week. He was fond of his nephew, Ted, and had been especially pleased when he’d learned that Ted had become a policeman. Not a rural county sheriff like he was, either, but a “real” policeman, a Kansas City detective who’d been taught how to solve crimes. Ted’s letter said that he’d be home today and wanted to stop by to “say hello.” Less than thirty minutes later, Sheriff Taylor saw a new Model T Ford pull up near his office. It had to be Ted! The sheriff rose to meet the young man who was coming down the sidewalk.

  Greetings were exchanged and the two men were about to cross the street to Rosey’s Diner for coffee when the telephone rang. “Yes,” the sheriff sighed, moments later, “I’ll be right out.”

  Sheriff Taylor hung the receiver back on its hook and turned to Ted. “Come along with me if you’ve got the time, Ted,” he said. “Someone’s just found Fred Harlow’s body. Murder, most likely. Besides,” the sheriff’s face lightened, “it’ll be good to have a real investigator along.”

  “Be glad to help if I can.” The anticipated coffee break was quickly forgotten as the two men climbed into the sheriff’s car. Moments later they were on a narrow gravel road leading to a remote part of the county where Fred Harlow, a retired rancher, had lived on a small acreage.

  It was murder all right. Fred Harlow’s skull had been crushed by a heavy blow. The weapon, a short piece of steel pipe, lay nearby. Sheriff Taylor wrapped it in some rags and put it in his car. “I doubt that it’ll be of any use to us,” he told Ted, “but we’ll see.”

  Ted, too, doubted that they’d find any identifying marks on the pipe. The surface of the pipe was much too smooth and easily wiped clean. Of course, there wasn’t any way to get a fingerprint from it—not in 1927. In fact, Ted thought to himself, this was going to be a tough case for his uncle to crack.

  The ground in the corral where Harlow’s body was found had been packed down hard, so no footprints were visible, nor likely to be found. Even if there had been footprints, the cattle would have obscured them long before Harlow’s neighbor had found him. Furthermore, the corral was behind Harlow’s barn and not visible from the road, so it wasn’t likely that anyone traveling the road would have witnessed the murder. The photograph Sheriff Taylor took of the death scene was unlikely to be of help in solving the case either, Ted thought.

  Fred Harlow had lived alone on his small ranch. As the sheriff had expected, a search of Harlow’s house and outbuildings turned up no clue to his death. There was nothing missing, at least not so far as the two men could tell. Yes, this case would be tough! The men frowned at the body, now covered with a blanket. Not even Ted’s up-to-date investigative skills would be of much help with this one.

  Trouble was—both men suspected who had killed Fred Harlow. In fact, there was only one man in the county who hadn’t gotten along with Fred—Jake Plummer. Jake lived by himself back in the hills in a little cabin. He spent most of his time hunting and fishing. Several times Fred Harlow had accused Jake of stealing a calf but had never been able to prove it. Then, just last month, Fred had ordered Jake Plummer off his property. “We’ll pay a visit to Jake Plummer later today, just to see what he’s got to say,” Sheriff Taylor told his nephew.

  By the time the two had some lunch, the coroner had picked up the body, and the sheriff had made arrangements for a neighbor to look after the livestock, it was late in the afternoon. It was time to pay a visit to Jake Plummer.

  Sheriff Taylor turned the car off the road and onto the rutted drive leading to Jake Plummer’s shack. Two big hounds bounded down the drive to greet the car, yelping and growling menacingly. Then Jake Plummer appeared in the doorway. He yelled and cursed at the dogs and they slunk out of sight around the corner of the cabin.

  “Want to talk to you, Jake.” Sheriff Taylor eased himself out of the car.

  “Sure,” Jake responded, “come in. Who’s your buddy?” He stared at Ted.

  “Jake, you remember Ted Henderson.” Sheriff Taylor motioned at Ted. Ted stepped forward and nodded. Jake grunted something that might have been “yeah” and led the men into his cabin.

  It was obvious that Jake lived alone. His cabin was cluttered, his bed unmade. Dirty dishes were piled high on the kitchen cabinet. Jake’s hunting clothes hung on pegs along the wall. Jake motioned toward two chairs and the men sat down. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “Where were you last night and this morning?” Sheriff Taylor asked.

  “Right here.” Jake paused. “You think I killed Fred Harlow, don’t you? That’s why you’re askin’. But I was right here, all last night and all day today.”

  “So you know about Fred Harlow?”

  “Sure. Jim Tate came by this afternoon and told me. He heard about it in town.”

  “You mind if I look around?”

  “Nope. Look all you want,” Jake growled. “You ain’t goin’ find nothin’.”

  Sheriff Taylor went over to where Jake’s jacket and coveralls were hanging on the pegs. He carefully examined them while Jake watched from his chair. “Ain’t no blood on ‘em,” Jake growled.

  “Where’s your boots?”

  “Over there.” Jake pointed. “There ain’t no blood on them either.”

  Ted watched as the sheriff examined Jake’s hunting clothes and boots. He had to agree that Jake was likely right; there wouldn’t be any blood on them. Even if there were bloodstains, Jake could claim that they were from an animal he’d shot. Since there was nothing missing from Harlow’s house, it was unlikely they’d find any clues in Jake’s cabin.

  “You got any leads?” Jake asked.

  “No leads to the killer, not a one,” Sheriff Taylor responded. “We’ll be going now.”

  Ted gulped. He wished the sheriff hadn’t said that. It would be much better to keep people guessing about what evidence was available. That was one of the things he’d been taught.

  “Let me know if you need any help,” Jake called as the sheriff and Ted climbed into their car.

  “Ted, I’ve spoiled your day!” Sheriff Taylor turned toward his young companion as they drove away from Jake’s cabin. “Let me make it up by buying you some dinner.”

  Over dinner that night, Sheriff Taylor and his nephew talked at length about Ted’s work as a detective. Both men knew that the field of law enforcement was changing and that science would play an ever-increasing role in criminal investigations. There must be clues that would lead to Fred Harlow’s killer that would be evident to an investigator of the future, but for now . . . .

  “Maybe something will turn up,” Ted tried to sound hopeful, even though he thought this might well be one of his uncle’s unsolved cases.

  “Maybe so.” Sheriff Taylor was thoughtful. “Want to come with me and we’ll see?”

  “Well, sure—but . . . now?” Ted looked puzzled.

  “Yep, we got a little walk ahead of us. Come on.” The sheriff led the way back to his car. “The moon will be up and bright before long. We’re going to have a look around Fred’s place by moonlight. And if we don’t see anything by moonlight, we’ll see who’s there in the morning,” the sheriff explained as they drove back over the road toward Harlow’s ranch.

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; “You think that he’ll come back?”

  “Maybe. Have you got a gun?”

  “No.”

  “Here’s one.” The sheriff pulled a .45 Colt from under the front seat of his car and handed it to his nephew. Ted noted that there was a cartridge in every chamber.

  The sheriff parked the car in a grove of trees about a mile from the ranch. Silently the two men crept down the road and then across the pasture. Before long they were hidden in a small shed near the corral where the rancher had been murdered.

  Several hours passed. Although the moon gave enough light to see by, no visitor to the crime scene appeared. Then, just as dawn was breaking, a shadowy figure emerged on the horizon and headed straight toward the corral. It was Jake Plummer, and Ted couldn’t help but notice the revolver stuck in his waistband and the rifle he carried in his right hand. Unaware that he was being watched, Jake walked around and around the corral as if he were looking for something.

  Just then the board that Sheriff Taylor was sitting on broke with a loud crack. Jake stopped in his tracks and looked toward the shed. Ted silently cursed their luck. They’d blown their watch!

  “Mornin’, Jake.” The sheriff was on his feet now, moving toward Jake from the doorway of the shed. Ted got up to follow him as he walked over to where Jake stood.

  “Mornin’,” Jake growled.

  “What you lookin’ for, Jake?”

  “Tracks. You boys said you didn’t have any leads, and I’m pretty good at seein’ tracks.” Jake leaned back on his heels.

  “This what you’re really lookin’ for?” The sheriff held something in the hand he extended toward Jake.

  Jake looked, swore, and raised the rifle. Sheriff Taylor plunged sideways. Just before Jake squeezed the trigger, Ted’s shot spoiled his aim. Once, twice, three times, the .45 in Ted’s hand roared before Jake crashed to the ground, dead.

  “Thanks, Ted.” Sheriff Taylor picked himself up and looked down at Jake. Slowly the sheriff shook his head.

  “I thought you said you didn’t have any leads.” Ted picked up the short length of gold watch chain that had fallen from the sheriff’s hand when he’d dived away from Jake’s rifle.

  “Didn’t have any leads,” the sheriff replied with a smile. “I picked that chain out of Jake’s coat pocket when I looked at his hunting clothes last night up at his cabin. Figured he might come here lookin’ for it.”

  THE END

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