The Beanfield Murder - by Josprel (standard:mystery, 8593 words)
Author: Josprel	Added: Aug 03 2006	Views/Reads: 3362/2215	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Cayuga County High Sheriff Loren Kregs investegated many accident in his long career. But this one proved different than the others. It caused butterflies in his belly.

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friend." 

The dazed woman ceased struggling and stared intently at Loren. Her
confusion gave way to recognition. 

"Why, Sheriff Kregs, I didn't know you were here. When did you arrive?" 

"I've been here a while, Mrs. Sorrel.  Verony's coming; she won't be
long getting here. I'm sending a deputy to pick her up.   Verony wants 
to be with you.  Please wait until she gets here.  Then I'll have one 
of my men drive both of you to the hospital.  Will you wait for her, 
Mrs. Sorrel?  She'll be so disappointed if she misses you." 

"Of course I'll wait for her. It's the least I can do after she comes
all this way to be with me." 

"Another thing, Mrs. Sorrel, I'll find the answer to your question about
what happened. And that's a promise." 

Loren activated the radio.  "Dispatch a car to pick up Mrs. Kregs.  Tell
her Mrs. Sorrel needs her here at the Sorrel farm.  And hurry!" 

It wasn't long before those at the farm heard the fast approaching wails
of two patrol cars.  The High Sheriff brightened at Verony's arrival.  
He and his sonsy wife still shared those frequent times when she set 
his blood aflame, and then dissolved at his touch.  Her way with people 
awed him.  Her being presence calmed Mrs. Sorrel. 

Verony took immediate charge of the older woman.  They entered the
house, and when they returned to Loren after a short interval, Mrs. 
Sorrel appeared neatly dressed and refreshed.   Verony guided her into 
the waiting patrol car, eased herself in and nodded to the driver, who 
floor-boarded the accelerator at chase speed toward the hospital. 

Loren turned his attention to his task.  Those confounded butterflies
again were teasing his belly.  He made an unsuccessful effort to force 
them to roost; then turned to glare at the rig. Duty summoned! 

"Doc!  Billy!  Time to begin our investigation!" 

Chapter Two 

Loren's brawny, six-foot-three frame had served him well during his
college football years, but offered no advantage to the fortyish 
sheriff, whose chest heaved as he lumbered over the rig with Doc. His 
criminologist's antenna was vibrating with questions: Why were the 
gears still engaged?  Had they meshed accidentally? If so - how?  From 
all indications, Sorrel had been refilling the seed hoppers.  In that 
case, he'd have been behind the tractor.  That raised the question of 
how the wheel could have pass over him, since he wasn't mounting or 
dismounting the tractor. 

"That brings me back to those blasted gears again," Loren mused audibly.


"Did you say something to me, Loren?" Doc asked. 

"Just thinking out loud, Doc. This accident has a lot of unanswered
questions to it. 

Mr. Sorell was an experienced farmer. He had a reputation for always
having his machines maintained in perfect working order.  So I'm 
wondering how the gears of his tractor could possibly engage when he 
was behind the tractor filling the hoppers." 

"I've no answer to that, Loren. But I can say that the back of his head
was crushed with a deadly force before the wheel passed over him," Doc 
grimly observed,  "If he survives, he'll likely be a vegetable." 

Indicating the place where Sorrel had lain, he added, "That's blood from
his lower body.  There's no blood where his head rested, yet, his head 
bled profusely. It also leaked cerebral fluid." 

Loren's baby blues eyes widened.  Doc had limited his private practice
years ago to become Cayuga County Chief Coroner. The sheriff considered 
Doc somewhat of an eccentric, but one whose conclusions he respected. 

All ears now, he asked, "Before the wheel passed over?" 

Doc nodded. "I found coagulation in the head wound, but the lower ones
were still bleeding" 

"And . . .?" 

Doc shrugged. "Well, you're the sheriff, figure it out!  I'm just a  . .
." 

"Yeah, I know, just a country doctor doing his job.  I've heard it all
before.  And I'm just a Boy Scout helping an old lady.  Cut the 
malarkey and answer me!" 

"I really have no time, now, Loren, but we'll talk soon.  I'm due at the
hospital and I gotta roll." 

Combing his fingers through his receding, ash-blond hair, Loren watched
Doc rush toward his ride.  He continued to stare as - growing its own 
tail of dust - the car raced to challenge the receding wake of the 
ambulance. 

He cursed softly.  "Doctors; they're all belong in a loony bin,
especially that one." 

Chapter Three 

Concentrating on their investigation, Loren and Billy endeavored to
confirm Doc's finding.  Nothing.  The High Sheriff felt like he did 
when searching for his misplaced reading glasses.  They were somewhere 
- almost biting him - but where? He backed away to study the 
contraption, fingers massaging his hair. 

When he again stepped forward, there it was - in the cavity of the
planter's hitching unit.  He'd expected blood on the disks, but blood 
in that cavity was something else. Puzzled, he scrutinized the 
miniature pool. Then it hit him; the clear substance marbling the blood 
was cerebral fluid.  Doc wasn't so loony, after all. The finding served 
to deepen the mystery.  Why had Sorrel's head been over the cavity?  
How could he have tumbled from the planter and fallen in front of the 
tractors rear wheels? 

Billy approached. "Loren, did anyone find Sorrel's cap?" he inquired, 
"He was proud of that old thing. He wore it all the time.  He teased 
everyone about it all the time. 

He's say that he never became bald because his hair spent a lifetime
under the cap and never left because it considered it home.  The old 
guy was never without it, but it wasn't with his clothes." 

A search located it, bloodstained and crumpled, several rows from a
narrow thicket that butted the far side of the beanfield.  Nearby, 
scores of bluebottle flies buzzed over a dark spot on the soil.  The 
officers glanced at each other; they understood.  With a stony 
expression, Loren pressed a lump of the soil between a forefinger and 
thumb. 

Blood! 

A line of uncovered seed in the rows of the final cut caught the eye of
the farmer's son in Billy.  To him, it indicated the rig had stopped 
there.  On restart, the planter dropped surplus seeds, some left 
exposed by the furrowing disks. 

"Loren, why would Sorrel stop in the middle of a cut?" 

"A good question, Billy. This close to his house, if he had to relieve
himself or wanted a drink of water, he'd have gone to the out-house or 
taken water from his well. They're both close to this field.  The rows 
he was planting are short ones, so after he filled the planter on the 
other side, he easily could have made a few round-trips without 
reloading." 

"Maybe he had mechanical problems." 

"Maybe, Billy, we'll have to find out.  All we know for now is that,
after he was hurt, he was on his back for a while.  His blood is 
evidence of that." 

Billy gazed admiringly at the beanfield.  "The old man really knew his
job. Look at that field.   It's an agricultural professor's dream." 

Loren nodded. Only the uncovered seed, the buzzing bluebottles, and the
tractor still nosing the cedars, marred the field.  That nagged at 
Loren, and he wondered why. 

"Billy, your head's gushing blood.  What's the first thing you do?" 

"Try to stop the bleeding." 

Loren nodded. "Find anything Sorrel might have use for that?" 

"No." 

"If Sorrel took the tractor for help, he'd be standing or sitting. 
Where would the blood from his wound flow?" 

Billy's eyes widened.  "Straight down the his neck onto his shirt.  But
there's no blood on Sorrel's shirt." 

"That's right, or in the tractor cab, either." 

"Then Sorrel didn't stand.  But how did he get to the other side?" 

"Someone moved him." Loren's own words startled him. 

Now he realized why the field's neatness nagged at him. 

"Billy, if Sorrel rushed with his tractor to get help, wouldn't he'd
have made a beeline for the house?" 

"Seems so to me." 

"Well, in that case, there'd have crosswise cuts over the completed
rows, wouldn't you say?" 

"Yeah, I say so." 

"But there aren't any, Billy." 

The officers elbowed through the thicket, to an unused utility road that
divided Sorrel's property from the adjacent woods. Perpetually shaded 
by trees, the road never lost its dampness and terminated several miles 
ahead, at the depleted natural gas wells it once serviced. 

"Loren, there's fresh tire tracks on this shoulder.  A pickup, I'd say.
And here's motor oil from a leaky oil pan." 

The Chief Deputy's fingers gently lifted several culms of bent orchard
grass he found within the tracks.  When he withdrew his fingers, they 
curtsied again. 

"Well, from this, I'd say the pickup left not very long ago," he noted. 

Loren nodded assent.  "Someone left the truck here and then entered the
field from the road.  Sorrel must have climbed down from his tractor to 
see what the person wanted and was hit from behind. But, what I don't 
understand is why he was left bleeding in the field for a while. The 
blood in that cavity proves he was eventually placed on the planter, 
with his head over the coupling.  Whoever did it brushed away the 
footprints. 

They even took the time to finished the last cut before dumping the
poor, old guy on the other side." 

Loren swallowed hard; his facial muscles twitched.  Those confounded
butterflies were active again. 

"By then, coagulation had set in, but not before Sorrel bled into the
cavity.  They tried to fake an accident by running the rig over him.  
They left it moving, then jumped to the grass and ran.  They forgot 
about Sorrel's cap, but you didn't, Billy." 

"Real brutal guys, Loren. Why would anyone kill him?" 

Before responding, Loren patted his pockets, making a show of searching
for his notebook.  "That's what we'll have to find out. And we're the 
one who have to catch them, Billy.  Go back to town and pick up what 
we'll need to preserve any evidence we find." 

Billy left, tires squealing and smoking. Loren radioed the county
sheriff's garage.  The jolly voice of Casper Tolinas, its foreman, 
responded. 

"Well!  If it ain't the boss!  What happened, Loren; a 'tomic bomb
explode?" 

Loren was in no mood for jokes. "Quit the joking, Casper, and send a C-2
to the Sorrel farm - priority code. I want Mr. Sorrel's rig impounded." 


Tolinas' flippancy evaporated. Priority code meant: "Get here now!" 

"I'll send one, immediately, Loren. I'll order the operator to move at
top speed." 

However, Loren defined  "top speed" as the sloth creep of the
department's gargantuan, 

C-2 truck cranes, times the fourteen miles between the garage and
Sorrel's farm.  He sat on the trunk of a fallen tree; the wait would be 
a long one. 

"I wish the ones who say my job is adventurous could see me now," he
muttered, "Some adventure this is!" 

Chapter Four 

Sorrel didn't make it.  An autopsy revealed an oily substance in his
head wound.  Specimens of it were sent to the FBI lab in Washington, 
together with other evidence.  Even before the findings returned, a 
coroner's jury issued a verdict of homicide, shredding the fabric of 
trust that had characterized Cayuga County.  The unthinkable had 
occurred. 

As he stood before his own desk, Jules Rimfurt's face looked peaked.
Though he was 

Cayuga County's supervisor, his expensive, blue, 42 regular business
suit looked tawdry on his 42 short physique.  Its jacket hung too low, 
while the trouser cuffs sagged behind white brogues.  Contrasting 
sharply, the hand-tailored, black, pinstripe suit now occupying 
Rimfurt's chair, blended perfectly with the glistening cordovans that 
were plunked brazenly on his exquisitely crafted, black walnut desk.  
Smoke from one of Rimfurt's Havanas spiraled from behind the desk, 
caressing a textured ceiling, then billowing in curling waves against 
paneled walls.  A former dairy farmer, Rimfurt had sold his soul to the 
state political machine. Molded to its specifications and fitted with 
minor cogs, he'd been synchronized with its corrupt mechanisms. 

Earlier, the Pinstriper had ordered Rimfurt to meet him at the county
hall at 10 P.M., when they could be alone.  Now his manicured hand 
motioned him into a plush chair.  Like a wayward child, the 
apprehensive supervisor complied. He knew what was coming and his head 
ached. 

"Without us you'd still be squeezing milk from cow s.  And you repay us
with stupidity? You idiot!  Why'd you kill the guy?" 

"Those goons did it.  I told them to just scare Sorrel," Rimfurt
whimpered. 

The Pinstripper glared.  "You hired them!  Stop that investigation
before things explode or you'll join the old man!" He paused.  "Get the 
drift?" 

Rimfurt felt a sudden urge to use the men's room.  He attempted to push
his voice through a large lump in his throat.  It squeaked.  He 
swallowed hard and nodded. 

"Good. I tell the Big Man.  Enjoy the rest of your evening." 

The Pinstriper's cordovans carried him out into the night.  And
Rimfurt's brogues sped him into the men's room to retch. 

Chapter Five 

FBI tests revealed that one of the truck's tires was deeply gashed;
moreover, traces from heavy pipe threading were embedded in them. The 
substance from Sorrel's head was driller's grease, commonly used for 
augers.  Loren stared at the report.  Driller grease!  An agricultural 
county, Cayuga depended on drillers for the water so essential to its 
needs.  All the drillers Loren knew were honest, hardworking, family 
men. 

"Dispatch, where's the Chief Deputy?" he radioed Tadber. 

"He reported that he was stopping for lunch at Frank's, sheriff." 

"Thanks, dispatch, I'll be there, too, until I report in. Out." 

Loren located Billy at the counter of Frank's Country Kitchen, sluicing
down a burger with coffee. 

"Let's take a booth, Billy.  This you gotta see!" 

Sliding into a booth, Billy read what he was handed, and his chewing
slowed. 

"A driller's truck?" he finally whispered. 

Loren washed down a mouthful of his ham on rye. 

"Maybe; we'll make a search." 

"Do I have your permission to check out all the county bars and joints,"
Billy asked. 

"You do, but take Paris along. Wear civvies and drive an unmarked. 
Tadber's dispatchers are to know your location at all times.  
Understood?" 

"Understood.  We'll start tonight."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ After his 
session with the Pinstripper, Rimfurt lost it.  His constant explosions 
sent those around him scurrying in panic.  Even his children, on whom 
he'd always doted, avoided him. He frequently screamed to Brenda, his 
wife, that his mind was going - that his head was one big ache.  Unable 
to eat, he lost weight he could ill afford and the short intervals of 
sleep he gleaned resulted in drenching sweat.  He paced incessantly, 
sometimes times massaging his brow, sometimes nibbling his knuckles. 

His subordinates had always considered Rimfurt to be erratic; still,
they'd been able to limp along.  Now they were in chaos!  Rimfurt 
issued orders, and then repudiated them. He refused to sign documents, 
cancelled all meetings and rejected all calls.  He had always shunned 
the Sheriff's Department.  So when the sheriff's office intercom 
announced that Rimfurt was demanding to see him Loren was taken aback. 

Both men had been brought up on farms near Collins.  They'd attended the
same high school and hobnobbed with the same crowd.  Their wives had 
been best friends.  It was Rimfurt who severed these ties after taking 
office. 

The supervisor's appearance appalled Loren.  A reputed teetotaler, he
now reeked of alcohol. Shadows rimmed his eyes; his face was skeletal, 
his hair unkempt and his suit more disheveled the usual.  Pressed 
against his chest, a tremulous hand clutched an unlit Havana, while the 
other dangled a Homburg. 

"Jules!  What's happened to you?" Loren exclaimed, reaching out to shake
his hand. 

Rimfurt's complexion went from chalky to crimson.  He trembled so
violently that Loren reached out to steady him.  The supervisor erupted 
like someone cursed with an explosive disorder. 

"Don't you touch me," he almost screamed, "You happened to me!  And that
Krastil happened to me! You have everyone yelling murder. Sorrel had an 
accident; close the case!" 

He collapsed into a chair, sucking air. A long silence ensued, during
which Loren thought he saw a hint of pleading in Rimfurt's eyes. 

"Jules, you're not feeling well . . ." 

"I feel just fine," shouted Rimfurt, "The investigation's over on my
orders!" 

Loren sighed. "You don't have that authority, Jules.  Things will calm
down. We're following leads." 

"What leads do you have?" The Supervisor asked. 

Loren ignored the question.  "Why would you want the investigation
dropped?" 

Rimfurt sputtered and changed the subject. "Look at you - the sloppiest
law enforcement officer in state.  When I get you kicked out of office, 
you won't yell murder any more." 

He scrutinized Loren's attire contemptuously. "You're a disgrace to your
profession.  Everyone laughs at how you dress." 

Loren realized he was no fashion plate. Verony told him often enough,
when she administered her self-styled "love nags," regarding his overly 
casual mode of dress.  She scolded that he should conform to the dress 
code he set for his deputies: full uniforms, neatly pressed, with side 
arms, whenever on duty.  The only exemptions permitted were those on 
undercover assignments. And, it went without saying, himself. 

He was exempted because of his size, he told Verony.  He required
expensive, specially tailored uniforms that he reserved for official 
occasions.  Stores that sold clothes in his size were expensive, so he 
bought sale items that happened to fit his huge frame, wherever he 
found them. 

He glanced down at himself.  Why were people so critical of his attire?
There was no reason for Jules to be so insulting.  He didn't look so 
bad.  No matter that Verony claimed the enormous camp shirt he was 
wearing draped him like a horse blanket.  It hung over faded, war 
surplus, Navy work pants, the waist and rear of which he had nagged 
Verony into expanding.  They drooped deeply at the posterior, their 
cuffs reaching down to sneakers that long ago surrendered their 
whiteness.  Ignored had been Verony's demands that the incongruent 
combination not be worn on the job. 

"What's wrong with everybody?" he mused to himself, "My clothes are neat
and clean."  Out loud, he said, "I'll ignore your insults, Jules.  
Please leave." 

"Lover Boy Kregs, the Romeo of Bowen . . . " 

Loren's towering presence overshadowed the Supervisor.  The reference
was to Loren's rescue of a teen-age girl.  His opponents had tried to 
capitalize on its humorous aftermath by dubbing him, "Lover Boy Kregs." 


His two massive fists now enclosed Rimfurt's tie and lapels.  As the
stubby man elevated, his slack finger's released the hat and cigar.  
His feet kicked air and he stared directly into the smoldering eyes of 
his nemeses. 

"You drunken little squirt," Loren growled, "I could squash you like a
toad, but you're not worth it." He lowered his thrashing captive, but 
still retained his hold. 

"When you insulted my clothes, I let it pass.  Now you try to slander my
integrity?  Your bosses tried it in the last election.   I sued and 
won. You never learn, do you, you little pip-squeak?  Want me to have 
everything you own?  Fine with me.  Just slander me in public." 

Releasing Rimfurt, Loren pressed the intercom.  A young brunette in
maternity clothes entered.  A faint rash on her hands apparently 
embarrassed her, because she tried to hide it behind her steno pad. 

"Mrs. Baymark, please take down the Supervisor's dictation. What is it
you were you saying, Jules?" 

Dampness beaded Rimfurt's forehead.  Lips pursed with suppressed fury,
he scooped up his hat and charged out. 

"Guess he changed his mind," Loren shrugged to the baffled brunette, and
then hurried to Dispatch Central. 

Chapter Six 

The Sheriff's Department was concluding its third week of searching for
the pickup.  Billy found it impossible to remain anonymous in the 
driller hangouts.  He and Loren had failed to take his long service 
into account, and civvies did nothing to disguise his distinctive 
features.  Each time he entered a bar, its patrons shouted greetings to 
him. After several such friendly encounters, it fell to the 
inconspicuous Paris to infiltrate the dives, while Billy focused on the 
vehicles in the parking lots.  It surprised him how many leaky oil pans 
he spotted.  Numerous damaged tires were seen, but none that meshed 
with the castings. 

On this third Friday of the search, Billy and Paris had just arrived at
The Drinking Well, a watering hole with an unsavory reputation, near 
Silver Creek.  Each year, the Sheriff's Department could count a 
booming business from The Well, especially on Friday nights, after its 
clientele had deeply imbibed.  More than one deputy had been hurt 
quelling the stabbings, clubbing and gang fights that broke out there.  
Still, politics kept the place open. 

"Dispatch Central, this is unmarked one.  Over."  Paris's tenor conveyed
no enthusiasm. 

"Unmarked one, Chief Dispatcher Tadber, here.  Go ahead." 

"Sir, this is Deputy Paris.  I'll be entering The Drinking Well. Chief
Deputy Greenoak, will be checking out tires." 

"Deputy Paris, let me speak to the Chief Deputy." 

Hearing Billy's explanation, Tadber responded, "The High Sheriff will
have to clear this.  Stay put.  Out." 

Billy lit a cigarette.  He appreciated Tadber's concern.  Payday, booze,
and The Well's clientele, made an explosive combination.  If Paris were 
identified, he'd be in trouble. 

"Paris, I'm going in with you," he stated. 

"There's no sense in you going in, sir; everyone knows who you are,"
Parish reminded him. Billy knew Paris was right. 

The radio crackled. "This is Kregs.  Pick up, Billy."  Billy complied. 

"You and Paris are not to enter The Well.  A call is sure to come in
from there soon.  I'll respond with the others.  Go drink some coffee 
till then." 

Paris' relief earned a smile from Billy.  "You made both of us very
happy, boss.  Don't know about coffee, though. Can we check tires?" 

"That's up to you, but don't go in." 

"Understood, boss." 

"Good.  Kregs out." 

The Well's rear lot was filled with cars parked grille to grille,
leading the officers to park the unmarked in the last row.  They'd been 
working some twenty minutes, pacing each other on opposite sides, when 
Billy heard a loud grunt. 

Peering beneath the truck he was inspecting, he saw Paris prone on the
asphalt.  Next to him stood a pair of heavy work shoes, accompanied by 
two combat boots.  Billy drew his weapon. Remaining low, he moved 
cautiously between the vehicles to peer around the grille of a station 
wagon.  Two men were standing over Paris, one holding a blackjack, the 
other keys.  Both were apparently oblivious of his presence.  Taking 
aim, the chief deputy stood. 

"Deputy Sheriff!  Drop what's in your hands!  Hands on your heads! Now!"


The men stiffened.  Blackjack and keys fell to the ground.  Their hands
went to their heads. 

"Back away slowly, or you're both dead!"  Billy voice conveyed
certainty. 

"Far enough.  Slowly lower your left hands pull off your belts and drop
them!"  The men complied, securing their pants with their left hands. 

"Hands back on your heads!" Billy ordered. 

This time the duo hesitated. There was a metallic click from Billy's
pistol. "On the three count," he announced.  Up went the hands.  Down 
went one pair of pants. 

"Now kneel and press your noses together," Greenoak instructed. 

Gathering the belts, Billy approached until the pistol nozzle pressed
against the noses of both prisoners.  He felt a tremendous sense relief 
when they at last were on their sides, cuffed together, and tightly 
belted at the thighs. 

Unconscious, Paris had a large goose egg on his head.  Though he wasn't
bleeding, his breathing was shallow.  It was evident that medical help 
and backup were needed.  He knew he had to move to the unmarked to 
summon assistance. 

"Hop over to that old Studebaker, and be quick about it. Give me any
more trouble and I'll shoot off your kneecaps," Billy warned. The pair 
discerned that he needed only minimal reason to do as he threatened.  
Their obscene objections immediately died when he advanced, brandishing 
the blackjack he had collected from the pavement. The prisoners quickly 
struggled to their feet, sullenly hopping to the Studebaker.  There in 
a bent stance, they were coupled to the car's front bumper with Paris' 
cuffs. 

Billy reached for the mike as a sudden wave of nausea engulfed him.  He
lit a cigarette and drew in a long drag of smoke, but it didn't help to 
dissipate the queasiness. 

"Unmarked one to Central Dispatch.  Officer down! Officer down at the
Drinking Well parking lot!  Deputy Paris hurt and unconscious! Dispatch 
immediate medical assistance and backup.  Have two fettered prisoners.  
Greenoak.  Over." 

"Chief Deputy, medical assistance and backup already en route. State
condition of Paris; also your own." 

"I'm okay, Central.  Paris is unconscious from a severe blackjack blow
to the head.  No external bleeding, but very shallow breathing.  I am 
unable to ascertain more.  I have the two perpetrators in custody and 
shackled. Repeat: We need immediate assistance." 

"The Silver Creek patrol should reach you soon.  Silver Creek's
ambulance already en route.  We're diverting units other to you.  The 
High Sheriff is also heading to your location.  We'll keep this channel 
open.  Do you require anything else?" 

"Yes, Central; a tow truck to haul in a pickup." 

"A tow truck will be dispatched, Chief Deputy." 

"I can hear our boys approaching, Central. Greenoak out.  And thanks." 

"We're pulling for Paris, Chief Deputy.  Out," 

Chapter Seven 

Preceded by an ambulance, the unit assigned to Silver Creek was just
entering the lot when Billy signed off.  Other units quickly followed. 
Patrons poured from The Well, protesting when the lot was cordoned off. 
 Billy stood by anxiously, while a young ambulance doctor checked his 
now conscious partner.  Uttering a low moan, Paris rubbed his head. 

"What happened?  Owww!  What a headache!" he groaned. 

"I want you in City Hospital for observation," the doctor instructed. 
Paris protested. 

"Paris, you'll do what the doctor says," Billy ordered, and the
ambulance left with its patient. 

Dusk was near when Loren arrived with Watch Lieutenant Thompson.  The
downed trousers evoked amused, questioning looks.  "I needed the 
belts," Billy sheepishly explained. 

Loren inquired about Paris, and eyed the prisoners. The appearance of
the older, bandy-legged man was squalid.  A grizzled Viking beard 
draped over his barrel-chest. Its matching head of hair apparently had 
never been caressed by a brush or comb.  Swinging beneath a filthy 
t-shirt, a blubbery belly attested that he lived for his suds.  The 
embarrassment of literally being caught with his pants down exacerbated 
his surliness.  And, judging by its loud jeers, the crowd harbored no 
sympathy for him. 

Much younger, his companion was tall and athletic.  A blond crew cut
crested his Apollo features, and his storm sea eyes harbored concern. 
An Eisenhower battle jacket revealed that Master Sergeant stripes 
recently had been removed from its sleeves.  Tucked into worn combat 
boots, though now beltless, his faded fatigue pants had remain 
steadfast.  A war vet in his late twenties, Loren assumed. 

"Hey, skull-face!  My back hurts!" bellowed The Beard. Fists bunched,
Billy headed for him, but Loren's warning glance warded him off. 

Throwing the Beard a graphic gesture, he blinked owlishly at Loren, and
moved toward the pickup.  Assuming an understanding tone, Loren 
informed the men that he wanted to make them more comfortable, but he 
needed answers first.  "What's your name?" he asked the Beard. A series 
of expletives blasted him. 

"Awwww, Sheriff, the poor guy's having a bad day," Thompson,
sarcastically sympathized. 

"What's your name, kid?" Loren asked Apollo. 

"I ain't a kid, and I ain't with this blubber belly," Apollo responded. 

"What's your name?" Loren repeated. Apollo did not reply. 

"These could be the killers, Lieutenant," Loren said. 

Apollo's eyes widened.  "Hey, wait a minute; I didn't kill anyone!" 

"Shut your mouth!" the Beard yelled at him. 

"Don't tell me to shut my mouth, you fat idiot!" Apollo yelled back,
"I'm not going to fry for something you did!" 

Winking conspiratorially, Loren remanded the prisoners to Thompson's
custody, and turned toward the crowd. Speaking for all to hear, he 
stated, "And for Pete's sake, lieutenant, have that fat blubber belly 
pull up his pants; there're women watching! Charge him with indecent 
exposure, too!" 

Rewarded by a barrage of the Beard's curses, the High Sheriff walked
away. 

Chapter Eight 

For the first time in their long acquaintance, the Big Man was
castigating The Pinstriper.  "I received a report that Rimfurt's two 
loonies have been arrested.  That spells trouble for us, because those 
guys can't be trusted! Why did Rimfurt hire those crazies? They're a 
dangerous liability!" the Big Man raged, "You're not doing your job; 
those two screwballs will connect Rimfurt to the old farmer. Then 
Rimfurt will implicate you and the rest of us.  We'll be up a creek 
with no paddle!" 

"I have everything under control, boss. No need to worry," the
Pinstripper assured him. 

"It's my job to worry!" the Big Man boomed, "And its your job to see
that I don't have anything to worry about. The fact that I am worried 
is because you're not doing your job! You had better get those loonies 
before they sell us out. We're paying you big bucks to handle these 
kinds of things.  Earn your money!" 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The Pinstriper attempted to reach Rimfurt's home by phone. Only a
constant ringing at the other end rewarded his efforts.   Furious, he 
reluctantly dialed the Cayuga County Building, and was passed through 
to Rimfurt's office.  An efficient female voice responded. Employing an 
alias, he stated,  "This is Mr. Stemir.  Supervisor Rimfurt, please." 

"Sorry; he's away." 

"Where can he be located?  This is urgent!" 

"He didn't say, sir. 

"When is he returning?" 

"Soon, I expect.  He's been gone for three weeks." 

Cradling the phone, the Pinstriper lit a cigar, and cursed through the
smoke. "The guy skipped!" 

He scowled angrily, and dialed again.  "Rimfurt's running. I'm leaving
here to find him and then neutralized him," he informed the Big Man. 

"Make sure you do or our heads will roll," the Big Man reminded him. 

Chapter Nine 

The Beard was a troublemaker named Russ Decanner.  Apollo was Anton
Milnay, an Army vet and one time war hero. He had been cashiered from 
the Army with a dishonorable discharge for severely beating a superior 
officer he claimed had needlessly sacrificed the men serving under him. 
Milnay claimed the officer did so in order gain political points to run 
for a congressional seat. Both Decanner and Milnay worked as riggers 
for a drilling outfit near Silver Creek.  Both frequented The Drinking 
Well.  Decanner owned a truck that now boasted a brand new oil pan 
gasket and recently mounted tires. 

Sitting in his office with Loren and Billy, County Prosecutor Calson
Zacaro was reviewing the case against the two men.  He frowned. 

"I can only prosecute them for assaulting Paris, and obstructing a
police investigation.  Sorry, guys." 

What about the truck," Billy sounded disgusted. 

Zacaro steepled his fingers. 

"Only suspicions.  The gasket and tires are new.  So what?  I think they
killed Sorrel, but if we try them, they'll walk. Sorry.  Assault and 
obstruction's the best I can do." 

Loren knew Zacaro was right.  If the pair walked, they couldn't be tried
again for killing Sorrel, even with absolute proof.  For now the lesser 
charges must suffice. 

He stood. "You're right, Carlson.  We'll get proof.  Don't know how, but
we will." Zacaro extended his hand, and they parted. 

Kenny Jarvin was a busy attorney with an accounting degree.  He not only
was the chief executive of his father's enormous accounting 
corporation, but he also held retainers from several of Cayuga County's 
large co-ops.  This morning, however, as he waited for Loren in one of 
Frank's corner booths, other thoughts occupied his mind. 

Loren's ham on rye was ready, even before he entered and managed to
wedge his extended beltline between the seat and the table.   As usual, 
he grumbled to Frank about needing larger booths. 

"You can afford them, Frank; I eat here often enough!" he declared. 

"That's why you don't fit," Frank replied. 

Loren mimicked a scowl.  "What are you; a frustrated comedian?  Let's
see your big, fat gut get in here." 

Frank retreated.  Grinning victoriously, Loren faced Kenny.  He sobered
when he noticed Kenny seemingly lost in thought. 

"Problems, Kenny?" 

"Ehh? Oh, I'm sorry. Yes, a pretty serious one, I'm afraid," Kenny
replied. 

Loren lowered his sandwich, indicating that he was listening. 

"Well, it's this, Loren: After Sorrel died, Rimfurt wanted his farm.  He
kept upping the offer to widow Sorrel, but she doesn't want to sell the 
place. She said Rimfurt did the same to her husband before he was 
killed. He told him he wouldn't be responsible for what happened if he 
didn't sell.  Rimfurt's office informed me that he left town with his 
family three weeks ago, without notice.  No one knows where he is." 

Loren attempted to absorb this. All county executive officers including
were obligated to give County Clerk Rita Biscard at least a month's 
notice before an extended absence.  They were also required to inform 
her in writing on where they could be reached. 

"When did he say that to Sorrel," Loren inquired. 

"Just before Sorrel was killed." 

Loren gaped. "The guy's flipped out!" 

"Another thing, Loren, a few days ago Mrs. Sorrel received notice of
foreclosure from the county for tax delinquency.  Luckily, I located 
receipts proving all the taxes were paid.  Sorrel's county records 
showed four years of tax delinquency.  Rita can't understand it." 

"Kenny, would the county records be hard to change," Loren inquired. 

"Not for someone with authorized access. The files are loose-leaf ledger
pages in heavy binders.  Each property has a separate posting page that 
registers ten entries; two a year." 

Kenny's gave a startled gasp. "That's it!  Somebody forged Sorrel's
latest ledger!"   He calmed himself. "Loren, will you go with me to see 
Rita?" 

Taking a bite from his sandwich, Loren swallowed before answering. "I
planned to observe Decanner and Milnay being arraigned today.  But I'll 
go with you, if you'll ride to Rimfurt's with me, afterward." 

"Fine," Kenny agreed, "Let's take Billy, just in case there's trouble,"
he suggested. 

Loren looked askance. Billy was assigned to head the detail that was to
escort Decanner and Milnay to court. Afterward he was scheduled to 
continue interrogating them.  So far, claiming connections, Decanner 
was playing hard case.  Milnay, though, seemed nervous.  Loren felt 
that, if the correct emotional buttons were pushed, the cashiered vet 
would break.  That would make the Sheriff's Department look good, 
especially if Decanner's claimed connections were identified.  Loren 
wanted to be there should that happen.  He decided Thompson would head 
the arraignment detail.  The interrogations could wait for Billy's 
return. 

"Okay; Billy should be in on this," Loren decided. 

"Great!  Lunch is on me," Kenny said, exiting the booth. 

As Loren passed the register, he pointed back to the booth. "See,
Frank?," he gloated, 

"I only ate only half my sandwich.  You should try eating less, too." 
Then, with a brusque salute to the proprietor, he left. 

Chapter Ten 

The fresh ink on Sorrel's ledger page confirmed Kenny's suspicion.  Rita
explained that, beside herself, two persons had keys to the glass 
enclosed registry - Rimfurt and the deputy clerk.  But only she and 
Rimfurt had keys to the main entrance of the tax department.  She 
unlocked both doors at the start of each workday, and relocked them at 
day's end.  Six registry clerks were authorized to enter transactions 
in the ledgers.  In addition, either Rita, or the deputy clerk, or 
both, remained in the department whenever the registry was unlocked.  
Rita was adamant in her affirmation that neither she nor her clerks 
were culpable.  She promised to personally correct the error. 

"Has Rimfurt been in since Sorrel's death?"  Loren asked. 

Rita conferred with her deputy clerk.  "No he hasn't.  But that doesn't
mean anything. He could have been in during the night," she informed 
them.  Loren pocketed the counterfeit page for fingerprinting, and left 
with his friends. 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Hidden behind 
manicured hedges, Rimfurt's estate was accessed by a long, curving 
drive, rimmed by lesser hedges. 

"For a public servant, he sure likes privacy," Billy observed dryly. 

In the back seat, Kenny chuckled.  He was wealthy, but owned nothing
like this grandiose domain; a magnificent fieldstone mansion, with 
several lesser buildings, set in rolling acres of private park. A 
stream, bordered by flowering trees, rippled through it.  Cascading 
lazily down a stony glacis into an enormous, pristine pond, it resumed 
its meanders upon exiting from the other end.  A series of rock 
gardens, terraced alongside a lace-work of winding, cobblestone paths, 
were mottled by the prismatic hues of myriad flowers. Adjacent to the 
pool stood a sprawling summerhouse with lawn furniture stored inside.  
Loren noticed the floor to ceiling windows were cranked tight, while 
the door swung wide. 

Not far from the house, Billy braked the car to rubberneck. 

"What's a County Supervisor paid, anyway?" 

Kenny leaned forward.  "Not enough for . . ." 

A thundering muffler interrupted Kenny, followed by the grinding of
clashing gears.  The thunder increased until, rounding a hedge, an 
ancient jalopy  - still endeavoring to preserve its dignity as a red 
stake truck - shook itself onto the driveway.  On its passenger side, a 
loose, rusted running board waggled to misfiring of the engine. 

Billy engaged the flashers, and the rattletrap coughed to a halt, its
engine dying.  Dented doors bragged in rainbow lettering that it 
belonged to "Guido's Artistic Landscaping." 

A giant with an olive complexion descended, his head shielded by a
Panama hat, well ventilated by use.  His ebony eyes evidenced concern, 
brightening when they noticed Kenny. 

"Mr. Jarvini!" he exclaimed. 

"Hello, Guido. 

"You know each other?" Loren asked. 

"This is Guido Tonini, sheriff.  He does all our landscaping.  Don't let
the truck fool you; he's the best in his field."  A snaggletooth smile 
lifted Tonini's cheeks. 

Loren indicated his badge.  "Why are you here, Mr. Tonini?" 

"Imma alla tempo do Mista Rimfurta landa scapa.  Him hire mea fer
speciale projecta while himma and la familia go way.  Hima tella me dey 
comma back two days go.  Imma comma todays for mia moneta, bod no boddy 
home," the landscaper replied. 

"So you work here a lot?" Loren quizzed. 

Tonini's sweeping gesture embraced the skyline, climaxing with a finger
poking at his expanded chest. "Dis alla mia worka." 

"Have you seen anyone else here since the family went away?" Loren
continued. 

Taking on a somber expression, Tonini shook his head. "No, no seea  no
persona.  Bod mia seea lossa trueble!  Imma wassa goin fer da policea." 


"Why? What happened, Guido?" Kenny inquired. 

Tonini motioned for them to follow. "Comma wid mia, Mr. Jarvini;  seea
lossa trueble." 

They followed the landscaper to the house where they found ornate front
door of the house demolished.  The four garage doors yawned wide open.  
On its concrete approach a new Olds 98 and a late model Lincoln 
convertible each had broken windows.  Glass shards strewed their 
interiors and their trunk lids had been pried open. Inside the mansion, 
they found things in a chaotic state.  The contents of all the drawers, 
closets and cupboards were strewn on the floor. Rimfurt's desk and safe 
had been emptied. The contents of his file folders papered the rug of 
his den, mixed with mounds of books dumped from shelves. 

Back outside, Loren asked the landscaper, "Is it okay to search your
truck? Mr. Tonini?" 

Tonini appeared stunned by what he'd just seen; still, he managed a nod,
but all Billy found were tools. 

"You may go, sir," Loren said,  "Thanks for your cooperation." 

The boneshaker resurrected with a roar, setting Loren's teeth on edge
with the grinding of its transmission.  Then, trailing smoke and 
coughing fumes, it joggled away.  When he could hear himself speak, 
Loren noted, "Looks like someone's after Jules, so he's running." 

"Then why did he hire Guido?" Kenny asked. 

"To make it seem like he's coming back.  But I'll bet he emptied his
bank accounts." 

The radio was awakened by an urgent plea from Tadber. "Unit one, pick
up; priority code!  Unit one, pick up; priority code!" Loren complied. 

"Sheriff!  Return to headquarters; priority code!  Decanner's been
killed by a sniper!"  Tadber reported. 

Chapter Eleven 

The morning of his planned search of Rimfurt's property, the Pinstripper
had been warned off by howling, off-key renditions of Italian songs 
blaring through the hedges.  The would-be baritone had cost the 
Pinstripper valuable time.  Furthermore, the search proved fruitless.  
Then his sources reported that the State Police received a Teletype 
from the Camden, New Jersey police.  Rimfurt's wife had reported him 
missing.  His 

Cadillac was in the Greyhound bus depot, where he may have boarded a bus
for New York City.  The Pinstripper had just landed there and was now 
in a limo, heading for the Hilton. He wasn't happy and heaved sigh of 
disgust. His gunman had eliminated Decanner just as the court detail 
was leaving the lockup, but the deputies had shoved Milnay back inside. 
 Now that idiot, Rimfurt, was sure to be fingered by Milnay, who would 
implicate the Big Man - and himself, of course.  The whole ball of yarn 
was unraveling and it was up to him to roll it back up. 

"Why didn't that #@**%* shooter complete the contract and eliminate both
those @#%%*# morons?" he darkly brooded. 

Entering the Hilton lobby, he made several phone calls, endeavoring to
start the yarn rolling in the right direction by feeding Rimfurt's 
description to the grapevine.  In less than an hour, it was being 
digested by an underworld whose myriad eyes and ears Rimfurt would find 
impossible to escape.  So the Pinstripper waited. 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Decanner was 
taken out with a single shot by a sniper with a 30-caliber Army 
carbine.  Doc found that the bullet had entered in his right temple and 
lodged in his brain.  A professional shooter had fired from maximum 
range, Loren reasoned.  Such a killer wasn't apt to leave clues.  After 
he confirmed this by an investigation, his digestive acids seared his 
throat and red-hot intestinal pains plagued him. 

However, Milnay was a redeeming factor.  Convinced that his freedom
meant his death, he confessed.  He and Decanner had been hired by 
Rimfurt to bully Sorrel into selling, but the old guy wouldn't scare, 
threatening, instead, to call the sheriff.  Going to the truck, 
Decanner returned with an auger and crushed the back of Sorrel's skull. 


"Then the freak ran him over with the tractor," Milnay sobbed, "How
could I stop him?"  Roxby State Prison became his lifetime home. 

Chapter Twelve 

Alone at Frank's, Loren sat staring at the fizz in his Seltzer water. He
downed a lot of the water lately to relieve his stomach.  He didn't 
notice Paris until he spoke. 

"You okay, sir?" the deputy asked. 

"Just tired, thanks," Loren replied with a heavy sign. With a vague
gesture he invited Paris to sit. Handing his boss an envelope, Paris 
said, "I can't sir.  I came because Mrs. Baymark asked me to bring you 
this." 

Loren took the envelope and Paris left. Tearing open the envelope, the
High Sheriff noted that the message from the Camden, New Jersey police. 


"8/19/48, 11:13 A.M.  Teletype Dispatch. 

To: High Sheriff Loren Kregs, Cayuga County, New York. 

From: Lt. Peter Curelli.  Camden New Jersey Police Department. 

Ref: Your requested info, Jules Rimfurt. Mrs. Rimfurt reported her
husband missing 8/13/48, 

10:17 A.M. 

Since family strangers in Camden, search time limit waived.  Rimfurt's
48 Caddy located Greyhound lot.  Ticket agent reported Rimfurt boarded 
bus bound NYC. Caddy claimed by Mrs. Rimfurt. 

End of Teletype Message." 

Loren grimaced. The dispatch only confirmed Brenda's answers to his
questions, after she and the kids had sulked back to Collins.  When 
informed of the charges against her husband, she registered a shock so 
profound that Loren had sent for Doc. Loren's satisfaction in having 
apprehended Sorrel's killers was tempered by the fact that the real 
perpetrators still were free, not only Rimfurt, but also his bosses.  
They deserved to be with Decanner.  He mulled over the dispatch.  Oh, 
well; since Rimfurt was out of reach, he'd call his friend, FBI Agent 
Euler, in Washington.  Maybe he'd help. 

Chapter Thirteen 

His gastric problems notwithstanding, Loren was seated before a heaping
plateful of roast pork, stuffing, lemon rice, fried pan bread, and 
gravy - his favorite meal.  His fork reluctantly returned to the plate 
at the demanding summons of the phone.  Ignoring Verony's advice to let 
the blasted thing ring, he heard Euler's monotone on the other end. 

"Hello, Kregs?  Hope it's not an inconvenient time." Loren assured him
it wasn't. 

"I put feelers out on your request.  This thing is huge.  Goes to the
very top of your state, plus two others.  Something about untapped 
natural gas deposits.  The old ones are petering out, and I understand 
that powerful interests want to gain a private monopoly on all 
reserves.  The members will become billionaires. They want Rimfurt 
killed because he knows to much." 

Loren almost dropped the receiver. When he regained his voice, he
answered, "This is way beyond my jurisdiction, Euler." 

"Loren, keep what I'm about to say strictly to yourself. Because the
corruption reaches to the very top of your state's officials, the 
President and Unites States Attorney General have ordered us to step 
in.  I'll be top-dogging the investigation.  Our man in New York City 
tracked down Rimfurt.  Rimfurt told him he knows he'll be killed if he 
doesn't come in.  But he'll surrender only to you.  Will you go to New 
York to pick him up?" 

Somewhat cautiously, Loren agreed. 

"Good.  As soon as I arrange to have you flown there, I'll get back to
you," Euler concluded. 

Chapter Thirteen 

Rimfurt talked.  He pushed the first domino by fingering Deputy Governor
Joseph Lisogen, alias Mr. Stemir - the Pinstripper.  Lisogen spewed his 
 guts about party chairman, Ross Wourtrer, alias the Big Man.  
Wourtrer, in turn, implicated Governor Keserton.  Hoping to gain 
leniency, Keserton gave names, thus toppling the remaining dominos.  
When those named scurried to follow suite, the entire state 
administration collapsed, along with its political machine. 

Rimfurt testified that, while gobbling up properties rich in natural
gas, his bosses discovered utility company maps that indicated Sorrel's 
property held one of the state's richest deposits.  They ordered him to 
get it, so he hired Decanner and Milnay to pressure the old farmer.  
Instead, they killed him. 

No deals were necessary. With almost every cog squealing, the case
against the machine was foolproof.  Before long, Milnay and Rimfurt 
were put in isolation to protect them from a large contingent of newly 
arrived prisoners. 

Exercising his emergency powers, the President appointed a caretaker
administration over the state until the next election.  It was granted 
sweeping powers to root out the corrupt vestiges still remaining from 
the former regime.  Distilled through a screening process that left 
them sanitized and leanly efficient, the State Civil Service and other 
agencies were rendered clean and efficient. 

After the State Police were pressed through a similar sieve, the acting
state governor contacted Loren.  "Sheriff Loren Kregs, your efficient 
investigation and handling of this extremely unusual case, along with 
your fearless actions in toppling the corrupt former state 
administration has tremendously impressed the President and the U.S. 
Attorney General.  They both recommend that we appoint you to head the 
reorganized State Police.  Will you accept the appointment?" 

Positively flattered and about to blurt out an instant acceptance, Loren
reigned in his ego. 

"Please thank the President and Attorney General for me, but I decline. 
Tell them for me that I'm just a county sheriff, who was keeping a 
promise to a little old lady." 

-30- 

©  Josprel (Joseph Perrello) josprel@verizon.net 


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