“Do you mind if I wipe the blood off my hands first?” said Riddle.
“Go ahead, and be quick about it.” After wiping his hands on a rag caked with dried blood, Riddle removed the driver’s license from his wallet and placed it on the table in front of Bettis. “That’s good. Now your hunting license and your car keys.”
“I don’t have a hunting license,” said Riddle, “and I didn’t shoot any of these ducks.”
“Shut up, Jimmy,” said Gastineau.
“Just put your car keys on the table and sit down on that bench over there,” ordered Bettis.
“I don’t have my car keys.”
“Where are they?”
“I left ’em in the car.”
“All right, go over there and sit down. Now you, Mr. Bogar.”
“I don’t have no car keys.”
“Then remove your driver’s license and place it on the table.”
“I ain’t got no driver’s license neither.”
“I think his driver’s license was suspended,” offered Riddle.
“Jimmy, I told you to shut up,” said Gastineau.
“What form of identification do you have, Mr. Bogar?”
“I got a huntin’ license and a duck stamp, but I think they’re both last year’s. This one’s got a picture of some flyin’ geese on it.”
“You’re right—that’s last year’s. Just leave what you have on the table and sit down. Mr. Gastineau, that leaves you.” Gastineau failed to respond, his eyes transfixed on the uniformed officer. “Mr. Gastineau, I’m ordering you to take out your identification and your car keys and place them on this table in front of me.”
Gastineau didn’t hear a word the warden was saying. Rising to his feet, he continued to direct his eyes in Bettis’s direction.
Shifting his attention to Bogar and Riddle, Bettis noticed that they, too, had stood up and were intently watching something directly to his rear. “Hey, I thought I told you . . . what the—”
Part two
NINE
Land between the city of Riverside and the Old West-style town of Temecula remained mostly undeveloped during the 1950s and 1960s. In the days before Riverside became the fastest-growing county in California, communities like Temecula, Murrieta, Lake Elsinore, Winchester, Perris, and San Jacinto were thought of as rural and out in the country. With lakes, farm ponds, fields, hillsides, and endless open space for Henry Glance and Larry Jansen to explore, it was like growing up in paradise.
Henry Glance and Larry Jansen met for the first time in 1955, as students in Mrs. Scott’s second-grade class. Born a few days apart, Henry and Larry were both natural athletes and shared a penchant for outdoor adventure. The two obvious differences between the boys were their sizes and their personalities: Larry was twice the size of every other kid in class, while Henry was of average height and weight for a seven-year-old. Larry was loquacious and outgoing, while Henry was quiet and shy.
With an insatiable interest in nature and gifted with a photographic memory, young Henry Glance buried himself in every book he could find about birds, mammals, reptiles, amphibians, fish, butterflies—even plants. If Henry and Larry weren’t at school or playing baseball, they were usually looking for snakes and lizards on the rocky hillsides overlooking Temecula or fishing in one of the nearby lakes. One of the most memorable events in their young lives happened on Saturday morning, April 18, 1959. Henry and Larry were soon to turn twelve and couldn’t wait to try out their newfound independence.
Henry lived with his parents, Will and Mary Glance, on a ten-acre farm two miles east of Temecula. Larry Jansen and his parents lived in town. Since the boys planned on going fishing early the next morning, Will and Mary invited their son’s best friend to spend Friday night at their home. That evening, Mary made Henry’s favorite dinner: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn fritters.
“Hey, Larry, how do you like those corn fritters?” said Henry, watching Larry finish off his third helping.
“They’re so good, I can’t stop eatin’ ’em,” said Larry.
“Eleven years old and he weighs more than I do,” mumbled Will. Hearing his father’s offhanded wisecrack, Henry burst into laughter, sending a gulp of milk up his nose.
“Henry, don’t encourage your father,” said Mary, handing her son a cloth napkin. “Larry can eat all he wants, and there’s plenty more where that came from.”
After dinner, Larry walked into the living room, flopped down on the carpet in front of the TV, and began moaning.
“Larry, are you all right?” said Mary. “Would you like something to help your stomach?”
“I’ll be okay if I can just lie here for a few minutes.” As Larry closed his eyes and began to doze off, the Glance’s golden retriever walked over and gave him a slurp across the mouth.
“Yuck,” said Larry, wiping the slobber on his shirt sleeve.
“Aw, sweet Daisy,” said Mary. “She was just trying to make you feel better.”
The sun was peeking over the San Jacinto Mountains when Henry and Larry heard a knock on the bedroom door. “You boys better get up if you’re going fishing,” said Mary.
“Okay, Mom,” said Henry, throwing a pillow across the room and hitting his houseguest in the face. “We’re up.”
As the boys walked into the kitchen, Henry asked where his father was. “He’s out feeding the chickens,” said Mary. “What would you boys like for breakfast?”
“I don’t care, Mom. Whatever Larry wants is fine with me.”
“Larry, what would you like?”
“I don’t know. What do you have?”
“We have eggs, pancakes, waffles, French toast, cereal—”
“That sounds good,” said Larry.
Henry laughed. “Mom, he’s not kidding.”
The kitchen was still in an uproar when Will walked in through the back door. “I hope you left your muddy boots out on the porch,” said Mary.
“I did. What’s everybody laughing about?”
“Sit down, and we’ll tell you. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Is the pope Catholic? Where’s the morning paper? I wanna find out how the Dodgers did last night.”
“They lost to the Cubs, nine to four,” said Henry.
“Thanks, Hank. Have you already read the paper this morning?”
“No. It says right there on top of the front page: Dodgers lose to Cubs, nine to four.”
“I was going to ask you who pitched for the Dodgers, but—”
“Stan Williams.”
“I thought you said you hadn’t read the paper.”
“I read yesterday’s paper. It said Stan Williams was going to pitch last night.”
“I’m glad we cleared that up,” said Will. “It’s so nice to have a walking encyclopedia in the family.”
“Will, how do you want your eggs?”
“Over easy. So, you boys are planning to ride your bikes all the way to Vail Lake this morning?”
“Yeah, Dad. Do you mind if I take your binoculars?”
“Go ahead, but make sure you don’t lose ’em.”
Everything the boys needed for the day’s adventure was stuffed inside their backpacks: two-piece fishing rods, reels, hooks, sinkers, bobbers, stringers, lunch, water, and a makeshift butterfly net to catch grasshoppers if they ran out of worms. With that, Henry and Larry climbed on their bikes. Henry would ride the same twenty-six-inch Schwinn Spitfire he’d been pedaling back and forth to school since he was eight. Larry’s transportation for the day was a three-speed Raleigh he inherited from his older brother, Ron.
“You boys be careful now,” said Mary, waving goodbye.
“We will,” said Henry, looking back and seeing Daisy running alongside. “Mom, would you call Daisy?”
“Daisy, you can’t go, sweetheart.”
>
The plan was to pedal four miles to Vail Lake by way of the back roads. Once there, Henry and Larry would hide their bikes in the bushes and walk a narrow trail to their secret fishing spot. If everything went well and the fish were biting, the boys would return before dark with a couple of nice bullhead catfish and a stringer of bluegill.
“Did you remember to bring the nightcrawlers?” said Henry, doing his best to keep up with his speedier sidekick.
“I did. What did your mom make us for lunch?”
“Don’t worry, you aren’t gonna starve.”
“Did she include those cookies I saw on the counter?”
“I don’t know. I was doing my chores while Mom made our lunch.”
“I hope she did.”
The boys were halfway to their destination when they stopped to rest at the top of a hill. While taking a healthy slug of water from his canteen, Larry couldn’t help noticing a slow-moving car approaching the intersection below. “Hey, that’s a fifty-six Chevy, just like my brother’s, except Ron’s is cherry red and that one’s gray.”
“Is Ron’s jacked up in back like that?”
“No, but it’s got this neat little steering wheel and a piston for a gearshift knob.”
The car below turned right at the intersection, cruised another fifty yards in the same direction the boys were headed, and came to a sudden stop at the side of the road.
“I wonder what they stopped for,” said Larry.
“Let’s find out,” said Henry, reaching into his backpack for his father’s binoculars.
“I forgot you had those.”
“Yeah, I brought ’em along in case we see an eagle or something.”
“What do you see?”
“On the other side of the fence, there’s a pair of honkers and eight or ten little goslings.”
“Can I look?”
“Here, they’re lined up along the bank of that irrigation ditch, just beyond the car.”
“I see ’em now. Wait a minute, there’s something sticking out the car window.”
BOOM!
“Quick, let me have the binoculars,” said Henry. “They just shot that big gander. See him flopping around in the pasture?”
“What happened to the goslings?”
“The hen is swimming downstream in the ditch, and they’re right behind her.”
“Hank, they’re getting out of the car.”
“I see ’em. It looks like they’re gonna climb the fence and go after that goose. The short guy is crawling under the fence, and the taller guy is stepping over it. Wait a minute, the short guy just tore the back of his shirt, and he’s yellin’ at the other guy to come and help him.”
“Unbelievable!” said Larry. “I see a house and a barn just up the road.”
“Here, take these binoculars and my backpack.”
“Where ya goin?”
“You’ll see.”
Larry watched his friend coast down the hill as the two goose poachers ignored the no-trespassing signs and began chasing the wounded goose across the field. Reaching the poachers’ car, Henry laid his bike on the pavement and peered through the driver’s open window. Seeing that the keys were still in the ignition, he reached in, took the keys, and placed them in his pocket.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” shouted the driver.
When Larry saw the two poachers running back to their car, he tossed the backpacks aside and dashed down the hill to help his friend.
“If that kid did anything to my car, I’m gonna kick his ass,” said the driver, a short, stocky, twenty-plus-year-old with a flattop haircut.
As the two goose poachers approached the fence, Henry reached into his pocket, grabbed the keys in his left hand, and tossed them into the weeds on the opposite side of the road.
“Chuck, the kid took your keys,” shouted the shooter, about the same age as his partner and wearing a grease-stained, foam-rubber baseball cap.
“Ray, now my pants are hooked on the fence. I need your help.”
“Why didn’t you crawl under, like you did before?”
“Why don’t you shut up and give me a hand here.”
“Did you hear me say the kid took your keys?”
“I heard ya. Be careful you don’t tear my pants. Ouch! Now look what you’ve done.”
“I’m right here, Hank,” said Larry, dropping his bicycle on the pavement and running to Henry’s side.
“All right, you miserable little punks,” said Chuck, “hand over the keys.”
“Little punks?” said Larry, supercharged with adrenaline after his dash down the hill. “You’re the one who’s a punk. My friend and I are bigger than you and we’re only eleven years old.”
Henry nudged Larry with his elbow.
“How would you like a smack in the mouth?” said Chuck, doubling his fist. “If I don’t get those keys back in two minutes, you’re gonna get one.”
“I had your keys in my pocket a minute ago,” said Henry. “They musta fallen out here on the ground somewhere.”
“He’s lying,” said Ray, searching the immediate area around the car. “That kid knows where the keys are.”
“You guys are in big trouble for shooting that goose,” said Henry.
“I tell you what,” said Chuck, dropping to his knees and searching under the car, “Ray will give you each a dollar if you show us where the keys are.”
“How ’bout we show the game warden where the keys are instead?” said Henry. “Here he comes now.”
“The kid’s right,” said Ray. “I think we’re screwed.”
“You just keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking,” said Chuck, coming to his feet. “Who’s he gonna believe, us or these two kids?”
“Looks like there’s someone following him in a pickup,” said Larry. “I bet it’s the farmer who owns this property.”
The Fish and Game patrol car came to a stop directly in front of the poachers’ 1956 Chevy. Right behind the warden was a gray Ford pickup with two bales of hay in back. “This is where the shot came from, Ned,” said landowner Lester Tibbets, climbing from the cab of his pickup and running up to meet the officer.
Warden Ned McCullough had been around the mountain a few times and preferred to take his time and size up the situation before charging in. He grabbed his Stetson from the front seat and covered his neatly combed gray hair.
“Just last week, I found one of my mouflons right out there, shot in the head,” said Tibbets. “When I heard a shot this morning, I called your dispatcher right away. Luckily for me, you were in the area.”
Henry and Larry had never encountered a real game warden before and were immediately impressed with McCullough’s stately appearance in the standard field uniform of the day: work boots, khaki pants, and a short-sleeved khaki shirt with a star-shaped badge pinned just above the left pocket. Holstered at his right hip was a .38-caliber Smith and Wesson revolver. A blue-and-gold patch reading RESOURCES AGENCY—CALIFORNIA DEPARTMENT FISH & GAME was stitched to McCullough’s left shoulder.
Warden McCullough checked out the poachers’ Chevy sedan, making sure there were no other people inside. He noticed a double-barreled .410 shotgun lying across the front seat and a bolt-action .22 rifle on the floorboard in back. Opening the passenger door, McCullough picked up the shotgun, broke open the breech, and removed two shotgun shells—one expended and one live. He laid the shotgun across the hood of his patrol car, with the breech still open. The .22 rifle held a clip containing live rounds, but the firing chamber was empty.
Walking over to the four individuals standing at the rear of the poachers’ car, McCullough noticed two bicycles lying on their sides in the middle of the road. “Let me take a stab at this,” he said. “The bikes belong to you two boys, and you gentlemen are connected to this car in some way.”
; “The car belongs to me,” said Chuck, later identified as Charles Sloan, a steelworker out of Fontana.
“And the shotgun?” said McCullough. “Who does it belong to?”
“The shotgun’s mine,” said Ray, later identified as Raymond Beacham, “but I ain’t shot no mouflon, whatever that is.” Beacham was also a laborer at the Fontana steel mill.
“It’s a sheep,” said Tibbets.
“Well, I ain’t shot no sheep neither.”
“What did you shoot?” said McCullough.
Beacham started to answer, when Sloan interrupted. “He shot at a ground squirrel, but he missed.”
“Yeah,” said Beacham, “I shot at a ground squirrel.”
Henry and Larry had watched the entire episode without saying a word. They figured the warden would get to the bottom of the situation and the poachers would eventually confess to their deed. It soon became clear that Sloan and Beacham were consummate liars, intent on telling one whopper after another until the warden gave up and sent them on their way.
“Excuse me,” said Henry, walking up to the warden and examining the gold name tag pinned above his left pocket. “Warden McCullo?”
“It’s McCullough,” said the warden.
“Like Flint McCullough on Wagon Train?” said Larry.
“That’s right, except I’m better looking than Robert Horton.”
“What the hell?” quipped Sloan. “If you’re gonna stand around here talking about TV shows, me and Ray would like to leave.”
“Warden McCullough, Larry and I saw the whole thing from the top of that hill up there.”
“What’s your name, son?”
“My name is Henry Glance, but everybody, except my mom, calls me Hank.”
“Well, Hank, tell me what you saw.”
“There was this family of Canada geese standing on the edge of that ditch over there.” Henry pointed toward the bank of a narrow irrigation flume that ran the length of the pasture.
“How many geese were there?”
“At least eight or ten: a hen, a gander, and several goslings.”
“You seem to know something about geese,” said McCullough, smiling.
The Case of the Missing Game Warden Page 6