“I’d forgotten that Pearl’s was Norm’s favorite place to eat. He insisted on going there for breakfast every time I came down to work ducks.”
“This is getting spookier all the time,” said Henry. “Larry and I were finishing our hamburgers when I asked the waitress if she’d mind my asking her a question.”
“What did this waitress look like?”
“I remember her being in good shape for a woman in her early fifties, if that’s what you mean.”
“That had to be Pearl. It wasn’t just the food that Norm liked about that place. Anyway, wha’d ya ask her?”
“I asked if she knew anything about the game warden who had disappeared ten or eleven years before.”
“And?”
“She didn’t say anything at first. In fact, she almost dropped the stack of plates she was carrying. I remember this old man sitting at the bar choking on his coffee and spraying it all over the counter. After regaining her composure, Pearl wanted to know why I would ask such a thing.”
“Wha’d you tell her?”
“I told her we had heard the story and were curious if anyone had ever found out what happened to the game warden. She told me that Norm, as she called him, had disappeared on December 13, 1956. She remembered him racing across the driveway where my car was parked. The old man sitting at the bar said it was raining like hell that day.”
“Did they tell you anything else?”
“I asked if she had any ideas about what might have happened to the warden. That’s when the old man at the bar started grumbling and making noises. Pearl told him to keep quiet and mind his own business. She said she had her own theories but thought it best to keep them to herself.”
“Ya know, that investigation continued for over a year before they finally gave up,” said Austin. “The sheriff’s department, state police, Fish and Game, . . . I think even the FBI was involved at one time or another. I wonder if anyone bothered to interview Pearl.”
“If they did, she didn’t say anything about it to me.”
“Did she tell you anything else?”
“I asked her if the warden who disappeared had been married. She said he was and his wife still lived in the same little house at the end of town.”
“That would be Martha. I need to go by and see how she’s doing. What about the old guy? Did he say anything else?”
“Yes. Larry and I were walking out the restaurant door when the old man said, ‘I hope they catch the dirty sonsabitches that done old Norm in.’”
After a long day of counting trout and checking fishing licenses, Tom Austin dropped Henry off at Mrs. Iverson’s house. “Well, good luck with your finals,” said Austin. “Not that you’ll need any. Be sure to call me as soon as you hear from Sacramento.”
“I will,” said Henry. “I’m trying not to think about it too much because I don’t want to jinx it.”
“If they assign you the Gridley position, you and I are gonna have adjoining patrol districts. That means we can work on the Bettis murder investigation together.”
“Is it still considered an investigation after thirteen years?”
“Murder investigations are never over until they’re solved. I have a feeling with your brain and my experience, we have a good chance of finally cracking the case.”
“I hope you’re right, Tom.”
“You bet I’m right, but we have to do it in the next three years.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because that’s when I park my patrol car at the Sacramento office, turn in my badge, and spend the rest of my life fly-fishing in those mountains up there.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I hear. Thanks for everything, Tom. See you soon.”
Monday morning, April 28, 1969, at 8:35, Henry had just walked out the door of Mrs. Iverson’s basement when he heard the phone ringing in the hallway.
“Hello,” said Brad Foster. “Who is it you want to talk to? He just walked out the door. Just a minute, I’ll see if I can catch him.” Seconds later, the door at the head of the hallway flew open and Henry came running down the stairs.
“Is it for me?”
“Here he is,” said Foster, handing Henry the phone.
“Hello,” said Henry, catching his breath.
“Is this Henry Glance?”
“Yes, it is.”
“This is Lloyd Frailey, at Fish and Game headquarters, in Sacramento.”
“Yes, Mr. Frailey?”
“Are you still interested in becoming a Fish and Game warden?”
“Absolutely!”
“Well, young man, it looks like we’ve got a position for you in Gridley. How does that suit you?”
“Are you kidding? When do I start?”
“First you’re gonna have to go through the law enforcement academy down in Riverside. The next cycle begins the first of June.”
Later that day, Henry caught Anne coming out of her last class. Together, they walked past the bookstore to the nearby amphitheater. The stage of the amphitheater was on one side of Chico Creek and the seats were on the other. Henry and Anne sat in the top row so they could watch the stream flow by.
“What would you like to hear first,” said Henry, “the good news or the bad news?”
“Tell me the bad news first,” said Anne. “Let’s get it out of the way.”
“The bad news is I’m going to be attending the law enforcement academy in Riverside for two and a half months, beginning the first of June. The good news is I got the Gridley warden’s position.”
“Henry, that’s wonderful!” said Anne, kissing Henry and giving him a big hug.
“Since you and Sara will be working at the state park again this summer, you won’t even miss me.”
“Of course I’ll miss you, Henry. I’ll miss you more than you know.” Distracted by a school of spring-run salmon swimming upstream, Henry didn’t respond. “Henry, here I am pouring my heart out to you and you’re paying more attention to those fish.”
Henry laughed. “I’m sorry, Anne. I’ll think about you every day while I’m learning about search and seizure and running up Mount Rubidoux.”
Henry graduated from Chico State at the end of May 1969. Before leaving for Riverside, he and the men of Mrs. Iverson’s pit met at Denny’s for the last time. While sitting around their corner table, everyone discussed his future plans. Dennis D’Agostino would marry his girlfriend, move to Sacramento, and work as an accountant. Brad Foster was waiting to hear from Glenn County about a deputy sheriff’s position. Gary Lytle had made up his mind to move to Montana and take over his father’s outfitting and guide-service business. Larry Jansen’s dream of becoming a major-league baseball catcher hadn’t worked out; he would settle for a job teaching PE and coaching baseball in Lake Elsinore.
As for Henry, he would spend the next two and a half months down on Box Springs Road in Riverside. After completing his required law-enforcement training, he would return to Northern California and begin what was to be the greatest adventure of his life.
TWENTY-ONE
Henry breezed through the academy, finishing first in a class of thirty Riverside County sheriff’s deputies, eight City of Riverside police officers, two Inglewood police officers, six Corona police officers, and four California Fish and Game wardens. With two weeks off at the end of August 1969, he had time to find a place to live and get reacquainted with Anne. Anne was beginning her senior year at Chico State. She would spend another year student teaching before being eligible for her teaching credential.
A rundown farmhouse northwest of Gridley would serve Henry well for the time being. The rent was cheap, and the neighbors were quiet. Soon after moving in, Henry noticed two older-model pickups driving by the house at odd hours of the day and night. Determined to prevent any would-be outlaws from learning his work routine, he parked his patrol tr
uck in the barn when he was off duty and did his best to work unpredictable hours.
The first major event on Warden Glance’s rookie-year calendar was the September 1, 1969, dove opener. Most of the valley wardens in Chuck Odom’s captain’s squad planned to work the foothills west of Orland and Willows, where a healthy crop of turkey mullein was attracting record numbers of mourning doves. As Willows warden Mike Prescott put it, “If a cold snap doesn’t chase the birds south a week before the opener, those dove hunters are gonna have a field day.”
Young Warden Glance had spent the last week of August scouting his own valley district for potential hotspots. Late Sunday afternoon, August 31, he hit avian pay dirt. “I’ve never seen so many doves,” Henry told Anne over the telephone. “They were flying in and out of that harvested safflower field like a swarm of bees.”
“Do the hunters know about it?” said Anne.
“I suspect some of ’em do. You can’t keep something like that a secret for long. I found a good place to hide my truck back in the trees, along Butte Creek. I’m gonna be there before daylight tomorrow morning and see who shows up.”
“Henry, you be careful. One of my cousins was hit in the eye with a shotgun pellet on opening day of dove season a couple years ago.”
“I’ll be careful, Anne. How are your classes going? Did you get the ones you wanted?”
“My classes are going well, Henry. I’m looking forward to seeing you on Wednesday, when you come up for the barbeque.”
Pushing the screen door open with his boot and stepping out onto the rickety, wooden front porch, Henry carefully placed his cereal bowl, a banana, and a glass of orange juice on a wooden table built by the farm’s original owner in 1938. It was 4:30 a.m. when the neighbor’s prize-winning Rhode Island red cut loose with a series of cock-a-doodle-doos and the lights came on in Glenn Darby’s barn down the road. Serenaded by the bellowing of hungry cows waiting to be milked, Henry reveled in the cool morning breeze that flowed from the nearby alfalfa field. He finished his Cheerios just in time to greet Darby’s black Lab as she pranced up the porch steps with her tail wagging. “Hello, Molly,” said Henry, patting his canine friend on the head and stroking her silky-smooth ears. “No time to throw the ball this morning, so I’ll get you a dog biscuit and send you back home.”
Long before the sun came up on opening morning, Warden Glance’s patrol truck was tucked behind a row of mature cottonwoods, east of the Butte Creek levee. With binoculars in hand and a look of exhilaration on his face, Henry was hiding next to a cement irrigation outflow pipe, a quarter mile from the harvested safflower field he had described to Anne the night before.
Official shooting time was 6:06 a.m. At 6:01, three newer-model pickups entered the field, drove past Henry’s hidden position, and stopped. Glance removed a notepad from his shirt pocket and recorded descriptions of each truck: a white-over-lime-green Chevy, a black Ford, and a red Dodge. As Henry watched and listened, six dove hunters climbed from the pickups, loaded their shotguns, and fanned out across the field, fifty yards apart. By 6:30, the morning temperature had risen to seventy degrees.
Henry sat and listened to the characteristic whistle of dove wings as the evasive birds zipped and darted in and out of harm’s way. A barrage of shotgun blasts had begun at 6:43, reached a crescendo by 8:00, and subsided by 10:30. He listened to the hunters laughing and shouting back and forth as they retrieved whatever birds they could find and returned to their respective pickups.
Minutes later, Henry’s attention was diverted to two elderly hunters who’d come walking down the levee road in his direction. “How’d you fellas do?” said Glance, stepping from his hiding place behind the cement water pipe.
“We each shot six or seven birds,” said the taller of the two gentlemen. “We didn’t do nearly as well as that bunch out in the safflower field. That one guy must have dropped nineteen or twenty doves. I don’t think he found half of ’em.”
“There they go now, in those three pickups,” said the second hunter. “They’ll be back this afternoon. You can bet on it.”
After counting the elderly hunters’ doves and examining their hunting licenses, Henry questioned his earlier decision. Why didn’t I go over and check out those hunters in the safflower field before they left? They may come back this afternoon, but I have no way of knowing how many birds they killed this morning.
It was almost noon when Glance raced back home, parked his patrol truck in the barn, and closed the wooden doors behind him. He climbed the back stairs and entered the spacious farmhouse kitchen. Tromping across the linoleum floor, Henry continued down the hallway and entered the largest of three bedrooms.
Tossing his gun belt on the bed, Henry quickly changed from his uniform into OP shorts, a gray T-shirt, and leather sandals. Washing down a peanut butter sandwich with a glass of ice-cold well water, he grabbed the keys to his VW Beetle and ran out the back door.
It took Henry ten minutes to reach Highway 99, head south, and arrive at the only motel in town: a twelve-unit, single-story establishment called the Peach Blossom Inn. Parked on the opposite side of the highway, Henry recognized two of the three pickups he was looking for. The white-over-lime-green Chevy and the black Ford were parked near the far north end of the motel. The parking space next to them was empty. Hearing laughter, he directed his attention to a wooden gazebo in the middle of the lawn out front. Four thirty-plus-year-old men were sitting around a table, eating sandwiches and drinking beer. With an industrial-sized Rain Bird sprinkler operating back and forth across the lawn, Henry found it difficult to make out what the motel guests were saying.
“I had a hunch you guys would be here,” Henry said to himself as he drove across the highway and up the gravel driveway to the office. A bell jingled overhead as he stepped inside and walked up to the desk.
“Sorry, we’re full up,” came a female voice from the living quarters in back.
“I wanted to ask a question,” said Henry.
“Just a minute,” she said, turning down the TV. “How can I help you?”
“I have a large group of friends coming up from the Bay Area tomorrow, and I was wondering if any of the rooms near the north end of the motel will be available. My friends like to stay at that end because it’s quieter.”
“Let’s see,” said the clerk, examining the registration book. “Depending on how fast our cleaning lady works, the three rooms on the end should be available after four o’clock. Normally they’d be available after three o’clock, but the gentlemen in those rooms have requested a one o’clock checkout.”
“Thank you very much,” said Henry. “I’ll take one of your cards and have my friends call to make a reservation.” Stepping outside, Henry noticed that the red Dodge pickup had returned and two more men were walking across the lawn toward the gazebo, each carrying a six-pack of beer and a bag of groceries. Henry drove out of the motel parking lot the opposite way he’d come in so he could discretely record the license numbers of the hunters’ pickups. Two of the registered owners were from Concord, California, the other from nearby Walnut Creek.
Warden Glance was sitting in his hiding place behind the irrigation pipe, when the same three pickups returned to the safflower field that afternoon. By 4:30, the doves had begun flying back and forth across the field, and by 6:00, it sounded like a war zone. Henry watched as one bird after another folded its wings and tumbled to the ground. The last bird of the evening was killed at 7:45 p.m.—ten minutes after legal shooting time. When all three pickups had left the scene, Henry drove out to the county road and headed home.
Tom Austin’s phone rang at 9:10 p.m. “Hello.”
“Hi, Tom. This is Hank. How did your day go?”
“It was actually kinda slow for an opener. How ’bout you?”
“I have a group of six hunters from the Bay Area I’d like to talk to you about.”
“Are they the ones you
ran the radio check on?”
“Yes. They slaughtered the doves this morning and again this evening. They’re staying at the Peach Blossom Motel on Highway 99, and they asked for a late checkout tomorrow afternoon, so—”
“They’re planning on hunting in the morning before they head home,” interrupted Austin.
“Exactly. They keep their ice chests in the motel rooms, so I’m thinking about hitting them just after they load up and are ready to leave. Since there’s three vehicles and six hunters, I was hoping you’d be available to come down and give me a hand.”
“What time do you want me there, Hank?”
“I’m gonna be watching these guys again in the morning. As soon as they leave the field and head back to the motel, I’ll radio you. How ’bout meeting me across from the cemetery at the north end of town and we go from there?”
“Sounds good. I’ll make sure to be on your end of the valley in the morning.”
Henry radioed Austin Tuesday morning at 10:45. After meeting Glance across from the cemetery at 11:40, Austin followed Henry south on Highway 99. The two wardens passed through downtown Gridley before turning east for two blocks, turning south for three more blocks, and turning west again, toward the highway. Fifty yards from Highway 99, Henry stopped on the south side of the road, in front of a weed-strewn vacant lot. While Austin waited in his patrol car, Henry ran across the lot to the rear of a boarded-up auto repair shop. Able to clearly see the north end of the motel from his hidden vantage point, Henry watched until the hunters had finished loading their pickups and were preparing to leave.
At 12:45, Henry signaled for Austin to move in. Austin raced across the highway and entered the motel parking lot from the north end, just as the white-over-lime-green Chevy pickup and the red Dodge pickup were backing out of their parking spaces. The black Ford pickup had pulled away a few seconds earlier and was driving past the office and out to the highway when Henry entered from the south side and met it head-on. Henry climbed from his patrol truck and walked up to the driver’s window. “Would you gentlemen please park over there next to your friends. We’d like to check your birds and your hunting licenses before you leave.”
The Case of the Missing Game Warden Page 16