“Please tell us more about Señor Pinky,” said Austin.
“When Señor Pinky was angry, he took it out on other people. Once, he beat me half to death for talking to the other workers about asking for more money. We worked hard, and because we did not have papers, Señor Pinky paid us very little.”
“Please go on,” said Austin. While Campos talked, Henry gently opened and closed each desk drawer, finding them all empty.
“Señor Pinky was furious after the game wardens left with all his records. That night, my friend Pedro and I heard terrible screaming coming from the house. We ran to see what was going on. When we got there, Señora Butler was outside, lying on the ground with her nose bleeding and her eye black and blue. Señor Pinky saw us trying to help her and began hitting me. Pedro told him to stop, but Señor Pinky kept it up. That’s when Pedro picked up a rake and hit Señor Pinky across the back with the handle. Señor Pinky was bent over, trying to catch his breath, when Pedro said to take Señora Butler away. I asked Pedro if he was sure. He said he was sure and we should go.”
“What happened after that?” said Austin.
“The next day, when the federal game wardens returned to arrest Señor Pinky, he and Pedro were both gone. I told them Senor Pinky must have run away to avoid being arrested. I did not mention anything about Pedro.”
“What about Pedro?” said Austin.
“I received a letter from Pedro a month later. He had gone back to Mexico.”
“Did he mention anything in the letter about what had happened to Pinky?” said Glance.
“No. Pedro said he was going to Tampico to get a job. That was the last time I heard from my friend.”
“Did they ever find Pinky?” said Austin.
“No. Señor Pinky was never seen or heard from again. I should probably not be telling you this, but I showed Señora Butler where I had seen Señor Pinky hiding his money. Señor Pinky kept his money in coffee cans, buried in the woods beside the creek. That money is what Señora Butler lived on until she could sell the farm. It took her over two years.”
“That’s quite a story,” said Henry. “Would you mind if we looked around the place?”
“I would be happy to show you anything you want to see,” said Campos, standing up and leading Austin out the door. “Turkeys were kept in the two larger buildings. The smaller one, over there, contains the turkey-plucking machine and Señor Pinky’s gigante meat grinder.”
While Campos and Austin talked outside, Henry slid a pull-out writing board out from the top-right corner of the desk and examined it for phone numbers or any other useful information. Finding nothing of interest, he pulled the board completely out and turned it over. He discovered a sheet of tablet paper taped to the underside of the board. A list of three phone numbers was handwritten in pencil on the paper. Henry jotted down the numbers and returned the shelf to its original position. Having heard Campos’s story about the federal wardens showing up unannounced several years before, Henry speculated that Pinky might have quickly pulled the shelf out and turned it over to prevent the investigators from finding the numbers.
After a cursory peek into the two turkey buildings, Campos led Glance and Austin into the smaller corrugated metal building where the plucking machine and Pinky Butler’s meat grinder were housed. “This is where all the birds were plucked and prepared,” said Campos. “These machines could pluck a bird clean in just a few minutes. We’d wrap the ducks in cellophane and stuff them inside the turkeys.”
“Pretty slick,” said Austin.
“Mr. Campos, would you mind telling us about that contraption over there,” said Henry, pointing to a massive, stainless-steel machine with a bathtub-sized hopper at the top and a series of frightening-looking blades visible through an opening in the front.
“That was Señor Pinky’s meat grinder,” said Campos. “I saw him throw chunks of turkeys, pigs, and other animals into the hopper. Nothing larger than a noodle came out the other end. Señor Pinky would laugh and say he was supplementing his turkeys’ diet with extra protein.”
“Does it still work?” said Austin.
“I don’t know,” said Campos. “The last time I heard it running was . . .”
“What were you going to say?” said Henry.
“Nothing,” said Campos. “The new owners are planning to haul it away when they tear down all the buildings. Is there anything else you gentlemen would like to see?”
“No,” said Henry. “Thanks so much for showing us around and telling us about the place. What will you do if they tear all this down?”
“I will probably go back to Mexico. Maybe I’ll go to Tampico and try to find my friend Pedro.”
“If we should ever need to get in touch with you, is there a number we could call?” said Henry.
“I will give you my brother Raul’s phone number. He is a successful businessman in Mexico City. Raul always knows where to find me. And here is the license number I promised you earlier.”
“Thanks so much,” said Henry. “Hasta la vista.”
“Adiós, mis amigos,” said Campos, waving. “Buena suerte.”
“What a nice guy,” said Henry.
“Do you think he told us everything?” said Austin.
“About what?”
“You know what.”
“Do you believe in karma, Tom?”
“That’s what I thought,” said Austin.
“How ’bout we stop in Marysville and get a sandwich?” said Henry. “I’m buying.”
While Glance and Austin sat outside a Marysville hamburger stand—Henry munching on a turkey sandwich and Tom enjoying a lumberjack burger—Austin said, “What were you doing in the office while Hector and I were talking outside?”
“I found three phone numbers I’d like to check out. One of ’em has a Biggs area code and prefix. I’m guessing the Biggs phone number and the vehicle license number Hector gave us are connected to the same person.”
“And who would that be, Sherlock?”
“Think about it, Watson,” said Henry, laughing. “It’s as plain as the mustard on your face.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Tuesday morning, November 10, 1970, Henry placed a notepad and a freshly sharpened pencil next to his phone. He then picked up the receiver and called the operator. The young warden had found area code 503 in front of the first phone number he’d discovered under the pullout shelf in Pinky Butler’s office desk. “Area code 503 covers the entire state of Oregon,” said the operator.
“What about this prefix?” said Glance, providing the first three digits he’d found next to area code 503.
“That would be Klamath Falls. If you give me the entire number, I would be happy to dial it for you.”
“Thanks so much,” said Henry, giving the operator the ten-digit number. Before Glance had thought of something to say, the phone rang once and a woman answered.
“Hello.”
“Uh, may I please speak to . . . Joe.”
“Who?”
“Joe.”
“Nobody here by that name.” The woman hung up.
Henry wrote in his notes that the first number was still in service and dialed the second number. This number contained Henry’s own area code and a recognizable Willows, California, prefix. After listening to the phone ring seven or eight times, he hung up and made a note that the number was also in service but no one had answered.
The third and final number Henry had uncovered in Pinky Butler’s desk contained a Biggs, California, prefix. Dialing the number, Henry heard the phone ring twice, followed by a recorded message: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”
Having conducted his initial investigation, Glance called his friend Lois Reed at the Butte County Sheriff’s Records Division. He provided Lois with the three phone numbers.
“I know you’
re busy,” said Henry, “but if you could put some names and addresses with those numbers, I would be eternally grateful. I also have one vehicle license number.”
“I’ll see what I can find out and call you back,” said Lois.
Twenty minutes later, Henry’s phone rang. “Hank, this is Lois. Do you have a pencil ready?”
“I do.”
“The first number is currently listed to Homer and Blanch Leadbetter, 40832 Dry Creek Road, Klamath Falls, Oregon. The second number is listed to Melvin Cobb, 5689 Pine Street, Willows, California.”
“Go ahead with the third one . . . Lois, are you still there?”
“Hank, is this the same investigation you were working on the last time I saw you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you ready for this?” Lois’s voice was now barely audible.
“I am.”
“The phone number was previously listed to Blake R. Gastineau, 39680 County Road E, Number 2, Biggs, California. The vehicle license number you gave me comes back to a 1949 Ford coupe. The car was formerly registered to Blake R. Gastineau, at the Biggs address I just gave you. Gastineau sold the car and transferred ownership on December 20, 1956.”
“Exactly one week after Norm Bettis disappeared,” mumbled Henry.
“What? I didn’t quite catch that.”
“That’s all very interesting, Lois.”
“Hank, Blake Gastineau is a very powerful man, with friends in high places. May I give you some advice?”
“Of course.”
“Be careful.”
“What makes you say that, Lois?”
“When you work in the sheriff’s office as long as I have, you hear things.”
“Lois, you sound like my mother. I’ll be careful. Thanks so much for your help and your concern.”
Mike Prescott was next on Henry’s list. The longtime Willows Patrol District warden had been on the job for thirty years and was scheduled to retire in February.
“Hi, Mike. This is Hank Glance. How does it feel to be a few months from retirement?”
“Pretty damn good, Hank. Pretty damn good. I had a lot a good years workin’ for this outfit, but I’m tired of all those phone calls in the middle of the night: ‘There’s somebody out here late shootin’ ducks.’ ‘There’s somebody spotlighting deer.’ ‘A bear keeps knocking over my garbage can.’ ‘A mountain lion’s after my goats.’ You know what I’m talkin’ about?”
“Sure do,” said Henry. “I wanted to ask about someone who lives in the Willows area.”
“Anything I can do to help.”
“Have you ever heard of a man named Melvin Cobb?”
“Hank, I can probably tell you anything you want to know about Mel Cobb. At one time, he was the biggest duck poacher in Glenn County. He got busted pretty good by the feds about thirty years ago but was back to his old tricks a year later. That’s all some of these guys know how to do—kill ducks. It’s in their blood, and I don’t think they can stop.”
“Where is Cobb now?”
“One night about twenty years ago, Mel was driving lickety-split down a canal bank. I guess he missed the turn, because they found him and his car plowed into the bank on the other side of the canal the next morning. He’s been in a wheelchair ever since, paralyzed from the neck down.”
“Well, I guess you answered my question.”
“How’s that?”
“I found his phone number hidden in the desk of a guy named Pinky Butler, who ran a turkey farm near Lincoln.”
“I remember him,” said Prescott. “Wasn’t he stuffing his turkeys with ducks and delivering ’em to customers? I was tickled to read that several upscale restaurants in the Bay Area got busted by the feds.”
“I don’t suppose you still have that article?”
“I just might. If I can find it, I’ll send it to you. Give me your mailing address, Hank.”
Encouraged by what he’d learned from Mike Prescott, Henry’s next call was to the Oregon State Police. He was told that Trooper Lance Kirby, of the Fish and Wildlife Division, was responsible for the area in and around Klamath Falls.
“I’ll have Trooper Kirby call you,” said the receptionist.
Kirby returned Glance’s call one hour later. “Are you familiar with a man named Homer Leadbetter?” said Glance.
“I haven’t heard that name mentioned in five or six years,” said Kirby. “Leadbetter has been arrested two or three times for taking overlimits of ducks. We heard rumors that he was selling ducks to someone down around Sacramento but never could corroborate it.”
At age twenty-three, Warden Glance had already perfected most of the skills necessary to be an outstanding investigator. The one skill he hadn’t yet mastered was patience. Henry couldn’t wait to question Blake Gastineau about his association with Pinky Butler. That afternoon, he put on his uniform, jumped in his patrol truck, and drove straight to Gastineau’s office.
“Mr. Gastineau, there’s a Fish and Game officer out here who would like to speak with you,” said the receptionist, over the intercom.
“What’s he want?” said Gastineau.
“He said it’s a private matter and he’d prefer to speak to you directly about it.”
“Go ahead and send him in, Glenda.”
“Aren’t you the same game warden who accosted me the other day?” said Gastineau, leaning back in his chair, lighting a cigar, and showing off the heels of his alligator-skin boots.
“I did ask you a couple questions,” said Glance.
“And I gave you my answer. I don’t know the people you mentioned, and that’s it. Is there anything else I can help you with Warden . . . what did you say your name was?”
“Glance, Warden Hank Glance.” Henry watched Gastineau write his name on a piece of paper. “Mr. Gastineau, what was your relationship with Pinky Butler and the Butler turkey farm?”
Removing his boots from the desk, Gastineau stood up, walked to his office door, and opened it. “Glenda, he said, “show Warden Glance out, and don’t let him back in unless he has a warrant.”
That afternoon, Henry was patrolling west, toward the Gray Lodge Wildlife Area, when he received a radio call from the Sacramento dispatcher.
“Two-five-three, Sacramento,” the dispatcher said.
“Two-five-three, go ahead.”
“Two-five-three, Two-five-zero requests a landline ASAP.”
“Ten-four. Two-five-three.”
His stomach churning, Henry turned his patrol truck around and made a beeline for home. He dialed Captain Odom’s number and was greeted by an angry voice in the middle of the first ring. “Hello.”
“Hi, Chuck. This is Hank. The dispatcher said you wanted to talk to me.”
“Hank, do you remember me telling you the other day that I didn’t want to receive any irate calls from the director?”
“Yes.”
“The director just spent the last fifteen minutes chewing my ass out.”
“I’m sorry, Chuck. What did he say?”
“He said he just received a call from Assemblyman Dell Kickbusch, who spent ten minutes chewing his ass about some overzealous young game warden named Hank Glance, who’s been harassing a prominent businessman in Chico.”
“I was just doing my job, Chuck.”
“Let me remind you that your job is enforcing fish and game laws, not solving fourteen-year-old murder cases. You’re a game warden, Hank, not a homicide detective.”
“But I think I’ve almost got this thing figured out.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” said Odom. “Here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna forget about this murder investigation and go back to bein’ the crackerjack game warden I know you to be. And that goes for your sidekick, Tom Austin. Yes, I heard about him too. He’s gonna hear from me as soon as I hang up the
phone. Have I made myself clear, Warden Glance?”
“Yes.”
“Good! Now go back to work.”
TWENTY-NINE
Although he didn’t show it at the time, Henry reacted to the captain’s cease-and-desist order like a spirited racehorse left kicking and neighing at the starting gate. To make matters worse, Tom Austin called twenty minutes later to say he was retiring. “Why now?” said Henry. “I thought you were gonna stay on a couple more years.”
“I was only going to stay on to help you solve the Bettis murder case. If the captain and those pinheads in Sacramento weren’t so worried about stepping on some bigshot developer’s toes, we would have done it.”
“I tried to tell that to Chuck, but he didn’t want to hear it.”
“Chuck is a good supervisor, but he’s also a company man. He quit being one of us when he pinned those bars on his collar.”
“I guess you’re right, Tom.”
“You bet I’m right. Everything boils down to money and politics. It’s great to be idealistic, but reality always bites dreamers like us in the ass.”
“Thanks for setting me straight,” said Henry, laughing. “I feel better now.”
“Glad I could help. On the brighter side, when’s the wedding?”
“Saturday, May 22, right after Anne finishes her student teaching and applies for her teaching credential. We’re counting on you and Mary being there, so please put it on your calendar.”
“I’ll do that as soon as I hang up.”
“Speaking of calendars, what’s your retirement date?”
“June 30, 1971.”
“I think that’s the same day Mike Prescott is retiring over in Willows.”
“It is. Mike and I were both hired in 1941, and it looks like we’ll go out together. He wants to have a retirement party. I’m leaving through the back door.”
“At least we have another six months to work together, unless the captain said to knock that off too.”
“He didn’t say anything about it to me.”
“Good. A storm is rolling in, and tomorrow’s a shoot day at Gray Lodge. Why don’t you meet me here at 4:30. We’ll leave your patrol car in the barn, grab a bite at Pearl’s, and spend the day working ducks.”
The Case of the Missing Game Warden Page 23