Around four o’clock, Darnel Stone was dropping Judge Bodner off at his afternoon stand – number 12. This one was three down from #15 where he’d hunted that morning. Number 12 sat closer to the road.
Lowering the passenger window as Bodner neared the top of the stairs, Darnel shouted, “I’ll be back to pick you up at good dark Judge.” Bodner waved his concurrence.
Three predators were on the optional list at the Lodge – foxes, coyotes and wildcats. The first two might be seen but the third was more rare and a real prize. Scott had a big Tom mounted at the Lodge. The pose was unusual and the expression super life-like. Of course, all work done by Franklin County’s Sparky Mills was first rate.
Things began within an hour of the Judge taking his seat. He’d lowered the window panels, loaded his rifle and settled back to watch. Shuffling one after the other, what looked like two boars were being followed by three smaller females and a passel of squeakers. They emerged from the woods across the field on the other side of River Bottom Road and headed straight for a pile of corn in the middle of the road about fifty yards north of Bodner’s stand. They were trotting nose to tail, almost like the leader was following a line on the ground. Two of the sows were wet.
Bodner picked up his BAR 308 and found the jostling pack in his scope. They were all over one another at the pile of corn. Both boars were behind sows and the young when he snapped the safety off.
Alright now....just give me a little room….move ladies….get those babies out of the way….just a little more space between you…that’s it.
The 308 ripped the still air and the largest black hog dropped in its tracks. There was only one desperate series of kicks with its right legs, turning the boar in almost a full circle on its right side. A few ran toward the river, while one of the females headed back across the field, followed by the majority of the scampering young.
He whispered only two words, “Alright now!”
It was no more than fifteen minutes before the magnificent black and gold colors came out of the trees on the river side of the road. Bodner hadn’t even replaced the spent cartridge in his rifle. Nor had he rushed down to the boar; it clearly wasn’t going anywhere. Lying where it fell, the hog’s blood had hit the bobcat’s olfactory radar.
Elvin eased the rifle down on the bottom of the right side window opening.
Can you believe this? Can… you…believe…this?
The wildcat was pulling at the boar’s hind quarter when Bodner squeezed off his second shot in less than twenty minutes. This time the target stayed on its feet, spinning twice to its left, before running into the woods north of the stand. Later Elvin would discover the cat ran no more than thirty feet into the thickest brush. The shot was several inches low, but had done the job.
The Judge knew the boar he’d shot was a good one. He just didn’t know how good until they got the animal back to the processing building. It weighed right at three hundred ninety pounds, not a new record but a good boar in anyone’s book.
Swicegood and Marks couldn’t resist pointing out to the Judge, that the afternoon’s first shot from the 308 had downed more meat than his past two bucks combined.
25 Halftime Awards
Friday, April 16, 2010 8:00 PM
Around the dinner table that evening the discussion was all about the hits and near misses, as well as the fact that every kill had come near the Turtle River.
Both Randall and Ray Evans got one, each in the one hundred fifty pound range. Carroll Swicegood’s hog was a little smaller, coming in at just over ninety pounds and Randy Evans killed a mid-sized female that was obviously still nursing a litter. That’s a real “no-no” around Brantley Lodge, as it is with all outfitters, regardless of the game. Randall was very apologetic, as was his son, following ten minutes on the front porch with his embarrassed, agitated father.
After their meal, Carroll, Elvin and Myron were having a piece of pie at the sixteen-foot dining room table, when Butch walked in.
“You guys okay? Need anything?”
“Just couldn’t be better Butch,” answered Judge Bodner. The other two signaled their agreement.
“Your Honor…. a big porker and a fantastic wildcat in short order this afternoon – you’re setting quite a pace for these other guys to follow.”
“I got a lot of catching up to do. I’m happy to just get off to a right good start Butch.”
“Judge, Scott and I would like to do something, with your permission of course.
“Look out now. That intro sounds a little like some defense attorney trying to set me up.”
“Oh, no, no Judge nothing shifty going on here,” replied Butch with a slight blush.
“We don’t just number our stands, we often name them. I mean we’ve got all the stands numbered on our maps and in our tracking notes, but we also give our stands names. Of course, this is often based on long time patronage of the Lodge, but we’ve started naming them for the shooter who gets the first really nice deer or hog out of a new stand. Where you were today is going to be #12 in our records, but we’d like to put one of our little 3” x 4” brass plaques above the door with your name on it. As far as Scott and I are concerned, today’s results justify it.”
Swicegood and Marks joined in with applause and a round or two of “Hear, Hear!”
“That’s awfully nice Butch, but what about these two gentlemen; they’ve hunted with you far more than I have.”
“I kinda thought you’d probably say that. They are both up to get their name on one of those new stands this year.”
“Okay, I’m honored and thanks again,” said Bodner, offering a firm, appreciative handshake.
26 Taking Care of Carla
Friday, April 16, 2010 9:50 PM
Over the past two months, the situation for Carla Bayliss became increasingly intolerable. She was growing angrier with Raskin’s bullying ways. He was more secretive than ever and dismissive of her concerns. He would be gone all day, well into the night with never a word of explanation or consideration for her feelings or her home life.
Carla’s judgment was quickly overruling her fading personal feelings for Millard Raskin. Aiding and abetting a fugitive, an accomplice to murder, she didn’t know the specifics of the law, but she knew enough to know her situation was risky, very risky at best.
Perhaps if he were capable of genuine feelings, perhaps if he had been able to understand more of why she was willing to help, perhaps if he were more human, things could be different. But now she felt only resentment and anger toward the man.
“You saw my beer around here? I left it settin’ in here somewhere,” said Raskin as he walked in from the car. He’d turned the trunk into his own private storage cabinet, which he kept locked at all times.
“No, I ain’t seen ya damn beer!”
“Why are you talkin’ so uppity to me Carla? You got to where you do that a lot lately, and I don’t like it,” snapped Raskin, before taking a large swig from the bottle he’d found on the counter by the refrigerator.
Carla spun quickly at the sink. “Millard, I don’t care anymore what you like or don’t like. This is my house and I’ll talk any way I please. If you don’t like it, you can get the hell out of here!”
Not unlike that horrible instant with his daughter in the kitchen, Cash Raskin’s rage consumed him. The second blow with the bottle was to Carla’s right temple, knocking her into the table leg. Blows three and four did brutal damage before the glass shattered with lick number five.
A slight moan prompted the killer to take a knife from the wooden display block and plunge it once into Carla’s neck and again into her chest. The blade broke off at the handle or other strikes would surely have come. It was the second time she’d suggested Cash Raskin leave her house, and it would be her last.
He pulled the slip cover from the couch, wrapped the upper part of her body and placed it in the trunk of the car. The six-foot wooden fence around the small backyard encouraged Raskin’s belief that this could
be accomplished without anyone taking notice.
Before leaving, he walked back into the house and grabbed a pile of clean clothes off the bedroom chair. He always insisted Carla keep a change of clothes washed and ready.
How could she have ever expected anything else when my clothes laid there every day ready for a quick getaway, thought Raskin, smiling and shaking his head as he walked back outside to the car.
He had to get on the move. He had things to do and a schedule to meet.
Although there wasn’t a body, the extensive blood loss indicated someone must have died there. The DNA confirmed the victim to be Carla Jean Bayliss. Her remains were found the next morning in a culvert on the north side of Sturn County.
In addition to the victim’s identity, the killer’s name would soon be known to authorities – when the letter Carla had mailed that morning was delivered.
27 The Scene at Stand #12
Saturday, April 17, 2010 4:45 PM
For Doctor Myron Marks, Saturday morning in the stand turned out just like Friday. Nothing was moving. Twice he fell asleep resting his head on the shelf under the front window. The only break in the AM doldrums was the repeated flights of a large Red-Tailed Hawk that was hunting the field across the road. The bird worked out of a pin oak tree at the edge of the woods, swooping down on unsuspecting prey. Most of the time, the remarkable predator would mantle the victim with its wings, choosing to eat the rodent where it was killed. About every third success, the prize was transported back to the perch.
Again, everyone had pretty much the same report at lunch. Things were slow. And now the retired dentist’s afternoon hunt wasn’t starting off any better. For a while, he used the binoculars to follow three does. A group of five turkeys crossed the road to Myron’s left and a squirrel played in a tree near the front of the stand.
“You better be glad you weren’t playing on the other side of the road this morning little fella,” whispered Marks, thinking of the persistent hawk’s dining forays earlier in the day.
That was about it until almost dark, when his only target of the trip came up off the Turtle River and stopped on the side of River Bottom Road. The hog was to Marks’ left, about thirty-five yards south of stand #10. It was a large rust-colored hog, with muted black spots.
Look at the coloration on that big boy. He’d make a nice mount for the downstairs game room.
Marks wasn’t sure if it was larger than the last one he’d taken at Brantley Lodge, but it looked as though it just might be. He pushed the muzzle of the Remington 7mm08 out the left side of the cabin and rested the forend on the bottom of the window frame. Now he was ready to draw the line from his eye, through the Nikon scope directly into the shoulder of the hog. Darkness was coming and the view was growing hazy.
The shot found its mark. Although he was aiming just a little lower, the bullet hit the shoulder where the distinctive thud always confirms solid contact. Unlike the animal taken the previous afternoon by Judge Bodner, this hog hesitated, shuttering for a moment before striking out across the road and into the field. The brushy undergrowth seemed to swallow his prize after its first few strides.
Is it down…think so...didn’t see it come out on the other side of the field…better get down there pretty quick.
Blood clearly indicated where the hog was standing when the slug found its shoulder. Following the disturbed ground cover into the field was no problem. Three more traces of blood led directly to where the boar went down.
“Oh yeah,” said Marks, as he knelt and patted the hog on the shoulder. “You’re every bit as big as your cousin I got last year.”
Marks stood and adjusted the sling on his right shoulder. That’s when he saw someone in the haze, someone standing at the edge of the woods on the Turtle River side of the road. The fading light said it might well be his imagination, some sort of mirage, but Myron Marks’ binoculars refuted any such notion, catching the figure just as it re-entered the trees. There was no question; someone was there, just south of stand #12.
In the next five minutes, Dr. Marks saw the headlight beams as the Lodge vehicle worked its way north. He knew Gary McAdams was in #8 and Randall Evans was in #9, not far south of where he was waiting. The Judge was in the newly-named “Elvin Bodner Stand” (#12), the next stand north on the right. Myron thought it was Randall Evans who had taken a shot shortly before he fired. There was a possibility the current record holder might have a hog. He was right.
The Chevrolet dually had a frontend lift to pick up deer or hogs and transport them back to the processing building. With Randall Evans’ hog already on board, it took some rearranging to get both animals securely loaded and lifted into the air. Dark had fully fallen before Darnel Stone, Randall Evans, Gary McAdams and Myron Marks were rolling toward the Elvin Bodner Stand.
Number 12 sat back ten feet from the road, just outside the tree line. Only Darnel knew just where to look in order to catch the first glimpse. He eased up on the accelerator as the scene came into focus. Stopping further away than his passengers expected, Stone put the powerful hand light out the window and engaged the halogen beam. The scene was puzzling, even unnatural.
A rifle was sticking out of the ground a few feet in front of #12. A flashlight was in its final moments of life lying near the stand’s left front strut.
“You guys wait here please,” said Darnel, as he got out and pushed the driver’s door to. He took several steps toward the woods to see the rear side of the cabin and the back platform. The door was half open. Not a word was being spoken in the truck, as Darnel approached the rifle. Something told him not to touch the weapon. Perhaps it would be important in the investigation he sensed would be coming. The more Stone looked at the rut in the ground cut by the barrel as the rifle settled to the right, the more he felt it had fallen from the front window of the cabin and had not been forced into the dirt by hand.
“Judge Bodner…Hello, Judge Bodner!” shouted Darnel, sounding a little restrained by the palpable apprehension in the air. It had only been five weeks since he stood in the middle of River Bottom and called for David Bell.
Myron Marks turned on his flashlight, got out of the dually and headed for the rear steps. Darnel Stone managed to grab his arm as he reached the third step.
“Myron, Myron, let’s please not run up there and start moving things around. This looks like something for the Sheriff. Come on now Dr. Marks, if the Judge was up there he would have answered us.”
“But what if he’s hurt and can’t answer. Darnel, please turn my arm loose right now!”
Both Randall Evans and Gary McAdams were now standing near the base of the stairs, watching as the perplexing scene unfolded.
Myron was the first to the door, with Darnel Stone at his left shoulder. The flashlight’s beam found an unopened bottle of water sitting in the corner on the front shelf. There was an empty bottle on the floor. The black, vinyl office chair was on its back, with one of the casters lying loose in a front corner. There was a crushed-in place in the right wall where it appeared someone had kicked in the plywood. Elvin’s favorite hat was in the floor next to the bottom of the cabin’s rear wall. The conclusion was obvious.
“My God Darnel, somebody’s drug Elvin out of here. There was one name rushing through Myron Marks’ mind….Cash Raskin!”
28 This Changes Things
Sunday, April 18, 2010 11:10 PM
Approximately three hours after Elvin Bodner is thought to have disappeared, the road in front of stand #12 was filled with vehicles, lights, people and the squawk of two-way radios. Knowing the Raskin connection to be an obvious consideration in the Bodner disappearance, Sheriff Conrad Scott called and asked Sturn County Sheriff Bill Andrews and Chief Deputy Larry Wyatt to drive down as soon as possible.
Scott and Andrews had worked together many times before. Both were state troopers when they ran for office. Conrad Scott had both of his detectives, Ollie Welch and Gordon Terry, on the scene. The Franklin County Crime Scene Unit was hard a
t work processing stand #12, when Andrews and Wyatt arrived.
“First it’s a nineteen-year-old orphan with little to no personal history, and now it’s a fifty-year-old Circuit Court Judge gone missing on a dirt road within a half mile of one another. The Governor’s Office has already called me twice for updates. Three reporters have shown up out here in the woods. This thing is just hours old and the pressure’s already rampin’ up Bill.”
“I know Conrad, that’s the way it works.”
“That poor kid probably met some sort of bad end and no one but me, my detectives and a few folks here at Brantley Lodge seem to care. But you let a Circuit Court Judge fall off the radar and it changes things,” continued Scott.
“Probably gonna get worse too my friend. We’ll do all we can to help. To this point you guys haven’t been able to make much headway on the David Bell thing, right?” asked Andrews.
“We’ve made about as much progress as you have on Cash Raskin,” responded Scott, showing his frustration with this latest bizarre development.”
Following a pause, the Franklin County Sheriff offered an apology.
“Aw Bill, I’m sorry….didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”
“No problem Conrad. I understand completely.”
“On the Bell disappearance, it’s like he opened that Hummer door and stepped out into oblivion – gone without a trace. Thankfully, things are different up in that stand. It’s clear there was a struggle, a fight of some kind. The rifle was pushed or knocked out that front window, along with the flashlight. Whatever the details of the scrap, Bodner lost. Somebody snatched him right out of his chair and drug his ass out of that stand.”
Elvin Bodner's Stand Page 8