The Bean Field Murder (1)
Joseph Perrello - Josprel

 


      The Bean Field Murder
               by
            Josprel
      
Returning from the 1948 Law Enforcement Conference, Cayuga County High Sheriff Loren Kregs had barely entered the county seat of Collins, when his car�s dispatch radio crackled. Chief Dispatcher Vince Tandberg�s twang was directing Chief Deputy Billy Greenoak to the Sorell farm.

Loren doubled back to a narrow, dirt lane that masqueraded as Town Line Road. Turning into it, he entered the whirling dust storm that was Billy's wake. As usual, his tall, cadaverous Chief Deputy was barreling at floorboard speed, setting his usual bad-driving example to Vince Dennet, the young rookie riding with him. When Loren pulled up, both troopers already were bagging the clothes Doc Krastil and his assistant, Glen, were carefully stripping from an unconscious old farmer lying next to a newly sown bean field.

The High Sheriff had investigated several numerous accidents during his long career, but this one spawned fluttering butterflies in his belly. A large, rear wheel of Sorell's mammoth tractor, follow by the bean planter and the sharp harrowing disks it was pulling, had crushed and horribly mangled the old man�s thighs and lower body. Apparently, the unmanned rig subsequently wandered aimlessly, before ultimately wedging itself between two lofty white cedar trees. For now, Loren ignored the machine.

Mrs. Sorell had braved the horror of finding her husband in gore long enough to summon assistance. Shaking violently, she continuously was asking what had happened. �Try to get her to into the house, Vince,� Doc suggested, �she�s in shock.�

Dennet nodded. �Will do, Doc.� The tall, barrel-chested rookie tenderly shepherded his charge through the small grove of imposing white cedar trees that served as a wind barrier for the weather-beaten house, his attentiveness contrasting sharply with his muscular physic.

Doc again turned his attention to his patient. Encircled by horn-rimmed bifocals, his eyes misted as he worked. His Old Dutch beard quivered; he and Sorell were close chess buddies.

In a choked voice, he responded to the sheriff�s unspoken question. �Well, Loren, my old friend won�t be playing chess with me any more. He�s still alive, but not for long.�

Loren nodded sadly. �How long before he�s ready for transport?�

�A few minutes.� Doc glanced at Glen. �I want you with him in the ambulance. The sheriff and I must check out this accident while the clues are fresh.�

Moving to Mrs. Sorell, Loren gently guided her away from the vehicle and motioned for it to leave. "Please wait with me, Mrs. Sorell. I�m sending for my wife. You know Verony. You work together on the church council. She�s your friend.�

After a moment, 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?�

�A short while ago. Verony won�t be long. I�m sending a deputy for her. Please wait till she gets here. One of my men will drive both of you to the hospital. Will you wait for Verony, Mrs. Sorell?�

�Of course; it�s the least I can do since she�s coming to be with me.�

�Mrs. Sorrel, I�ll find out what happened. That�s a promise.�

Loren activated the radio. "Dispatch a car for Mrs. Kregs. Mrs. Sorell needs her. Hurry!�

It wasn�t long before Loren heard the fast approaching wails of two patrol cars. He 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. Mrs. Sorell instantly relaxed in Verony�s company. Both women entered the house, and when Loren again saw them, Mrs. Sorrel appeared refreshed and neatly dressed. Verony guided her into a patrol car, then climbed in next to her. Loren nodded to the driver, and the patrol car accelerated to chase speed toward the hospital.

Loren turned his attention to his task. He felt those confounded butterflies again tease his belly. Unsuccessfully, he attempted to force them to roost, then glared at the rig. Duty summoned.

�Doc; Billy; time to start our investigation.�
                                      
             ***

Loren's brawny, six-foot-three frame had served him well during his college football years. Now it 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? How? Had Sorell been refilling the seed hoppers? If so, he'd have been behind the tractor. That raised the question of how the wheel could have pass over him. Did he fall while mounting or dismounting?

�And that brings me back to those blasted gears,� Loren pondered audibly.

"The back of his head was crushed with deadly force, before the wheel passed over. Even if he survives, he'll be a vegetable," Doc pointed out.

He noted that the ground where Sorell had lain was soaked with blood. "That's blood from his lower body. There�s none where his head rested, but it bled profusely. Leaked cerebral fluid too."

Loren's baby blues eyes widened. Doc had limited his private practice years ago to become Cayuga County�s Chief Coroner; one whose conclusions he respected. All ears now, he asked, "Before the wheel passed over?"

Doc nodded. "I found coagulation in the head wound. The lower ones still bled."

"And . . .?" Loren prompted.

Doc smiled wanly. "Well, figure it out. I'm just a . . ."

"Yeah; yeah; you�re just a country doctor doing his job. And I'm a Boy Scout helping an old lady. Cut the malarkey; answer me!"

"We'll talk soon. I�m due at the hospital. Gotta roll." Doc could be frustrating.
 
Watching Doc amble toward his ride, Loren combed his fingers through his receding, ash-blond hair. He stared as the car, racing to challenge the ambulance�s receding wake, grew its own tail of billowing dust. It vanished around a bend in the road; silently cursing Doc, Loren resumed his duties.
 
            *****
Loren and Billy endeavored to confirm Doc's finding. Nothing! The High Sheriff felt like he did when searching for his reading glasses. They were somewhere, almost biting him, but where? He cursed silently, backing off to study the contraption, his fingers combing 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, realization struck! The clear substance marbling the blood was the cerebral fluid Doc had mentioned. The blood was jelled, proving extended exposure. Doc was right.

The finding deepened the mystery. Why had Sorell's head been over the cavity? How could he have tumbled from the planter to fall in front of the tractors rear wheels? Billy approached, asking if Sorell's cap had been found. The ancient headpiece was the old man's fetish. He jokingly claimed that he'd not gone bald because his hair had spent a lifetime under the cap and considered it home. He was never without it, yet 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 field. Nearby, scores of bluebottle flies buzzed, swarming 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. It revealed to him that the rig had stopped there. On restart, the planter had dropped surplus seeds, some left exposed by the furrowing disks.

�Loren, why would Sorell stop in the middle of a cut?� the Chief Deputy asked.

Loren wondered why, too. This close to home, Sorell would have answered nature's call in the outhouse or slaked his thirst at the well, both located close to the field. Furthermore, the rows were short; so after being filled on the other side, the planter easily could have made a few round-trips without reloading. Had there been mechanical problems? The officers had no answer, yet both agreed Sorell was hurt and had lain on his back for a time. His blood told them.

The bean field was an agricultural instructor's dream, marred only by the uncovered seed, the buzzing bluebottles, and the tractor still nosing the cedars. That nagged at Loren, and he wondered why. It was time to analyze the dilemma.

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

"Try to stop the bleeding."

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

Billy frowned. �Nothing.�

Again Loren nodded. "If the old man 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 his neck,� he declared, �But there�s no blood on Sorell's shirt."

"Or in the tractor cab," observed Loren.

"Then Sorell didn't get up." Bewilderment filled Billy's voice. �How did he get to the other side?"

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

Now he realized why the neatness nagged him. If Sorell had rushed for help with the tractor, he'd have made a beeline for the house. There would be a row of crosswise cuts over the completed rows. Yet, there were none.

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

Billy studied fresh tire tracks on the shoulder. "A pickup, I'd say."

He noticed oil. "With a leaky oil pan," he grunted.

His finger raised culms of bent orchard grass within the tracks. Again they curtsied. "It left not long ago," he concluded.

Loren nodded assent. �Someone left the truck here and then entered the field from the road,� he theorized aloud. �Sorell must have climbed down from his tractor to see what the person wanted and was hit from behind.�

But Loren couldn't explain why the old man was left bleeding in the field for a while. Nevertheless, the blood-filled cavity proved he eventually was placed on the planter, with his head over the coupling. The assailants brushed out the footprints and even took time to finish the last cut before dumping him on the other side.

As he concluded his, Loren swallowed hard and his facial muscles twitched. Those confounded butterflies were active again! "By then, coagulation set in, but not before Sorell bled into the cavity. They tried to fake an accident by running the rig over him and leaving it moving. Then they jumped to the grass and ran. They forgot Sorell's cap, but you didn't, Billy!"

Billy shuddered. "Real brutal guys!"

Loren searched studiously for his notebook. "And we have to catch them! Get what we need to perverse evidence.� Billy left, tires smoking, and Loren radioed the county sheriff's garage. The jolly voice of Casper Tolinas, its foreman, responded. "Well! The boss! A 'tomic bomb explode, sheriff?"

Loren explained that he wanted Sorell's rig impounded. "Send a C-2. Priority code!" Tolinas's flippancy evaporated. The code meant: �Get here now!� He
promised speed, but Loren defined that by the sloth creep of the department's gargantuan, C-2 truck cranes, times the fourteen miles between the garage and Sorell's farm. The wait would be long; he wished those who viewed his job as
adventurous could see him now.

Sorell 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. You repay us with stupidity! You idiot! Why'd you kill the guy?"

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

The Pinstriper 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 your evening." The Pinstriper's cordovans carried him back into the night. And Rimfurt's brogues sped him into the men's room to retch.
             *****

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 Sorell'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. Most were tough, hard-working men.

Consulting with Chief Dispatcher Tadber, Loren located Billy at Frank's counter, sluicing down a burger with coffee. "Let's take a booth, Billy. This you gotta see!"

Billy read, and his chewing slowed. "A driller's truck?" he whispered hoarsely.

Loren washed down a mouthful of his ham on rye. "Maybe; we'll search."

Billy volunteered to check out the county's numerous bars and Loren consented. "Take Paris, wear civvies and drive an unmarked. Our dispatchers are to know your location at all times. Understood?"

"Understood. We'll start tonight."

After his session with the Pinstriper, Rimfurt lost it. His constant explosions sent those around him scurrying in panic. Unable to eat, he lost weight he could ill afford. The short intervals of sleep he gleaned resulted in drenching sweat. Massaging his brow, sometimes nibbling his knuckles, he paced incessantly. His subordinates had always considered him to be erratic; still, they'd been able to limp along. Now there was chaos! Rimfurt gave orders, repudiated them, refused to sign documents, cancelled all meetings, and rejected all calls. He customarily shunned the Sheriff's Department, so Loren was puzzled when his intercom announced that Rimfurt insisted on seeing him.

The sheriff was appalled at supervisor's appearance. A life-long teetotaler, Rimfurt reeked of alcohol. Dark shadows rimmed his eyes. His hair, unkempt, hung over his now skeletal features. Tremulous, his right hand held an unlit Havana. In his left hand he clutched a Homburg.

"Jules! What happened?"

Rimfurt's features went from chalky white to crimson. So violently did he tremble that Loren reached to steady him. The supervisor erupted like someone cursed with an explosive disorder. "You happened to me! Doc Krastel happened to me! Everyone�s screaming murder! Sorell had an accident; close the case, now!"

He collapsed into a chair, sucking air. During the lengthy silence that ensued, Loren noticed a hint of pleading in Rimfurt's eyes. "Jules, you�re not feeling well . . .�

"I'm fine!" Rimfurt screeched, "The investigation's over on my say-so!"

Loren sighed. "You haven�t that authority, Jules. Calm down. We�re following leads."

"What leads?"
 
"Why do you want the investigation dropped?" Loren countered.

Rimfurt changed the subject. "Look at you; New York State�s sloppiest sheriff. When I kick you out of office, you won't yell murder any more!"

He scrutinized Loren's attire. "You disgrace the entire county; everyone laughs at your clothes!"

Loren realized he was no fashion plate. Verony told him often enough, with her self-styled "love nags." She wanted him to conform to the dress code he mandated for his deputies: neatly pressed uniforms, complete with side arms when on duty. Only undercover deputies were exempt. And, because of his size, he also was exempted, he informed Verony. She knew that stores that sold clothes in his size were expensive, so he bought sale items that just happened to fit his huge frame, wherever he could find them. Nonetheless, he did own one expensive, specially tailored uniform that was reserved for special occasions.

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 advice that the incongruent combination not be worn on the job. What was wrong with everybody? His clothes were neat and clean.

"I'll ignore your insults, Jules. Please leave."

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

Loren's towering presence overshadowed the Supervisor! Rimfurt had overreached. 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."

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

"You drunken little frog,� Loren growled, �I could squash you, but your not worth it."

Loren lowered his thrashing captive, but still retained his hold. "When you insulted my clothes, I let it pass. Now you slandered my integrity! Your bosses tried it in the last election. I sued and won. You pip-squeak. You never learn, do you? Want me to have everything you own? Fine. 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, take Mr. Rimfurt's dictation. 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, He then hurried to Dispatch Central.
                          *****
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, clubbings 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."

"Let me speak to the Chief Deputy."

Hearing Billy's explanation, Tadber responded, "The High Sheriff'll 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. "I'm going in with you."

�Then there's no sense in you going in, sir."

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's 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 rows of cars parked grille to grille, leading the officers to park their car 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. Moved cautiously between the
vehicles, he peered 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!"

This time they hesitated. There was a metallic click from the pistol. "On the three count!� Billy snarled. Up went the hands. Down went one pair of pants.

"Now kneel and press your noses together."

Gathering the belts, Billy approached until the pistol nozzle pressed against the
noses of both prisoners. He felt a tremendous 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. Medical help was needed, but it was necessary for Billy to move to his car to summon assistance.

"Now hop to that old Studebaker!" he ordered the men.

The obscene objections he received died when he advanced, brandishing the blackjack he had collected from the pavement. Hastily, the captives struggled to their feet. They sullenly hopped to the Studebaker, where, in a bent stance, they were coupled to the car's front bumper with Paris's cuffs.

 A sudden wave of nausea engulfed Billy as he reached for the mike. He lit a cigarette, but it didn't restore his dissipated adrenalin high. "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 shackled prisoners. Greenoak. Over."

Tadber responded, "Chief Deputy, medical assistance and backup already en route. State condition of Paris; also your own.� Concern was in Tadber's voice.

"I'm okay, Central. But Paris is unconscious from a severe blow to the head with a blackjack. No blood, but shallow breathing. I am unable to ascertain more. 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 shall keep this channel open. Do you require anything else?"

"A tow truck to haul in a pickup."

"Tow truck will be dispatched."

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

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

Preceded by the 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!"

"I want you in City Hospital for observation," the doctor instructed. Paris protested, but Billy ordered his compliance and the ambulance left.

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

 

 

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Copyright © 1999 Joseph Perrello - Josprel
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