Cold Case

By Darryl Matter

Who killed Fred Russell and Carol Holman some 40 years ago--and why? Deputy Sheriff Clarence Askew, now determined to investigate unsolved crimes in his retirement, focuses on those murders--and finds that someone yet today is determined to stop his investigation. How he and his friend, Delbert Mitchum, attempt to solve the case is the story told in Cold Case.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darryl Matter
• Release date: Apr 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463813362

Darryl Matter

Hello,I'm an ancient, long-retired college professor who likes to write stories. My educational background is somewhat varied. I first earned a B.S. Degree in Mechanical Engineering with a Management Option. The industrial management and psychology classes interested me in human behavior, and I eventually earned a Ph.D. in Human Development. In addition to writing stories, my interests include reading and stamp collecting.I grew up in a rural Kansas community, and I now live with my wife in a retirement community. I appreciate each of my readers, and I thank you for reading my stories. Furthermore, I encourage each of you to write something of interest to you and then publish it--to share with the world.Being the antique person that I am, the tech-side of publishing doesn't come easily to me and I appreciate the support staff at Smashwords.Again thank you for your interest in my stories.Sincerely,Darryl Matter

Book preview

Cold Case

A Clarence Askew and Delbert Mitchum Mystery

by Darryl Matter

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 by Darryl Matter

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Cold Case

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

PROLOGUE

April 27, 1964. 2 p.m.

The stocky man wearing a military surplus camouflage jacket crouched behind an outcrop of rock well up on the rugged mountainside. From his vantage point, he studied the man and woman wearing backpacks and descending the mountain trail some distance above him. Nylon jackets they’d worn that morning were now tied around their waists, attesting to the afternoon warmth. He’d get rid of his as soon as he finished his task.

The twosome on the mountainside moved slowly and easily, almost gracefully, side by side, obviously in no particular hurry. Through his binoculars, the camouflaged man observed them smiling and laughing as if they were enjoying each other’s company. Although he could not hear what they were saying, he knew from their facial expressions that they were talking excitedly to each other as they descended the slope.

As they walked down the trail, the young couple appeared to be completely at ease with the mountains as well as with each other. Occasionally, they paused on the trail to examine something the stocky man could not see—a bird, perhaps, or a peculiar rock formation. Once he saw the woman write something in a small notebook she carried in her backpack. He’d been sent to get that notebook.

Exactly what the man and woman were talking about didn’t interest the man in the camouflage jacket. Maybe it would have interested the man who hired him, but not him. Killing them was just another job for him, and he was eager to get it over with so he could go back home to Chicago. Collect his pay, go home, and forget he’d ever been here.

The camouflaged man was certain that the young people above him on the mountainside were totally oblivious to his presence. That would make his job easier, although it didn’t really matter if they did become aware of him and his deadly mission. By the time they discovered his purpose there, it would be too late for them.

The mountain trail narrowed and became even more rugged, and the woman moved ahead of the man, just as the camouflaged figure knew she would. Both the man and woman slowed their pace even more and employed their sturdy walking sticks to keep from stumbling on the slippery rocks and undergrowth over which they now were making their way. They would descend this part of the trail single-file—exactly as the hidden watcher anticipated.

As the couple drew still closer to the outcropping that concealed the camouflaged man, he placed hearing protectors on his ears, pulled his jacket’s hood over his head in order to be even more secreted from the world, and then placed the binoculars aside. Lifting his high-powered rifle into firing position, he studied the young couple through the telescopic sight. Moments later, he centered the sight’s crosshairs on the woman’s chest, breathed deeply, and waited patiently for the precise moment when the man would be directly behind the woman before he squeezed the trigger.

CRACK!

Both the woman and the man staggered and crumpled to the ground without a sound as the ambusher’s bullet tore through them. The camouflaged man calmly studied the two forms for several moments through his scope, watching the streaming blood stain their clothing, coldly alert and ready to shoot again if either of them moved or cried out. Neither did, and satisfied that they both were dead, the assassin quietly assured himself that no one was nearby, then leapt to his feet and quickly sprinted to where the bodies lay sprawled near the mountain trail. A quick examination of the bodies revealed that they were indeed dead. No need for a second shot.

The sight of the victims’ blood did not bother the shooter in the least. He’d seen a lot of spilled blood in his lifetime. He was used to it. Killing was his profession.

Once assured that the man and woman were dead, their killer hastily rifled through their backpacks, found the small notebooks he was looking for, and then refastened the packs. He was an expert at leaving no clues, and once refastened, the backpacks appeared never to have been disturbed. His gloved fingers would not leave fingerprints, and the rocky soil would not retain any identifying footprints.

The man and woman died near a deep ravine, just as the shooter planned. With seemingly little effort, the stocky man dragged their lifeless bodies to the edge and pushed them over, watching without any show of emotion as his victims tumbled grotesquely onto the rocks and brush far below. Moments later, he retrieved the couple’s walking sticks, tossed them into the ravine, and watched them clatter on the jagged rocks below. With any luck, it would be days or even weeks before the bodies would be found.

One shot, two kills! A twisted smile crossed the killer’s face as he breathed the words to himself. Satisfied that no one nearby had heard the shot, the camouflaged and hooded figure, himself skilled at mountain climbing, strode quickly but noiselessly down the mountainside to where he’d parked the car he’d stolen earlier that afternoon. The well-planned job had gone smoothly, the mark of a genuine professional, the camouflaged man smugly told himself. He’d wipe away his fingerprints and leave the car in an underground parking garage where it wouldn’t be found for days, at best.

* * * * *

The two young people had been reported missing by their respective employers for almost 46 hours before the Search and Rescue airplane crew spotted their crumpled bodies at the bottom of the rocky ravine about three miles south of the Lazy-D Mine owner’s cabin. From the air, it appeared as though they might have accidentally fallen to their deaths, but rescue workers on the ground quickly determined that they had been shot to death and radioed the sheriff.

It wasn’t hard for sheriff’s deputies to identify the couple as Fred Russell and Carol Holman, both 26 years of age. Both were avid hikers and mountain climbers, and they’d long had standing permission from the mine owner, Delbert Mitchum, to hike and climb on his mountainous property. Indeed, they’d hiked, climbed the mountains, and explored the caves in that part of the county together ever since they’d discovered these mutual interests while they’d been attending college.

Identification of the young people may have been easy, but the questions of who murdered them and why were not to be answered. Although the sheriff apparently pursued every possible avenue of investigation, the case—officially noted as Case #64-16/17—remained unsolved. They were the sixteenth and seventeenth murders in the county to-date in 1964.

Fred Russell had worked as an electrical engineer for a company that designed and manufactured parts for small aircraft. As far as investigators could determine, he was well liked by his co-workers and was a skilled and dependable employee. Carol Holman was a third grade teacher. Like Fred, she was well liked by her co-workers and students, and seemed to have no enemies.

From the couple’s friends, it was learned that they intended to spend three days in the mountains, climbing one of the more rugged slopes and camping in a cave part way up the mountainside at night. They apparently had been returning from this adventure on the third day when they were shot and killed.

Robbery did not seem to be a motive that would explain the murders. The hikers typically carried their climbing and camping gear and a very minimum of cash. Neither wore valuable jewelry. In fact, their backpacks and wallets were found with their bodies and did not appear to have been rifled. Approximately $30 in cash, about the amount authorities were told they typically carried, was found on the bodies, as were their watches.

Public appeals for help were issued and a sizable reward was offered for information leading to the identification of the killer, but to no avail. There had been no witnesses—or at least not any who were willing to come forward with information that might aid the police. No informants came forward to offer credible suggestions as to why the two had been killed. Finally, after all possible leads had been exhausted, the folder was stamped UNSOLVED and placed in the file cabinet reserved for unsolved cases. COLD CASE #64-16/17.

* * * * *

April 29, 2005.

Clarence Askew, soon to be retired Deputy Sheriff Clarence Askew, pulled three thick folders marked UNSOLVED from that same file cabinet and carried them to his desk. It was almost exactly 41 years to the day since Fred Russell and Carol Holman had been found murdered.

Deputy Sheriff Askew did not look forward to his retirement. No way did he wish to retire! Furthermore, the very thought of retirement almost turned his stomach. Police work had been his entire life, and he had no hobbies or other interests to sustain him. He’d been married once, but his wife had been killed in a hit-and-run accident some 20 years earlier, and they’d had no children. In fact, his only living relatives were a much younger sister, Katrina, a registered nurse, who lived across town from the apartment building where he lived, and her daughter, Karen, also a nurse who lived in the city. Although he kept in touch with both Katrina and Karen, they shared relatively few interests.

One night when Askew couldn’t sleep, however, the thought occurred to him: Why should he quit doing the only thing he’d ever really enjoyed just because he wouldn’t be paid for it? At 67, he still was in reasonably good health and, well, why not take a look at some of the older cases that had never been solved, the so-called COLD CASES? The answer to that question came to him the very next moment: There was no reason for him to quit working. He’d do it! He’d work the COLD CASES! He might not solve any of them, but he’d give them his best shot.

The folder marked #64-16/17 and UNSOLVED intrigued Clarence Askew most of all. He’d been 27 years of age, just one year older than the victims, when the murders had taken place. Although he’d been in the service at that time, he could vaguely remember people talking about those murders when he’d been home on leave.

A lot had transpired in Askew’s life since that time. He’d served his time in the Army as an MP, including two strenuous tours of duty in Vietnam, before coming home and completing the law degree he’d studied toward before being called to active duty. Once his degree was completed, he’d joined the county law enforcement community as a deputy sheriff. That had been over 30 years ago. The time had passed quickly. It seemed like only yesterday.

With renewed interest in his upcoming retirement, Askew photocopied every bit of paperwork he found in the folder marked #64-16/17. This case was where he’d start his new, self-directed assignment. Reluctantly, he returned the other two unsolved case folders to their places in the filing cabinet. If all went well, he’d have a chance to work on them at a later time. Maybe he’d even be able to interest another retired cop in working on cold cases. Maybe they could partner.

Having settled the question of what he’d do in his retirement, Askew had to admit to himself that he felt much better than he had in some time. He now had a mission, something that could make his life in retirement worthwhile.

File #64-16/17 included a reference to an evidence box containing the victims’ clothing and personal items deemed relevant to the case as having been placed in Sheriff’s Storage at the time of the original investigation. To Askew’s disappointment, however, the box was not to be found. Forty-some years had probably taken its toll, and the box simply had been misplaced during that time, yet the missing evidence box somehow troubled Askew. Exactly how much evidence is missing—and why is it missing?—he wondered.

* * * * *

What had been especially surprising to Askew was Sheriff Jeff Bowlee’s apparent disinterest in his looking into the department’s unsolved cases. Even though Askew assured his soon-to-be former boss that he would work on them on his own time and with his own resources, the sheriff seemed reluctantly cool and indifferent—almost hostile to the idea.

Aw, Clarence, go get a life, Bowlee had growled, as he shrugged his shoulders. Don’t get into that old stuff. Go fishin’ or just get some sun on a park bench. You’ve put in your time. Earned your retirement. Get yourself a girlfriend and forget about bein’ a cop.

So much for Jeff Bowlee’s encouragement. It wasn’t that Askew would be the first cop to work on unsolved cases in his retirement. In fact, he had read of a retired cop having solved such a case in Seattle just a few weeks before. Brought to justice a killer who’d been free for 28 years. Maybe reading that news item was where he got the idea.

Of course, Askew hadn’t been one of Bowlee’s favorite deputies, especially after he’d brought heat on the sheriff by gunning down a drug dealer who was charging him with a butcher knife—and who just happened to be the mayor’s son. And another time Askew had stopped a senator’s daughter who was driving under the influence—and resisted all attempts by her father to bribe him, a move that, when the press got wind of it, cost the senator the next election. There had been other things, too. No, Askew decided, once he’d thought about it, he shouldn’t have expected Bowlee to want him investigating any cases the Sheriff’s Department hadn’t been able to solve.

At any rate, Askew didn’t press his investigative interests with Sheriff Bowlee, but he did file away the reception he’d received in the back of his mind. If that guy was a suspect for having done something and I was the investigative officer, I’d be asking myself what he’s got to hide, Askew murmured to himself as he climbed into his pickup after his unexpected rebuff from the man he’d worked with over the past twenty-some years.

When Askew shared his plans with Stanley Abolence, the county attorney, however, he’d been warmly—indeed, enthusiastically—received. Go to it, man! Abolence had exclaimed. In fact, the CA had given him the formal designation of Special Investigator for the County Attorney. While this designation didn’t provide for financial reimbursement, it did give Askew a certain standing within the law enforcement community. You report directly to me and not Bowlee, because from now on you’re working with me, Abolence had pointedly told him after Askew mentioned the sheriff’s coolness. It was one of the first hints Askew ever had that the county attorney and the sheriff did not exactly see eye to eye.

By the way, Clarence, Abolence began, as Askew got up to leave the CA’s office. He waved the lawman back to his chair. You’re one of the first to know that I’ve decided to run for State’s Attorney General. I’d appreciate your vote in November.

The obvious wasn’t said: It certainly would enhance Stanley Abolence’s election chances if he and Askew, working together as Abolence had called it, were to solve a long-unsolved murder or other serious crime. Askew wished him well and said he’d keep in touch.

CHAPTER 1

Clarence Askew pulled his white Chevy pickup up next to the small stone gatehouse on the rock road leading to the Lazy-D Mine, showed the guard his identification, and told him that Delbert Mitchum was expecting him. After a careful examination of Askew’s identification papers and a brief telephone conversation with the mine’s owner, the guard waved him through the gate. It was then that Askew noticed something that had piqued his attention the very first time he’d come up here to see Mitchum. The guard, whose badge stated his name as Johnny Roger, waved stiffly—as if he had an artificial arm.

It had been some time now, perhaps a year given the way time seemed to slip away, since Askew had visited Mitchum at his Lazy-D Mine. The deputy had been investigating a case involving stolen silver bullion and had wanted information from the mine owner about how the thief might go about selling or disposing of the loot. After all, as Askew learned, it isn’t easy to turn bars of silver into cash. Mitchum had readily supplied Askew with the names of reputable bullion dealers he knew, and with a few well-placed telephone calls, helped Askew apprehend the thief and recover the stolen property.

Although Askew had heard that Mitchum was a crusty recluse who always carried a gun and didn’t tolerate visitors, the two men hit it off on that first visit. In fact, the deputy discovered that Mitchum had spent a few years as a cop himself, working primarily as an undercover drug enforcement agent, before discovering the ancient silver mine on land he’d inherited from an uncle. At that time, he left law enforcement to work his mine, the Lazy-D Mine.

Some stories floating around portrayed Mitchum as fabulously wealthy. His influence, some said, extended to the highest levels of state and federal government. Others said those stories simply weren’t true, that the silver mine had not proved out, and that Mitchum was living in semi-poverty. Still others whispered that Mitchum had financed several missions to search out and recover fabulous treasures stolen and buried by pirates or gangsters, ventures from which he’d reaped tremendous profits. And it was rumored that he actually had purchased a bank in order to secure a vault large enough to hold his accumulated treasure.

Askew didn’t know which stories, if any, were true. It really didn’t make much difference to him one way or another. He did know that Mitchum appeared to live quite simply in a sturdy, weathered cabin he’d mostly built by himself from rough-hewn timbers, and the buildings behind and to the side of Mitchum’s cabin were well-weathered as well. Yet Askew had known a number of people who appeared semi-impoverished but actually were wealthy beyond anyone’s expectations. Appearances could be, and often were, deceiving. At any rate, it was Mitchum’s cooperation in this investigation and not the man’s wealth that concerned Askew as he approached the mine owner’s rustic cabin.

Askew and Mitchum had swapped a few cop-stories on that first visit. In fact, although Mitchum was generally wary of cops and feely admitted this feeling, he’d felt comfortable with Askew and told him so. Furthermore, he’d seemed pleased when Askew had called earlier in the day and even said that he was looking forward to seeing him again. Forget the stories about the guy, Askew told himself, and concentrate on solving one more crime: Cold Case #64-16/17.

Mitchum was there waiting for Askew, rising from a chair on the tree-shaded porch of his cabin when he saw the retired deputy approaching. Even from a distance, the elderly mine owner presented a wiry, imposing figure in his faded denim shirt, blue jeans, and work boots. A slight man of perhaps 150 pounds and standing perhaps 5’-10" tall, he had wispy white hair and a fierce explorer’s beard that first caught one’s eye. Drawing closer, one might note the man’s near-leathery features and his intense—some said insane—blue eyes, as well as the Colt .45 pistol he carried on his left hip in a cross-draw holster.

Park your truck out there in the shed by mine, Clarence, Mitchum directed, motioning toward a large, open-sided metal shed as the retired deputy braked to a stop in front of him. That’ll keep it outta sight of the eye in the sky, he added pointedly, by way of explanation.

Eye in the sky?

Ya. There’s a spy satellite of some sort that goes over here every day about this time. They tell me it’s got a camera that can read a vehicle’s license plate. Since you don’t know who you’re dealing with in looking into these old murders, it’s as well nobody can spot your truck while you’re visiting me out here. Mitchum chuckled. "They tell me the eye doesn’t see through a sheet metal roof. Park in there, and somebody won’t know you’re here. Oh, they’ll know there’s another vehicle in that shed because the eye’ll detect the heat of your truck engine, but they won’t know it’s your truck."

Askew scratched his head, thinking as he did so that the old man must be extremely paranoid. Still . . . . He’d humor the older man. Okay, but won’t the eye in the sky see you and me out on the mountain anyway?

Maybe. Maybe not. It’ll depend on where we’re at when it passes over. Ya still wanna go out to the place where those young people were killed?

Yep. Have you got your metal detector?

Ya. Go park your pickup in the shed. We’ll go when you’re ready.

As he parked his pickup where Mitchum indicated, Askew noticed the relatively new Dodge pickup Mitchum had referred to as his. Once a metallic green in color, the truck now was well rusted and dented, its remaining paint badly faded to a dull grey-green. In fact, it looked like one of the older vehicles Askew had seen when he’d visited northern Minnesota a few years ago, where a whole lot of salt is used on the roads during the winter. Rust buckets, the people there had called the rusty vehicles like Mitchum’s. At least, that was the most polite wording they used. And then Askew noticed how muddy and almost illegible the license plate was, and it dawned on him: This was a camouflaged truck, designed to blend in with its surroundings and not call attention to its driver. Even the windows were deeply tinted. Despite its appearance, he’d bet it was mechanically perfect.

Further down under the same shed’s roof sat a nearly new, dark blue Buick, most likely Mitchum’s car. It was a shiny four-door sedan, and Askew noted that its windows also were tinted against outside observers.

In front of the Buick was parked what appeared to be a Harley-Davidson motorcycle of recent vintage. From what Askew could see of it, it was a much-customized Dyna Low-Rider. And was that a Screaming Eagle Stage One setup on the bike? It was a little difficult to see the motorcycle clearly from where he stood. Askew’s neighbor had one very much like it, though, and from what Askew could see, Mitchum’s Harley-Davidson was clearly set up for speed. All very interesting!

Was Mitchum a motorcycle enthusiast? Askew could easily picture Mitchum roaring down the highway astride a big, powerful Harley-Davidson, bushy hair flying in the wind! Authentic image or not, at any rate Mitchum was proving to be an extremely interesting individual!

Askew retrieved his camera and a notebook from the pickup he’d parked under the metal-roofed shed, then followed Mitchum to his side-by-side Mountain Goat ATV. Mount up, Clarence. We might as well save our legs and ride as far as we can, Mitchum said, motioning for the retired deputy to sit beside him, as he turned the ignition key and cranked the rugged four-wheeler to life.

Even though he’d lived in the area much of his life, Askew had never been back into these mountains, had never in fact been very far off a paved highway for almost thirty years. Somehow, he now envied Mitchum living here surrounded by the mountains with their beautiful trees and rugged features. He could certainly understand and appreciate the desire some people had for a cabin or a retreat of some sort, if not a year-round dwelling, high in these hills.

The two men rode in silence until the trail became too steep and rocky for even the tough little ATV. They were killed about half a mile from here, Mitchum said as they dismounted, pointing in the direction of the murder scene. We’ll have to hike in the rest of the way.

Askew recognized the spot where the couple had been murdered from photographs and drawings he’d photocopied from the investigative file. We’re gonna find the bullet that killed them if we can, he told Mitchum. If we can find it, we may at least get a clue as to what kind of firearm the killer used. That’s why I asked you to bring your metal detector.

The cops went all over this area looking for the bullet, Mitchum replied, somewhat skeptically.

Yeah, they went over the area, but they didn’t know where to look. You and me, we’ve got some great new technology helpin’ us that they didn’t have back then.

What technology’s that?

I’ll tell ya about it. After I studied the case file, I went to see a guy I knew in the service. He was an MP with me in Vietnam, an officer. Sharp guy. Anyway, the military has developed a computer program that helps them detect where enemy fire is coming from, and he’s worked on adapting it to locate and pinpoint sniper fire.

How’s that gonna help us?

We approximated the terrain here from the photographs in the file and placed the victims as they were when they were shot. Then—

Wait a minute. How’d you know where they were when they were shot? Mitchum interrupted. Oh, I’ll bet I know, he continued after a moment of thought and before Askew could answer. The autopsy results would’ve given you a pretty good idea of how they were standing when they were shot, and the blood-trail would have located them.