In Broad Daylight

About the Author

Jacket design 1988 by Irving Freeman Author photograph 1988 by Alison
Teal

ISBND-Db-01S67b-X

Harper & Row, Publishers 10 East 53rd Street New York, N.Y. 10022

IN BROAD DAYLIGHT

Harry N McLean

HARPER & ROW, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

Cambridge, Philadelphia, San Francisco London, Mexico City, Sao Paulo,

Singapore, Sydney

Dale Wittner 1981 by Dale Wittner.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For information address Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc." 10 E. 53rd Street, New York, N.Y, 10022.

Published simultaneously in Canada by Fitzhenry & Whiteside Ltd." Toronto.

FIRST EDITION

Designed by C. Linda Dingier

Library of Congress Cataloging-in Publication Data

MacLean Harry N. In broad daylight.

1. Murder-Missouri-Skidmore-Case studies.

2. McElroy, Ken Rex.

3. Sex crimes-Missouri- Skidmore-Case studies.

4. Vigilantes-Missouri- Skidmore-Case studies.

5. Victims of crimes-Missouri-Skidmore-Case studies. I. Title.

HV6534.S55M33 1988 364.1 '5'09778124 87-45644 ISBN 0-06-015876-X

88 89 90 91 92 CC/RRD 10 987654321

83-01428

For
 

Mom and Dad and my sister

Sharon

I heard guys say they never would have backed down to him. Bullshit.

The man's dead now; they can say anything they want. I ain't scared of

much, but the man scared the hell out of me.

-A Skidmore farmer

Someone comes and steals your child's bike off your front lawn and your

wife sees it and recognizes him. When you come home, she tells you

about it and asks what you're going to do. You think about it, decide

it's not worth the hassle, and you do nothing. He did it in different

ways to lots of people until finally he got the upper hand on the whole

community.

-A Graham resident

Over the years of researching and writing this book, I came to know well many people in the Skidmore community and northwest Missouri. More than a few of them opened their homes and spent hours, in some cases days, sharing their recollections and perceptions of what happened between Ken McElroy and the town of Skidmore. Foremost among those were Q and Margaret Goslee, who farm outside Skidmore. By the time the book was completed, they had become my second family, and their kindness and generosity, as well as that of their sons Kermit and Kirby, provided the environment which allowed me to persevere in my search to understand the course of events described herein.

Kriss Goslee, the youngest son of Q and Margaret, conducted a series of interviews soon after the killing which were used extensively in the preparation of the manuscript. Kriss also provided ongoing research assistance which was extremely valuable.

The contribution of Anne Meadows to the book is immeasurable. Ms. Meadows, a friend and free-lance editor in Washington, D.C." edited the book from an initial rough draft through three versions to its final form. With extraordinary skill and dedication, she reorganized sentences, paragraphs, scenes, and chapters, pushing mercilessly and relentlessly for clarity and simplicity. Her mark is everywhere present. Any awkward sentences remain only over her protest.

I would like to express my profound gratitude to Jules Roth. Without his caring support and his unflagging faith in me, the idea would never have become reality.

The heart of the book was written at the home of Tom Austin and Jean Obert (and son Gabe) in Kealakekua, Hawaii. From the deck of the guest quarters of their home, I looked out over the bay and began putting to paper what I had learned of the killing in Skidmore, Missouri. I relied immensely on their love.

Mike and Pat MacLean my brother and sister-in-law, and brothers Jim and Jack believed absolutely in the book from the beginning. Their affection and encouragement were a constant source of support.

I am grateful for the generosity of Mary and George Leyland, at whose summer home on Fishers Island, New York, the final pieces of this book fell into place.

Others I would like to thank for their assistance in various ways: Charles Cortese, associate professor of sociology at the University of Denver; Thomas Carneal, associate professor of history, Northwest Missouri State University; Tom Watkins, attorney, St. Joseph; Charles Lepley, chief deputy district attorney, Denver, Colorado; and typists Janet Lange and Laurie Brasel.

Thanks to Glenna Kelly for her invaluable assistance in fine-tuning the final draft.

Lastly, I acknowledge a lasting debt to Lawrence University, where my study of the art of learning continues to shape the course of my life.

In cases where a first name is followed only by a last initial, the name has been changed at the individual's request.

On the morning of July 10, 1981, Cheryl Brown stood by the small window at the rear of her parents' grocery store and looked out at the pickups lining both sides of the main street. All but a few of them she recognized as belonging to farmers or merchants from the surrounding area. Cheryl folded her arms, glanced around the store to locate her parents, and looked back out the window-there wasn't a person in view. It was a strange sight, particularly for midmorning on a Friday, but she understood it; the town had finally been pushed too hard, or perhaps the wrong people had finally been pushed too hard.

Cheryl lived on a farm a few miles west of town with her husband and two children. An attractive woman in her early twenties, Cheryl had curly brown hair, hazel eyes, and an engaging smile. She loved to talk, and spent much of her boundless energy participating in community activities. In the past fifteen months, before her family's problem had become the town's problem, her spirited resiliency had been vital in keeping herself and her family together.

The B & B Grocery sits on Route 113 just as the road completes its climb to the top of the hill from the Nodaway River bottoms. A few yards further on is the main intersection where 113 turns right and proceeds down the hill as Elm Street, the main street of Skidmore. The front of the grocery store faces the American Legion building across 113 and the back looks out across a gravel drive at the side of the D & G Tavern, which is around the corner facing on Elm Street.

The small window at which Cheryl stood was behind the freezer and a few feet from the two large doors opening onto the loading dock. Had she been standing on the loading dock itself, or even looking through the windows in the doors, she would have been easily visible to anyone entering or leaving the tavern across the drive. But even if someone had glanced in the direction of her small window, Cheryl's face would probably have been hidden by the sun's reflected glare. From here she could see most of the street and sidewalk area in front of the tavern.

Since January, when she had begun working at the store, and particularly in the past few months, Cheryl had spent a lot of time at this place by the window. She believed, along with her mother, that if violence were to erupt again at the store, it would come from the back. Last summer her dad, Ernest "Bo" Bowenkamp, had been standing just inside the rear door when he was shot in the neck at close range with 00 buck, shotgun pellets the size of .32 caliber bullets. Bo spent most of his time at the meat counter, which was only a few feet inside the loading-dock doors. The rear of the store, although not blocked from public view, was less visible than the front. If McElroy intended to carry out his most recent threats, he would either hit Bo at home or come in the back of the store, like he had before.

Word usually came to the store by phone when McElroy was in town or when one of his trucks had been spotted in the area. If Cheryl was there, she would bolt the back door, pile 100-pound bags of potatoes on the trapdoor to the cellar and take up her post at the window. She knew all four McElroy trucks by both sight and sound, the way one might know a neighbor's sons. Last summer, after the candy incident in the store, she began to automatically scan every street and alley for the trucks whenever she came to town. If McElroy was in town, he would, sooner or later, pull up and park in front of the tavern. If Trena was with him, as she often was, she would stay out in the truck for however long he was inside, sometimes sitting by herself for hours in the bitter cold or the sweltering heat. If he was alone, Cheryl would scan the streets for the backup-the other McElroy truck-almost always driven by a woman, always with rifles visible in the rear window rack. Cheryl usually found the truck in front of the post office across the street, or on one of the Four Corners, or at the bottom of the hill, with a clear view of the front of the tavern. In either case, she would stay by the window until she saw McElroy leave the tavern, get in his truck, and drive out of town.

This morning, as she stood and looked out the window at the gleaming Silverado parked in front of the tavern, and mentally linked the other pickups with their owners, she understood that everything was finally coming to a head. The nature of the struggle had been irretrievably altered by the events of the past few weeks. The affidavits, the pickups lining the streets, the meeting in the Legion Hall, the absolute stillness of the town itself, all meant to her that the community, however belatedly, was finally responding to the threat that she and her family had faced virtually alone for so many months. Whatever happened, her family's long ordeal, their tormented isolation, would soon be over.