In Broad Daylight (19 page)

Having grown up in the area, Steve knew all the stories about Ken McElroy. But he had never had any trouble with McElroy, and as far as he knew, McElroy did not have any particular problem with Skidmore, at least no more than with Graham or Maitland. McElroy wasn't something Steve Peter thought much about when he decided to run for mayor in the spring of 1980.

The community had always felt ambivalent about having the law in its midst. The police were nice to have around when you needed them, but most residents did not feel a need for them very often. A small town like Skidmore had few rules to enforce anyway, and the problems that generally arose-a fight at the tavern, vandalism at the gas station, or kids climbing the water tower and peeing on each other-were minor. Many residents felt that the presence of the law created problems: A sheriff's car sitting in the gas station at midnight was a tempting sight to bored high-school kids who had drunk a few beers.

When a serious problem did occur, however, the law seemed far away and slow to respond.

Skidmore was within the jurisdiction of the Nodaway County Sheriff's Department, but Maryville was a hard fourteen miles away, and the sheriff didn't have enough deputies to patrol all the county roads and small towns with any sort of regularity. A good half hour usually elapsed from the time the call came from Skidmore until a car arrived on the scene. Sheriff Danny Estes, a big, burly guy from Quitman, was generally considered to be a good cop, but concerns about his willingness to take on McElroy would develop as time went on.

The highway patrol was respected, but the patrolmen stayed mainly on the interstates and the main highways, chasing speeders and drunk drivers and handling accidents. As a matter of policy, the patrol entered local matters only when asked by the local cops or when a citizen called directly.

Because of the town's isolation, many residents felt better having someone in town with a badge and gun. So, off and on over the years, the town had hired a marshal. For a long time the marshal was Russ Johnson, who also served as a Nodaway County deputy sheriff. Russ Johnson was a great storyteller and a controversial character. Some people in the community felt he was totally incompetent and inept, while others thought he was a good man and a fine officer. Ever since the incident in 1974, in which Ken McElroy backed Johnson down with a shotgun, many people thought that he did not have the guts for the job, at least when it came to Ken McElroy. There were also complaints that Johnson was shooting stray dogs that weren't really stray to collect the $10 bounty.

Larry Rowlett, then the mayor of Skidmore, thought the town could do better than Russ Johnson. Rowlett's choice was David Dunbar, a friend and coworker on the Maitland pipeline. Dunbar had moved to Skidmore in 1979 from Lamoni, Iowa, a small town about a hundred miles away, where both he and his wife, Dana, had grown up. At twenty-four, Dunbar was a former wrestler, handsome and imposing with powerful shoulders and arms. Soon after coming to Skidmore, he earned a reputation in Skidmore as a good fighter, someone who could take care of himself and wasn't afraid to mix it up.

In April 1980, Larry Rowlett bet Dunbar a case of beer that he could win the upcoming election for marshal. As a newcomer with absolutely no law enforcement experience, Dunbar laughed and said there was no way he could get elected, even if he wanted to.

"It'll be an easy case of beer for you then," Rowlett taunted.

When Dunbar finally agreed to run, he did so as a lark. He had no idea that people were seriously dissatisfied with Russ Johnson, and he had heard only the faintest rumblings about Ken McElroy.

Rowlett called Dunbar on election night and told him to bring a case of beer and come get sworn in-he had won by four votes. After the shock wore off, Dunbar decided to approach his new responsibilities in a low-key fashion, trying to calm things down rather than escalate them. He paid little attention to demands that he crack down on speeders and teenagers running loose at night. But after an attempted burglary at the tavern, and after several people warned him that if he fucked with Ken McElroy he could get his head blown off, Dunbar asked the board of aldermen to buy a gun for him. To his surprise, the board refused. The town would buy his ammunition and a light and radio for his car, give him $35 a month for gas, pay him a salary of $200 a month, and that was all. Dunbar bought himself a Ruger Security .357 Magnum and practiced with it until he felt reasonably proficient. With no training or orientation, he pinned the badge on his shirt, put the pistol in the glove compartment of his car, and proceeded to attempt to keep the peace in town. David Dunbar became the law in Skidmore.

In March the hilly countryside began to awaken from winter's long slumber. Cold, gray dawns gave way to streaked pink sunrises, and the stubbled fields absorbed the yellow-white rays of the morning sun. The bitter winds began to lose their sting; the earth, still frozen solid two feet down, began to warm; and the small animals ventured from their dens into the timber and fields.

By early April light southern breezes blew gently over the drab landscape, washing away the lingering traces of winter. The air was fresh and fragrant and stimulating. Tiny alfalfa shoots punctured the earth like millions of needles, casting a light green haze over the black soil. The grass began to turn green and the hedge sprouted bright yellow buds.

In town, Mom's Cafe filled earlier than usual. Around the tables, the talk intensified as the farmers forecast the weather, comparing this April with Aprils past, and argued the merits of no-till farming and a new strain of seed corn from Illinois. Soon the streets would fill with machinery and the tractors would run day and night, crawling over the hills, churning the compacted soil. But for a few weeks in early spring, after the red buds had popped but before the ground was ready, when the nights were still cool and the days were brisk and sunny, the farmers basked in the feelings of renewal.

As the days passed and the farmers performed endless tasks in preparation for planting, the urge to get in the fields and break winter's seal grew stronger. The farmers felt the earth for warmth and studied the sky for moisture, anticipating the precise moment of confluence.

In 1972, Bo and Lois Bowenkamp bought the large white house on the east edge of Skidmore that greets travelers coming from the north as they round the curve on 113. Five years later, they bought the B & B Grocery around the corner from the D & G Tavern. The store never made much money, what with the poor farm economy and people buying most of their groceries in Maryville or St. Joe, but savings and Bo's Social Security enabled the couple to get by without a lot of worry. They fixed up the big house with new windows, a new roof, and a paint job, making it one of the more attractive places in town.

Bo loved to spend spring and summer evenings in the large garden behind the house, tending to his corn, tomatoes, squash and beans. Fishing was his other love, and he knew many of the ponds and rivers in Nodaway County.

For her part, when the work day was done, Lois preferred to sit on the porch drinking coffee and chatting with Evelyn Sumy, her neighbor from across the street.

At the store, Lois ran the show. She kept the books, ordered the products, prepared the tax records, and handled the money. Bo spent most of his time behind the meat counter at the rear of the store, sometimes helping out at the cash register or stocking new goods.

Bo had grown up in Elmo, a small town twenty-five miles north of Skidmore. At sixty-nine, he was a good twenty years older than Lois, who had grown up in the Skidmore area. Bo stood close to 6 feet 5 inches, and weighed around 220 pounds. His large hands and feet seemed to hang from his limbs, and his nose jutted out from underneath glasses that magnified his blue eyes two or three times their actual size. His voice rose from deep in his throat, like a gurgling brook. Wearing overalls, short-sleeved plaid shirt, and a baseball hat, Bo occasionally joined the men for coffee at Mom's, gradually folding his lanky frame into one of the chairs at the center table, leaning forward on his elbows, and mainly listening. Slow and easygoing, Bo did not talk unless he had something specific to say. At the store, he tended to business from behind the meat counter, greeting the customers kindly and courteously. A gentle giant, his way was the path of least resistance.

Lois, however, took a harsher, no-nonsense approach to life. A short and stocky woman with dark brown hair and glasses, not unattractive, she bristled easily and jabbed back at life. If anyone asked her how she was doing, she was apt to reply, "Well, I'm here." To "Beautiful day, Lois," she might respond, "I guess." Some townspeople saw her as bossy; others perceived her as a genuinely decent, caring person. One thing was sure: Lois was not one to be pushed around.

On the afternoon of April 25, 1980, Bo was behind the meat counter and Lois sat at a small table nearby, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and tending to her books. Evelyn Sumy was working at the checkout counter, which was at the front of the store in the middle of four aisles running from front to back. At about two o'clock, two girls, a teenager and a blond pre-schooler, came in the front door. Evelyn wondered why the teenager was not at school. The teenager walked to the aisle where the cookies were kept while the child picked around in the candy rack.

After five or ten minutes, the teenager approached the counter with a candy bar and a sack of cookies, and asked for a pack of cigarettes. The child stood close by, holding a couple of pieces of bubblegum and a jawbreaker, probably worth no more than a dime. As Evelyn rang up the third item on the register, the teenager handed her some money and said, "Here's for the candy bar and the cigarettes." Realizing that the girl wanted to split the orders, Evelyn voided the tape and started over, ringing up the cookies separately. She asked about the candy in the child's hands and the teenager replied, "She has her own money."

Evelyn returned the change to the teenager and, noticing that the child was not moving to the stand, asked about the candy again. Becoming distraught, the older girl took the candy from the younger girl's hands and put it back in the boxes. Up until this point, the child had been fine, a pleasant little girl interested only in the task of selecting candy. But as the teenager was leading her out the door, she broke away and returned to the candy rack and grabbed the items she had selected. As the teenager opened the door, Evelyn said loudly, "Ma'am, she still has the candy in her hand."

The teenager whirled, grabbed the candy from the child and threw it into a box on the rack. The child immediately began to fuss, and by the time she reached the door, she was wailing and trying to pull away from the older girl.

From her table at the back of the store, Lois had heard the little girl start to fuss and cry, so she wasn't surprised, after hearing the tinkling of the bells on the door, to see Evelyn coming down the aisle toward them, very upset. Evelyn had no sooner begun to explain to Lois what had happened than the door opened and a third, still older girl came in. Walking back up front, Evelyn recognized her as Tammy McElroy, a girl who had gone through school with her son Greg. Tammy had come in the store off and on during the summer.

"May I help you?" asked Evelyn.

"I want my money back!" Tammy said angrily.

"What money?" Evelyn asked. "Is something wrong?"

Tammy stepped closer and dropped a sack on the counter. "Whoever in here waited on my little sister accused her of trying to raid the store."

According to Evelyn, she tried to explain about the two purchases and the fact that the older girl had put the candy back, but Tammy wouldn't hear it.

"Debbie has no reason to lie to me," she challenged.

"Well, neither do I," Evelyn responded evenly.

Overhearing part of the exchange, Lois figured she had better take charge and straighten things out. She didn't recognize Tammy.

"Is there a problem?" Lois asked. "If there is, I'm sure we can work it out."

"Nobody," declared Tammy, "accuses my little sister of stealing!"

"What are you talking about?" demanded Lois in her sharp reedy voice.

"Don't get snotty with me!" Tammy shot back.

"I'm not getting snotty with you. I just said if there's been a mistake, we can straighten it out. If you'll just bring the girl back in, we can talk to her."

"She's only four years old!" Tammy said.

Evelyn refunded the money to Tammy and began replacing the items on the shelves.

"Nobody in our family will ever buy anything in this store again!" Tammy said, starting for the door.

"OK, that's fine," pronounced Lois huffily. "That's your privilege."

Tammy left, and Evelyn immediately burst into tears. She had never in her life been accused of anything so hateful, particularly toward a small child. Walking to the back, Evelyn told Lois and Bo that Tammy was a McElroy and that the other two girls probably belonged to Ken McElroy, too. Neither Bo nor Lois knew Ken McElroy by sight, although Lois had known him years before, and both had heard stories about him.