The Ridge: The Whisper of the Leaves - Chap. 12

Wednesday, March 10

Neither Homer Lampkin nor Officer Ralph Barnes liked having to call in the Arkansas State Police. In the case of murder, though, they had little choice. Wynne was too small to have anything resembling a criminal investigation unit, so the Chief had to call in and use the expertise of the state of Arkansas.

As Lampkin had expected, after Sargent George Reynolds and Trooper Richard Billingsly began their investigation Tuesday morning, they were immediately met with a great deal of suspicion. Quite simply, country people thought city people needed to mind their own business….whether there was a crime or not.

One only had to consider that while Cross County was thought of as a relatively “clean” county with regard to organized crime, “un”-organized crime was as prevalent as it was anywhere else in the country.

Prohibition had been repealed four years earlier, so liquor was available through all the legal venues that the state allowed for counties that were “wet” as Cross County was. However, the sudden legality of alcohol didn’t equate into price reductions. Nor did the repeal bring an end to certain long-standing entrepreneurial enterprises….moonshining.

Beer and whiskey were just as pricey as they had ever been, not because an illegal syndicate in Memphis, St. Louis or even Chicago was lining its pockets. Rather, (and this is what made moonshining still an acceptable occupation locally) legal syndicates in Washington D.C. and the forty-eight states lined their pockets through a system of taxes and levies that effectively made the legal products more expensive than the illegal. Therefore, continuing to see opportunity, bootleggers never slowed down in their production of “shine” and in most cases, increased output.

So whiskey stills were abundant in the county and any strangers, especially government strangers, were always looked upon as “revenuers”. It was no different with Reynolds and Billingsly.

The only reason anyone cooperated with them at all was because the Bentwood family in general and James Bentwood in particular were so well thought of in the area. It seemed as if everyone wanted to find the killer of that “fine boy.”

So, they went about asking all the typical questions and in response, got all the typical answers:

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to see James Bentwood dead?”

“No one. Everyone liked James.”

“Is there anyone who had a grudge with the boy?”

“Not that I know of. Like I said, everyone liked him.”

“Do you know if he was involved in anything illegal? Bootleggin’, gamblin’, anything like that?”

“Of course not. James was a fine Christian boy. I never heard of him in any trouble at all. His brother, Marshall, now he’s always been the troublemaker, not James.”

Everyone, almost to a person answered the same way. No one could see why anybody would want to kill James Bentwood.

By the time the two officers returned to their room at the Wynne Hotel Tuesday night, they had found virtually no useable clues. And their discouragement was evident when Reynolds walked into the police station Wednesday morning.

“Well,” Lampkin asked Reynolds. “Anything, yet? Got somethin’ I can tell the family?”

“Not a thing,” Reynolds said as he sat down at the desk that he had been assigned while in town. “We didn’t find any fingerprints that we could use, but that wouldn’t do any good anyway unless we had prints to match them already on file. There was no evidence to speak of other than the coal poker and it’s like a thousand others in this county. And there doesn’t seem to be anybody who saw or knows anything.”

The sergeant lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair, then went on.

“That’s part of the problem with a murder in a backwater town like this. Usually, any clues you have could point in a hundred different directions and if there’s not an eyewitness willing to come forward, we usually just have to close it as unsolved.”

Reynolds noticed Lampkin stiffen when he said the word ‘backwater,’ but he wasn’t particularly concerned if he had offended him. He didn’t like these little podunk towns that were always calling for state help. They had enough problems of their own in Little Rock and Pine Bluff and Fort Smith and especially Hot Springs.

“The way I figured it,” Reynolds added. “It’s probably some sort of feud between a couple or three families over a missing pet chicken or favorite pig or something. Now one thing’s led to another and the only way they figure they can settle it is with guns and knives and even coal pokers.”

Reynolds took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette so Lampkin could digest the information he was imparting. Then once he was sure that the chief had caught up with him, he went on.

“If I was you, I’d talk to the family some more and see what you can find out. I tried, but they don’t seem to want to talk to me or Billingsly. You’re local, though, so they’ll probably open up to you.”

Reynolds crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray on the desk then stood.

“Speaking of Billingsly,” He said. “He’s gettin’ us checked out of the hotel right now so we can get out of here. Really not anything else we can do. If you do come across something or anybody begins to talk, though, call me. But the way it is now, we’re not doing a bit of good so we’re gonna just head on back home. Be seein’ you.”

That said, Reynolds was out the door without waiting for a response. A few moments later, Barnes came in and hung his hat on the rack in the corner.

“Mornin,’” He said as he sat down at his desk.

“Mornin,’” Lampkin responded.

“Saw that Reynolds guy as I’s commin’ in. Did he find anything?”

“No. Matter of fact, he and the other’n are headin’ back to Little Rock. Weren’t havin’ any luck. No clues or anything. Said we’d do better without ‘em.”

“Well,” Barnes said. “I think he’s probably right. I know ya felt ya had to, but I didn’t really like you callin’ ‘em in anyway. I think we ought to handle our own problems. Keep it in the family. But that’s not my call, of course.”

Lampkin stared at Barnes, irritated at his words, but not disagreeing.

“I mean,” Barnes went on, noticing Lampkin’s irritation. “They don’t have any personal stake around here. We do. We live and work here, they don’t. To them, it’s just another small town killin’ and if it’s never solved, so what.”

Lampkin finally relaxed his glare and looked up at the clock above the door. It was 10:00 am.

“Well,” He said as he looked back at Barnes. “They’re gone now, anyway, so it’s up to us. What time’s the funeral?”

“Two, I think,” Barnes answered. “You goin’?”

Lampkin leaned forward on his desk, picked up a pencil and began tapping it on his desk blotter.

“No,” The chief answered. “I don’t really know the family like you do. The only one I’ve had any dealin’s with at all is, Marshall. He’s the one I figure’d end up dead, not the other’n. How ‘bout you, ya goin’?”

“Yea,” Barnes said. “At least to the funeral, maybe not to the cemetery.”

“No, I tell ya what,” Lampkin said after a moment of thought. “Why don’t ya go ahead and go out to the cemetery. Keep ya eyes open. Look around. Don’t know if there’ll be anything for ya to see, but ya can’t never tell. Could be even the killer might be there. Just keep watch and make a note if anything looks suspicious.”

“Will do.”

“By the way, who’ve you questioned?” Lampkin went on.

“Pretty much the same ones as the state boys. Mary and Angie Mitchell. Andy Brickman. Carl and Edna. Thomas Bentwood. That’s about it.”

“Not Marshall?”

“Not yet. I wasn’t out there when he came in Monday night and he wasn’t around yesterday when I went out to their place. Why? Do ya think he knows somethin’?”

“Don’t know. But, like I said, I’ve delt with him before and I wouldn’t put anything past him. So, watch him close. See who he talks to, if he acts nervous, anything like that. Like I said, just watch.”

To Be Continued........