Television Sells!

I can always tell when the government, medical or psychiatric organizations have been dabbling in our television shows, the message is singular, obvious and insane.

It was clear as a bell when the popular (for a while) television show, Touched by an Angel, came out in favor of psychotropic medications. In that episode, a jazz musician was a danger to himself and his family if he was not on his medication, but he was not creative or even a good musician when he was all doped up like that – in fact, he hated it. So he didn't take his meds, got creative and was happy playing music to die for. The “Angel of the Lord” came and told him, “Your medication is a gift from God. You must take it.” Thereafter, he did “the right thing,” taking his meds and opting for mediocrity instead of musical greatness. That was the last time I turned that show on. It was canceled soon after.

The other night, I was doing late work and my wife was watching “Law and Order.” The culprit was a loving mother who did not believe in getting her child vaccinated. Her failure to get her child vaccinated caused another child to be sick and die. They arrested the mother, took her child away and the world was again safe. The message repeated again and again during the show was “Get your child vaccinated.”
For years I have feared that there was something going into the vaccine that the government wanted us to get but that we wouldn't stand for given the choice. The answer: remove the choice. There are many parents who will not have their child vaccinated. They do not believe in it, or they do not believe in government intrusion. Perhaps they are organic people and do not believe in the artificial, chemical, Brave New World that is being sold to us daily.

For years, I have had a rule: Where there is a hard sell, there is something of which I should beware. Now here is none other than the “Do no evil” cops of “Law and Order” telling us we should get vaccinated. I say “No!” Just because the government or some medical organization or psychiatric organization (especially a psychiatric organization) says to line up and get stuck with a needle full of something mysterious and magical, that is no reason for me or anyone else to do so. In fact, when they sell it to us so hard, that's a good reason to be extra careful.

It was Karl Marx who said, “Give me a child before he's five and I'll have him for life.” I fear that what is in that vaccination is something that will be in my child for life and not to his betterment. The proof of the pudding is that the powers who want that needle in the kid's arm have gone to the writers of popular television shows to sell it to us.

Shame on you, Law and Order.

How to Cut the Budget

Great idea! A diet wherein the first things to be sacrificed are your lungs, heart and brain. Sound good?
It's called the Politicians' Budget Cutting Diet. It has been in use for decades and hasn't worked yet. No wonder it keeps getting implemented.
Here's how it goes in real life: You demand the budget get cut, everyone agrees, so those you trust (giggle!) to represent (giggle!) you go to work (giggle!) and start cutting expenses. The first things they cut are the Fire Department, Police Department and School System. Before you know it, you are screaming for the budget cuts to stop before we are completely stupid and defenseless. Of course, by then, you have no library system left, though no one knows (giggle!) where the money went.
It goes back to Proposition 13. The voting public told the California legislature that they demanded lower spending and the Police, Fire and Education cuts were the first, last and only cuts made. In North Carolina, education is 2% of the budget, yet it is the first thing mentioned by our governor when budget cuts are brought up.
There are redundant reports, useless studies (like the US study to discover why men in prison are depressed) and stupid projects galore in the budget, yet these remain in place while Fire and Police Departments go begging. We don't need another million dollar paper on the North American Blue Bird. We need a balanced budget.
Remember the ex-governor of North Carolina, Mike Easley? It took two years to investigate his abuses, financial and otherwise. He made millions illegally while in office, yet was charged $1000 in fines and $153 in court costs. So the taxpayers paid millions to investigate him and yet he is charged $1153? Give me a break! How do you balance the budget? Make him give all the stuff back and pay the money, covering the costs of investigating him and prosecuting him. Dock his pay. Wherever he goes to work, take it out of his weekly until the state is even again. Maybe that will be a deterrent to future criminals who want to make crime pay by going into public office.
It goes for state budgets and for the Federal budget. The President keeps talking about cutting domestic spending. Domestic Spending – does that bring up a question? What about International Spending?
For years we have heard about billions (Billions!) given to countries that hate us. It is not talked about a lot on national television, but we are still giving billions to countries with whom we are at war. We support them while fighting them, destroy them, then rebuild them – and they never give us anything back for all that. The only country ever to repay a war loan is Finland.
What if we stop giving our money to other countries, maybe we won't be in financial ka-ka ourselves. Let's start with countries we are at war with, then go to countries that merely hate us, then we can take the weekly allowance from countries that just don't care for us. Eventually, we will balance the budget.
See, I didn't even mention the politicians that served one or two terms and we are still paying them for it. Gee, if we just hired them like we do everyone else, we wouldn't have to pay them forever. But I didn't mention it. That's another blog.

Selling the Concept: Take Your Meds!

It started with “Touched by an Angel” when the “Angel of the Lord” tells a musician that his medication is a “Gift from God” and he should be on it. The poor fellow couldn't function without his meds, but couldn't be creative while on them. The Angels told him he had to make a choice and give up being creative. Some choice!
Today, TV is selling the concept of medication.
“Criminal Minds” has a fellow who is psychotic because he is off his medication. If he had been on his meds, he would be all right. To the message is “Stay on your meds.”
On “The Mentalist” a police detective tells the consultant, who is acting unusual, “Are you off your meds?” Just another hint to stay on your meds if you don't want to be considered odd or off-kilter.
Do I sound like an alarmist? Should I just ignore one little wise-crack among friends? Or is this part of a new wave of sales techniques for the message of the largest sponsors.
For years everyone on TV smoked. Lighting up a cigarette was a statement, a show of emotion, an offer of love and so on. Have you notice that everyone on television drinks? They meet in a bar, have wine with dinner, have a beer after work or on the weekends. They never get drunk and never have a driving-related accident, unless a character needs to have a shady past – then a DWI comes in handy. But the message is “Have a drink, you won't get drunk or wreck your car.”
And now, the message is creeping in: “Take your medication.” There is no assumption that someone would get along better without artificial medication, just the presumption that someone would be silly enough to think they might. The message is that they had better not try – terrible things happen!
Every time I see that the writers of a show have run out of ideas, the show becomes about the lead character's long lost child from a former flirtation. Ex-soap-opera writers seem to invade every show sooner or later. Soon after, the show dies, replaced by the latest clone of the latest most-watched show.
Lately, I also turn a show off as soon as I see Big Pharma sticking its nose into the writers' business. They'll look for a twist and stick in a pro-psychotropic message, as with The Mentalist – a casual quip between friends. Or they'll write a whole new show around the message, as with Criminal Minds.
There are surely more examples, but truth be told, I don't watch all that much TV of late. One thing I did watch is a video by Citizens Commission for Human Rights, called Making a Killing.
The video covers one of my favorite beefs – the commercials that tell you to “Ask your doctor if Xyzzyx is right for you.” Take a look: Watch it at http://www.cchr.org/#/videos/making-a-killing-introduction.

Powder Monkey of Cape Fear

"Powder Monkey of Cape Fear" won second place in the Lower Cape Fear Historical Society Annual Short Story Contest in 2005. You can find this story and others in the collection, "Encounter in a Small Cafe" by Jon Batson.

Episode 3

“Slip away? Did he take the treasure?”

“No time. Bonnet was making preparations to leave for Bath with some of his crew, Blackbeard was trying to look nonchalant while making preparations to sail off, cheating Bonnet out of a great deal of plunder. It was a window of opportunity for a random small-fry to get misplaced. Bonnet would think he was with Blackbeard and visa-versa.”

“Where’d he go?”

“He slipped overboard, between the devil and the deep blue sea, so to speak, and onto the mainland. The area got rather hot for pirates after that and he did what many sailors did.”

“What was that?”

“He picked up an oar and began to walk inland, determined to keep the water to his back and to walk until someone asked, ‘What’s that you got there?’ – then he would choose that place to live. In his case it wasn’t too far before he met his Sarah, settled down, and started a family. He never went back for the treasure.”

My jaw went slack and my eyes were like pie-pans. I could see Grampa was amused by my surprise.

“Who got the treasure?” I demanded.

“Stede Bonnet sailed to the Virgin Islands having changed his name to Edwards and renaming his sloop the Royal James. He returned to Cape Fear in September of 1718 where he met his end. His crew was hanged in November 1718 and Captain Bonnet followed on December 10.”

“All but Thomas Donny…”

“Yes, all but Powder Monkey Thomas Donny. He changed his name to Donnally, married Sarah Ann Baker; and raised a family in the Smokey Mountains.”

“So what became of the treasure?” I screeched.

“The map’s still among his personals,” Grampa said calmly, pulling out another pipe from the circular holder on the side table.

Blood rushed to my face, then drained from my head; leaving me dizzy. I steadied myself on the counter. The possibilities overwhelmed me.

“Where?”

“In the bedroom…” He pointed with his pipe into the darkened room.

I turned, moving too quickly for the small house, reaching the bedroom sooner than I anticipated. My foot hit something hard and I fell forward onto the hardwood floor.

“…soon as you go in. Young people today, always in a rush.” Grampa got up, walked to the fridge. “You want a beer now?”

I rolled over, trying to see where I’d tripped up, as it were. It was a suitcase, not what I expected at all, a brown leather suitcase with metal snaps. It was worn and old, but not three hundred years old.

“This doesn’t look like a pirate chest.”

“What do you think a pirate chest looks like? Ever seen one?”

I sat up and turned the suitcase around. ‘TAD’ it said on the engraved plate.

“T.A.D. – what’s that?”

“Theodore Andrew Donnallson, my father. That’s what he handed it to me in. The parcel has changed hands a few times. During the Revolution, Able Christian Donnelly put it in a courier sack and buried it under the church. In the Great War, the churchyard was expanded to bury returning soldiers, so Thomas Wilfred Donnellton moved the courier sack into a tobacco box and put it in the attic. The family name changed through a mistake in voter registration during Prohibition and he just let it go like that. My father put it in that suitcase and now I give it to you.”

My palms were sweating and I was short of breath. I looked up imploring.

“What do I do?”

“If I were you, I’d put it in a nylon knapsack and give it to your son.”

I stared at the suitcase, not daring to imagine its contents. Could this be a map of Treasure Island, with pirates and swag and doubloons and all?

“Shouldn’t we go get it?” I sat on the floor barely touching the suitcase, not yet daring to reach for the metal snaps.

“Thomas didn’t. Nor did his son, or his, nor any of the Donnys, Donnellys, Donnelltons, or Donnallsons since. I’ve gotten along just fine without it. Why spoil a good thing?”

I couldn’t believe my ears! Here was a possible fortune within his grasp and this old man did nothing. I looked at him in wonder, motionless.

“You’re gonna hatch that thing if you sit on it like that!”

“I just, I never, I mean, I don’t know... I never had a treasure map before.”

“Might not be a map, might be directions in old 1700’s English, all with extra “e’s” on the end and so on. Might be just a diary, I don’t know. I never really opened it up.”

“What! Never opened it! How could you know this story and never open it up? I’ve known about it for less than an hour and it’s burning a hole through me!”

“I guess I just never considered it important enough to go and see,” said Grampa calmly. “Your father never cared for family legends, so I thought I’d let you be the keeper of the family secret. But if you’re not up to it…” he leaned forward.

“No! I mean, I’m fine. I’ll keep it. I’m OK. It’s good.” I tried to sound convincing but I had a death grip on the suitcase.

“Have it your way.” Grampa lit up the pipe. “But I’ve found that the best security is the knowledge that no matter what happens, you can handle it. The only one you can really count on is you. You can trust in your family and hope your friends will be there, but you can only speak for yourself.

“Maybe there’s treasure, maybe not. Maybe someone’s already turned the ground and some modern-day Ben Gunn has spent it. Or it might be sittin’ there waiting for the next Thomas Wilfred in line.”

I sat transfixed as the possibilities were handed to me one at a time.

“If it’s a thousand dollars, you’ll spend it in a couple of months and the family treasure will be a memory. If it’s a hundred thousand it’ll get noticed and there’ll be a line of people insisting it’s really theirs and another line wanting their slice. Or have you forgotten the IRS?”

The furrowed eyebrows danced up and down, as if delivering a message of their own.

“or…” he puffed the pipe and the swirl of white smoke enveloped his head. “you could put it in a vault of its own, in the ground, in the attic, in a safety-deposit box, and one of these fine days you can hand it off to your son, or if he doesn’t want it…” Grampa cast a glance at the stern picture of my father on the wall beside him, “than to your grandson.”

My jaw closed and I gulped hard.

“Imagine, handing that to your grandson and saying, ‘You know what’s in here, boy? Pirate treasure!’ Can you imagine the look on his face?”

“That would be something!” I had to admit.

“Yup! That’s be worth… well, it’d be worth a chest full of gold.”

“Yes, it would.” I agreed.

I put the suitcase aside. There would be time to move the contents to another container and place it in a safe place. Grampa looked at me with contented eyes and a warm smile. He had chosen well, he’d passed on the family legacy and the Donnalson secret had a new protector.

“Now,” said Grampa, “how about that beer?”


The End

Stay tuned for other stories from this collection

Powder Monkey of Cape Fear

Episode 2

Grampa lit up his pipe and I watched a swirl of white smoke circle his head like a Christmas wreath.

“There’s beer in the ice box. You want one?”

“Uh, no, Grampa.”

“I do. Get me one. There’s a good fellow.”

Outside a cricket started up, kicking a cricket symphony into high gear. A dog passed by the road at the far end, stopped, sniffed, and continued on. I opened a beer, poured it into a tall glass from the freezer, and handed it to Grampa. He took a drink and set the glass on the side table. I sat back down, leaning forward, waiting for the punchline or the explanation, whichever was to come next.

“Giovanni da Verrazzano visited the south tip of the North Carolina coast in 1524 and called the place Promontorium Tremendum.”

I looked at him, dipping my head slightly. He glanced at me.

“Cape Fear,” he said as if I should have known. “And it’s been that ever since. Dangerous place! Fierce weather, treacherous shoals and currents, all add up to bad news for sailors.”

Grampa sat back, puffed the pipe, then leaned forward again.

“Your great-great-great-great… grandfather Thomas Wilfred Donny was a sailor. He sailed from Bristol with the British Navy as a young man assigned the lowest and most dangerous task on board a ship – Powder Monkey – Gunner’s Assistant. The young assistants were treated badly, rarely paid, and had little chance of advancement – in fact, it was most likely they’d be the first killed in any sort of fight.”

“Why’d he take the job? I would have turned it down.” I had him there.

“Couldn’t,” was Grampa’s reply. “It was go to sea or starve in Bristol, and once aboard, you did what you were told. He was a Powder Monkey or he would be hanged – that was all there was to it. Life at sea was hard.”

Grampa sat back, reflecting on how hard the British Navy must have been. Outside, I saw the afternoon light begin to fade. It had taken me most of the day to drive. I looked around for a light. As I did, Grampa twisted in his chair, picked up a dimmer switch from the floor beside him and a light in the corner behind him came alive. He sucked a full breath and continued.

“That was before the light at Bald Head Island. It was tricky working a sailing vessel through those waters, but that is one of the things that made it a haven for pirates. Topsail Island got its name from the pirate ships that moored there; you couldn’t see anything but their topsails.

“It was in 1717 that young Thomas Donny became reassigned at random to the crew of a coastal merchant ship. He leaped at he chance, though he didn’t dare show it. Though it was a smaller vessel under dubious leadership, anything would be better then the life of a Powder Monkey.

“The merchantman was soon captured by one of the most famous pirates there was, one Stede Bonnet, the ‘Gentleman Pirate.’ The crew was taken hostage and informed that they could sail...” Grampa raised his head with the words, “...or swing.” He dropped his head and looked at me through bushy furrowed eyebrows.

“Bald Head Island was their favorite stopping point to get food. Blackbeard himself used the place quite a lot. In fact, it was there that Captain Bonnet met Captain Teach and fate took a turn for your great-great-great… er, grandfather.”

Grampa sat back again, puffed his pipe, turned it over, and tapped it on his palm over a metal trashcan at his feet. The ashes dumped out and he set the pipe on a circular pipe stand on the shelf to his right.

“Grampa, go on – you can’t stop there!” I broke in.

“How ‘bout some food? You hungry?”

“No! Please, go on.”

“Just trying to be sociable is all. Bald Head Island wasn’t just used for a watering hole. No, it was sometimes used as a bank vault. A lot of times a pirate’s loot was more supply than gold: food and water, powder and shot, or tools and lumber. But sometimes there were treasure chests and when they got worrisome, the pirates would put them someplace safe.

“It was just after Bonnet and Blackbeard joined up that Blackbeard set one of his officers to run Bonnet’s ship. Bonnet agreed, though he had little choice in the matter; he wasn’t much of a seaman. Young Thomas Donny was off the ship getting water when a short-crew passed him up with a chest. He had learned that the way to survive, be it British Navy, merchantman or pirate vessel, is to keep your head down. He was busy keepin’ his head down when the short-crew came back the other way only without the chest.

“Once they were gone, he followed the footprints to a place where the ground was just turned. A whistle sounded 'return to ship', so he noted the spot. That night, according to his letters, a squall came up and it rained to beat all, removing any track or trace of the previous day’s adventures.

“It was pretty soon after the siege of Charles Town of that year when they returned to these waters. Blackbeard convinced Bonnet that it would be best if they were to get pardons and Bonnet set out with some of the pirates to see Governor Eden at Bath Town. It was then that Thomas Donny saw a chance to slip away.”

Powder Monkey of Cape Fear

Episode 1


I suppose you could say I stumbled over my inheritance. After all, I stumbled over everything else in life. I stumbled over my college grant and wound up majoring in horticulture instead of theater. I stumbled over my job making television commercials when a favor to a friend turned into a career. Planning was obviously wasted on me.

Let’s go back. It was not too long ago that I received a call from my grandfather Thomas, age 89, saying that he would like to see me before he “moved along in the great scheme of things”.

Grandfather Thomas Wilfred Donnalson was the colorful old man of the family who was always fond of saying things like that, or “It’s Earth, y’know – no one’s gettin’ out alive.”

I was named for my eloquent grandfather, as he was named for his grandfather and he was named for his. The last name, however, seemed to change with every voter registration. Grandfather Thomas’s grandfather was Thomas Wilfred Donnallton and his grandfather was Thomas Wilfred Donnally, and before him the enigma of the family, Thomas Wilfred Donny, 1698-1763.

The finer points of a cloudy family history, missing certain parts and shrouded in mystery, had been pretty boring to me even as a child. Now at twenty-six I had other things on my mind; but being a dutiful grandson, I made some time and headed down to Grampa Tom’s place in Wilmington.

As I pulled my Jeep off Oleander, the familiar off-white sand and long-needle pine trees reminded me of earlier days visiting Grampa. The house had since become his ‘Hermitage’ and was sorely in need of repair.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me!” I said aloud, noticing the overgrown yard and neglected porch. Grampa’s boat sat in the yard, not looking very seaworthy.

“Don’t sell ‘er short,” said a scratchy voice from within. “She’s withstood everything Ol’ Lady Nature could throw. Come in, Tom.”

“Grampa Tom?” I said, pulling open the storm door.

“Come in and sit down. There’s a few things to go over and I feel something powerful pulling at me.”

“How are you doing?” I tried to sound like I could do something about it if the answer was bad.

“Oh! Me? I’m doing great! I just can’t stay long. Got places to go and I’m packin’ light. No one takes a knapsack into heaven.”

I smiled – I was in the right place. Gramps was his old enigmatic self.

“What’s up, Grampa?”

“Sit down. There’s history to impart.”

I pulled up a straight-backed chair, the only one in sight, and sat down to await the ramblings of the colorful old dodger with a patient smile.

“Don’t gimme that smile; that’s your father’s smile, I’d know it anywhere. It’s that ‘Go on, rattle away’ smile I always get from him. Listen up, this is important.”

“OK, OK, sorry,” I said, pulling my chair a half-inch closer and trying not to do my father’s cynical smile.

“Why do you think you’re a Donnalson?” He flashed an elfish twinkle.

“Never thought about it.” It was true. I hadn’t.

“Why not a Donnallton or a Donnally or” he paused to be sure he had my attention, then said with great import, “a Donny.”

The old man sat back, smiling, waiting for the light bulb to go off in my head. When it didn’t, the luster faded from his face.

“Alright, boy, I can see I’m in for it. It was easy for me to change it to Donnalson. It was wartime, records were slippery – Giuseppe Verde became Joe Green due to anti-Italian sentiment, Viktor Schmidt became Vic Smith, and so on. Lots of people changed their names, but I changed it because Donnallton was getting a bit familiar in these parts.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason that my grandfather changed it from Donnally and his grandfather changed it from Donny – Blackbeard’s treasure.”

My eyebrows went up.

“I see I have your attention.” He sat back with a satisfied smile.

Murder at Thompson Bog

Episode 6

Sophie Keaton opened her eyes. She sat up, listening. Was it a dream? Or did she hear a shotgun?

It could have been a dream; the memory of waking up to that very sound when she was six, going out to find her mother lying in the front yard. Her father, drunk and barely able to stand, leaning on his shotgun, was cussing her. “You'll never question me again, you shrew!” he screamed. After that she stayed with her aunt in Thaxter country until she was old enough to run away from home without anyone coming after her.

It could have been a dream. But it didn't seem like a dream, it sounded different, not so close up. Sophie put on her robe and went to the back door.

Out through the trees lay Thompson Bog, a place to stay away from, day or night. Lights shone in the distance and she felt a chill that was not from the growing cold of the night. She walked in her bare feet down through the yard to the edge of the trees, when she stopped suddenly. There was a voice. It was the voice of the man who had just left her, Chief McLean.


“Somebody call for an ambulance! Can anybody hear me?” screamed McLean. As Al Gaither came upon him, McLean sat holding Martha Sawyer in his arms, her eyes were glazed over and blood poured from her side. On the bog, a dark figure stood up in a small boat. The man lost his footing and steadied himself with his shotgun.

“Dare we move her?” yelled Al, trying to assess the situation.

“I don't know. She's been shot.”

“I'll go for help. The hospital is not far,” Al yelled over his shoulder as he turned and headed for his car.

McLean called after him, “Sophie Keaton's house is on the way, up Turner's Trace, she's got a phone, that'll save time.”

Al ran as fast as he could, then stopped short at the chief's Chrysler; the keys were still in it. He jumped inside and sped down the road, the last instruction still ringing in his ears.

As he pulled out of the dirt lane onto the two-lane blacktop, he narrowly missed hitting Harlen Eldridge's car. Eldridge recognized the face of his hired detective in the chief's car and followed for news. He spun around and drove after the big Chrysler toward Sophie's place.

Sophie was just opening the front door when the Chief's Chrysler pulled into her driveway. But it was not the chief who got out, it was a stranger.

“I need to use your phone. Chief McLean says you've got one.”

“In here,” said Sophie and she threw the door open. She had heard her name yelled across the swamp by the man who had left her less than an hour before. Now came a stranger in his car to use the phone.

“Hospital? I need an ambulance right away, it's an emergency, someone's been shot. Down Old New Hope Church Road to Thompson Bog.”

As he followed his hired private eye in the chief's car, Harlen Eldridge saw a familiar Ford tearing down the two-lane at breakneck speed; it was his son-in-law, the detective. Harlen slowed a little, letting the Ford get some distance, then made a u-turn and sped up to keep pace. One thing was for sure, thought Harlen, Frank knew the way. They were heading for the Miller place.



Chief McLean sat on the ground holding Martha Sawyer's head on his lap. He smoothed her forehead with his left hand as he held his handkerchief to the wound at her side with his right.

“Don't you worry, Martha. Ambulance is comin', then they'll get you to the hospital and fix you up proper.”

Out on the bog, the dim lantern bobbed gently, set in motion by Collin Miller trying to steady himself in the unstable boat. He had shot at a prowler, someone who came to take his Clara. Now he was standing in water and his boat was sinking.

Off to one side of the pier, a figure was rising as if out of the swamp. The strange, formless shape limped across the few feet of swampland that separated them and into the beam of Chief McLean's flashlight, lying on the ground next to him. It was Ed Riggs.

Before either could speak, the roar of a car engine caught them. The black Ford pulled up to the trailer and skidded to a stop. Without turning the lights or engine off, Frank Morton got out, his gun was drawn.

Behind the Ford, another pair of lights appeared. The large Chrysler slid to a stop behind Morton's car and the door flew open.

Frank Morton saw the figure, dark and formless behind the bright beams. The man raised what looked like a rifle and yelled, “Morton!”

Morton fired. The man faltered. He fired again. The man staggered against the car, slumping into the light from the dome through the open door. Frank fired a third shot before he realized that his target was Harlen Eldridge. What he thought was a rifle had been his father-in-law's walking cane.

Frank felt the pistol taken from his hand, his arms pulled behind him and handcuffs closed on his wrists. He slowly turned his head to see Chief McLean's unmistakable scowl directed at him. Beyond the chief lay Martha Sawyer, her head on the muddy lap of Ed Riggs. The sinking feeling that he felt a moment before continued as he realized that he had all but confessed to Ed Riggs, the man still alive and sitting on the ground next to Thompson Bog.


Ed Riggs sat on the front stoop of the Miller trailer in the glow of the single bare bulb from inside and the headlights from three police cars. The doctor was dressing his leg. Chief McLean came up and rested a foot on the stoop.

“You gonna be OK?” he asked his Detective Sergeant.

“Yeah, Jethro, now I am. The Miller girl is in the swamp, weighed down - I think by the cinder-block anchor from old man Miller's boat.”

“Yeah, we figured. Miller's devastated, but he's also under arrest for shooting Martha.”

“She gonna pull through?”

Chief McLean looked at the disappearing taillights, the waning siren as the ambulance jostled up the dirt road back to the county highway. “I don't know. She was hit pretty bad. She came out here looking for you, you know.”

“She's a good girl. And Frank?” asked Ed.

Chief McLean sucked in a hard breath.

“In cuffs. He shot Harlen Eldridge in cold blood. My guess is he killed the Miller girl too.”

“Yeah, that's my guess too. I think she might have put the screws to him, wanted him to leave his wife or she'd tell, something like that. There's a mark on her head could have been a pistol butt.”

“You saw her up close?” Chief McLean turned back to look at the detective's face in the glow of the car lights.

“Yeah. It's a picture that I won't get out of my head soon.”


Martha Sawyer died from her wounds before she reached the hospital. She was never aware that they had found Ed Riggs in the swamp.

Collin Miller was charged with murder. He died in jail of a heart attack while awaiting trial.

Ed Riggs filled out his report and went home for a much needed rest.

Chief McLean went back to Sophie's place where he poured himself a stiff drink and fell asleep on her lap.

Edna Morton eventually divorced her husband, liquidated her holdings and moved out of state, returning to her maiden name of Eldridge.

Frank Morton was charged with the murder of his father-in-law and that of Clara Miller. The Miller girl was found to have been pregnant at the time of her death. Frank received consecutive life sentences.

Al Gaither returned home to find his wife waiting up for him. She looked up from her book. “Rough night?” she asked. “No, about usual,” he replied.

To this day, no one has moved into the trailer at Thompson Bog.