Murder at Thompson Bog

Episode 1

The first chill was settling on the fields around the sparse woods by Thompson Bog. The shallow, muddy water that dominated Thompson Wood in Landon County was a dangerous place for anyone. Local legend was filled with stories of people who went in and never came out.

On this night in the autumn of 1954, voices were raised in a trailer house at the end of the swamp. The shrill tones of a young girl were heard, screaming at the top of her voice, “I won't! I'll tell and you can't stop me.”

The door flung open, spraying scant light from the bare bulb across the muddy yard. The girl ran out of the trailer door in Capri pants, dirty, white blouse and bare feet. She was crying.

The girl jumped to the bottom of the crude wooden steps as the door banged on the side of the trailer and slammed shut, closing off the light and leaving the yard once again in total blackness. In the dark of the new moon, clouds hung over the swamp, shutting out the stars.

The door banged opened a second time and the girl turned, half defiant, half fearful. She never heard the sound of the blow. Her body fell to the ground and didn't move. In the dim, eerie glow of the single bulb, a man leaned over the girl, took one wrist and dragged her body across the muddy yard down to the edge of the swamp.

The light from the trailer's bulb seemed to stop at the edge of the bog, making it hard to make out the broken wooden pier and flat-bottomed boat tied there. The man loosened the cinder block that passed for an anchor and tied it to the girl's waist. He took two steps into the bog and dropped the girl in. The cinder block sank below the surface, pulling the girl's body in after. The man stood knee-deep, watching her body sink slowly into the thick, black water.

As the dirty, white blouse disappeared beneath the water, the girl regained consciousness. She opened her mouth to cry out, but the dark, murky water stifled her cry and she slipped below the water line. There were ripples along the surface; cat-tails swayed as she struggled beneath the murky sludge. Then the agitation stopped. All was still again.

The man who had dragged the girl so roughly to her grave stepped back onto the solid ground next to the broken pier. He went to the trailer, turned off the light and closed the door behind him. He went around to a car behind the trailer, got in and, without turning on the lights, sped down the road toward the two-lane blacktop.

A half-hour later, an aging truck came up the road making a racket and bouncing beams of light across sparse trees at the edge of the bog. The loose tools in the back coupled with the age and the poor driving of the inebriated driver made for a noisy ride. Collin Miller stepped out of the truck and opened the door to the trailer, “Clara! Where are ya, girl?” There was no response. The old man stumbled to the back of the trailer and fell onto the bed, unconscious.

The following morning Collin Miller walked into the police station. “My Clara never come home last night,” he told the clerk. “I think she had a man in there whilst I was gone. The place is a mess. T'ain't like her.”

Martha Sawyer took the statement. “We'll look into it,” she said.


It was overcast all day, so mid-afternoon looked near dark when the two detectives made it over to the Miller place to look for signs of the girl.

“She's not here,” said Frank Morton, a detective for the Landon County Police Department. He rocked his hat back on his head, unbuttoned his overcoat and looked around the trailer.

“Nope. But I've got blood out here,” said Detective Sergeant Ed Riggs. He knelt down to get a closer look at the blood, noticing something in the dirt. “Got drag marks, too.”

Detective Morton stood at the door looking down at the dirt. “I don't see 'em.” He pushed his black-framed glasses tighter on his nose and took a flashlight from the pocket of his overcoat. The dim beam of light found the marks in question. “Could have been anything, some piece of trash or old box – anything.”

Ed Riggs stood up, his flashlight in his hand and looked at his partner. How could he not see that the marks were plainly someone being dragged? Ed pulled his overcoat closed against the growing chill and turned his flashlight on. He began walking along side of the drag marks, talking as he went. He was talking; whether his inexperienced partner was listening was his own affair.

“There are two marks here, I'd say something about 80 or 90 pounds, like the Miller girl. There's other footprints but the ground's too hard and uneven, I can't make 'em out. Could be a man in city shoes. Miller's footprints are all over; you can see that he has these farm boots and they're all worn out.” He stopped at the edge of the wood. It was not smart to go into a swamp at night; all manner of things awaited the unwary, things living and things not living.

After a brief discussion with himself, Ed Riggs turned to his partner. Frank Morton's tall, thin body was still silhouetted by the harsh light of the trailer's bare bulb. “You comin'?”

Frank Morton stepped out of the trailer, down the wood step and across the yard to the swamp, careful not to step in the blood.

“Watch it, man, those footprints are evidence. See? They go down to the old boat dock there.”

Both men shined their lights into the dark wood. A small wooden dock, ungainly and broken from years of use with no upkeep, jutted out over the shallow bog. Tied to it was Miller's rowboat. The drag marks went right to the dock and scrapes in the ancient wood continued out to where the boat was tied. Ed Riggs walked toward the dock, followed hesitantly by his partner.

“He dragged her here, but didn't take the boat. Why would he take her this far and not take the boat?” Ed Riggs aimed his flashlight into the boat to see that it held an inch of water. “Oh,” said the Detective Sergeant, and began scanning the swamp with his light.

Large Cypress trees seemed to hold the swamp in place with giant fingers, keeping it from sinking down to where everything ever dropped into the water had gone. The bog was shades of black, creating a barrier against the meager flashlight.

“There's something here, looks like someone stepped in, making a hole in the vegetation. There's something there, too. It seems darker over there, if that's possible.”
The younger detective stood on the pier, not wanting to sully his shoes, as the older detective stepped off into the swamp. He took two steps, then a cautious third.

“This could be solid under here, but there's quick places all over.”

The third step proved him right as Ed Riggs slipped, sinking right up to his neck. He tried to raise a hand, but doing so only pulled him down further, his chin and mouth dipping below the surface. When he pulled his head up, his chin and mouth were covered with gray-brown mud.

“Quick place, Frank! Help me out!”

Frank Morton squatted down on his feet, close to the water. He put his arms on his knees, his hands dangling inward.

“Are ya goin' under, Ed?”

“Yes, you fool, can't you see I'm going under? Pull me out of this crap!”

Frank Morton turned his flashlight off, took a deep breath and looked around. Then he looked back at his partner.

“Well, I would, Ed, but then you wouldn't have the pleasure of meeting Clara Miller while you're down there. Sorry!” Frank chuckled, just enough to let his partner know that he was not sorry. He was not sorry at all.

The thin man watched his partner sink slowly down into the muck. He continued to watch the water churn as Ed Riggs struggled. He watched until the water is still.

“Say 'Hi' to Clara,” he said to the surface of the bog.

Frank Morton stood up, turned on his flashlight and made his way back to the black '52 Ford parked on the dirt road at the edge of the bog. He got in and started the car. Taking the microphone from the cradle he called in.

“This is Frank Morton. Ed Riggs and I came up here to see about the missing Miller girl. Ed fell into the bog and got sucked under before I could get to him. I'm afraid he's gone.” Frank ended the conversation before there could be another side to it. He returned the mic to the holder on the dash and gave the dark woods one final glance, smiling.

“That worked out well,” thought Frank Morton, as he put the car in gear and released the clutch.