Murder at Thompson Bog

Episode 4


Police Chief Jethro McLean took a few bills out of his wallet and laid them on the dresser. He took one look back at the naked body in the bed. “Good night, Sophie.”

“'Night, Jethro,” came a sleepy voice from the bed.

Chief McLean walked out into the night, around the line of small cabins to the parking lot and climbed into his car, a four-year-old Chrysler. As the Chief, he drove a newer car, but newer cars got noticed and he didn't feel like being noticed tonight; he drove the older one.

As he pulled out onto the main road, he thought to himself that he had things pretty well covered. After all, his wife knew about his mistress and didn't care, his mistress knew he wasn't going to leave his wife and didn't care, and his best detective was busy solving all the outstanding cases. He didn't have a care in the world.

As police chief, he could have pulled the car over that passed him going so fast, but he had just come from Sophie's and he didn't really feel like it. But as the car went by, easily twenty miles over the limit, it was not that it was speeding that distracted him, but that it was familiar; he knew that car. It was Martha Sawyer's car. Now where was she going in such a hurry?

Chief McLean stepped on the pedal and followed the tail lights of the disappearing Chevy wagon. Martha had worked for him 13 years and he had never known her to break a law, even a speed limit. There had to be an emergency.


Ed Riggs let go of the rope that held Clara Miller close to him. He watched her drift away, slowly sinking into the black water of the bog. Her eyes showed no protest as they slipped beneath the surface, disappearing into the thick, slimy water. He drew a deep, musky breath and tried to focus on the task at hand. Clara Miller's life was gone, but his was still intact.

Ed Riggs pulled himself up through the giant roots, completely out of the water. His overcoat was gone. His gun was gone and the holster was torn. One of his shoes was gone, sucked down in the mud. He fell back on the dry mound that met his hand and gave thanks for being alive. He decided to rest before considering any next steps.

The darkness that surrounded him, the overcast day that was now turning into night, brought no light to shine on the mystery of Clara Miller. She had been murdered, that much was clear. Old man Miller was nowhere to be found. His partner had all but confessed to the deed. But why? If he killed her, why blurt out words that could be construed as a confession? Unless he was sure that the Detective Sergeant would soon be dead. Then why not put a bullet through him and be sure? Was Detective Morton as big an idiot as was generally thought?

The sight of the Miller girl came back into his head. He wanted to force it out, but it wouldn't go. There was something about it that didn't look right; something just as she sank into the bog. Yes, it was her forehead, there was a mark on it, an indentation. It looked just like a gun butt.

Then Ed remembered Frank, his partner, his junior detective, looking at him and not lifting a finger to pull him from the bog as he sank deeper. He remembers what he said, about meeting the Miller girl. Frank knew the Miller girl was down there. Frank could have taken the oar from Miller's boat and reached him, but he didn't. He could have jumped in the shallow part and saved his boss's life, but he didn't.

“Sorry”, Frank had said with a shallow laugh. Ed remembered how Frank had laughed. It filled him with conflicting thoughts and feelings. He remembered the years in uniform, when they came up through the ranks together, how when Ed was made detective, how he brought Frank along and vouched for him. He had mentored the man out of friendship, made him his partner. When Ed made sergeant he kept Frank with him, covering for his mistakes, thinking of his wife's family, who would hold it over him forever if he didn't succeed.

Frank had married up, Edna's folks were not stinking rich, as it were, but they were well off. If they hadn't been, Frank wouldn't have been able to afford that lovely house and new car. He pictured the new '54 Fairlane, Edna getting out of it with her short stole as Frank held the door. Edna was a fashion statement but all their friends knew that it was daddy's money, not Frank's. He had made detective, with Ed's help, but couldn't seem to advance further. Edna's family never let Frank forget that he was lucky to have her; he was, after all a mere Morton, not an Eldridge like them. Ed guessed the disdain of his family drove Frank to the arms of the easily impressed girl from the poor side of town.

Clara Miller was trailer trash of the first order. She was all curves and short-shorts, bursting out of her top and completely out of control. Old man Miller had no rein on her. She was a hopeless flirt.

Frank wouldn't have left his wife to marry Clara, no matter what. To leave his wife would be to leave the family money. Clara was young and pretty but still poor white trash and he was not about to leave the crest of the hill for the edge of the bog. There was little doubt that Frank had slipped off with the Miller girl, or that he was probably the one who killed her. Her hair and blood might still be on the butt of his pistol.

“He's probably telling them right now that his partner is dead, slipped beneath the swamp never to be seen again,” Ed thought. There might be a search, but Frank would convince them it would be fruitless. He would point them in a different direction.

Still, a search could happen. It was better to believe a search could be in the works than not. If they came this way, they'd find him and he would be saved. Of course, he'd have to arrest Frank at the earliest opportunity and take that gun away from him.



Martha Sawyer had locked up the police station and pushed her green Chevrolet station wagon as hard as she dared out the old dirt road to Thompson Bog, the muddy depression that was the only swamp land in Landon County. She had taken the strongest light she could find and her winter boots. She was not going to give up without a search. Ed Riggs was too good a man to just let die in the swamp; someone had to at least try to find him. She didn't notice that the car she passed on the two-lane blacktop was her boss; she only knew that the headlights were not fading away behind her fast enough. Whoever it was she had passed was now chasing her.

Martha reached into the glove box and took out the .38 revolver. If this was someone who was a danger, he would not find her a willing victim.

The lights picked up behind her and Martha stepped harder on the gas, nearly going off the road at Turner's Trace. The wheels hit dirt and spun as a flume of dirt and mud flew up behind the wagon. Back on pavement again, the wagon shot forward with a jerk, then lurched as she spun the wheel, pulling onto Old New Hope Church Road and down toward the wetlands where the Miller trailer stood.

At the wide spot in the road, the broken-down trailer and the ratty remains of a small pier were the only sign that man had ever put a foot here. The clouds hid the moon and stars, leaving only a few remaining lightning bugs to give any natural light.

Martha pulled the car up, spraying the cat tails with light. Small animals scurried for cover as Martha got out of the car and turned on her flashlight. She started toward the pier.

Behind her a second pair of headlights pulled up and the chief's Chrysler came to a stop next to the station wagon. Martha turned ready for battle, then stopped and lowered her pistol when she saw it was Chief McLean.

“Martha, what the hell are you up to?” yelled McLean.

“Chief, don't come up on me like that, I nearly shot you for a poacher.”

“Well, who did you expect? Why aren't you at the office or home? What are you up to out here at this hour?”

“You haven't heard? The swamp took Ed Riggs. He was out here looking for the Miller girl with Frank and fell in. Frank came back saying he was a goner for sure but wasn't going to look for him. I just figured I wasn't going to let it go at that; someone's go to at least try, for Pete's sake!”

“Ed gone? When did this happen?”

“Within the hour. I left as soon as Frank was gone.”

“So where's Frank? Is he out here?” said the chief, looking around, half expecting to see his only remaining detective.

“No,” said Martha, sharply. “He went home to get a good rest so he can start fresh in the morning, he said. He's already moved into Ed's desk. I'm out here alone.”

“And with a gun, I see.” said the chief, looking at Martha's pistol. “Is that standard issue?”

“I'm not coming out here unarmed. You can site me in the morning, but tonight, I'm going looking for Ed Riggs and not coming home without him or his body.” Martha turned sharply and began walking toward the pier.

“Wait up a minute,” said McLean. He went to his trunk, opened it and came out with a flashlight and a pump-action shotgun. “As long as you're going to do something crazy, you may as well have company.”