Authors: Harry N. MacLean
Stratton monitored the radio traffic as he approached Fillmore. The patrol was dispatching steadily on the incident, and he could tell that sheriffs' cars from Nodaway, Andrews, and Buchanan counties, as well as local police departments, were in on the chase.
Stratton slowed down as he entered Fillmore and came to a halt at the center of town, where H crossed A. At almost the same instant, a green Chevy pickup pulled up opposite him, heading south. Stratton looked up at the driver and recognized the hulking form of Ken McElroy. In the passenger seat was a blond woman, Trena. Stratton could make out their features clearly, and McElroy's jaw seemed to drop two inches when he looked across the intersection and recognized Stratton. I told you there'd be a payback for the hog deal, Stratton thought. What goes around, comes around.
McElroy turned and said something to Trena. Then he looked back at Stratton. Stratton himself was somewhat taken aback; he had figured running down McElroy would be a lot harder than this. He grabbed his mike to call in the sighting, just as McElroy began driving slowly across the intersection. Sure that McElroy was listening to every word, Stratton described the truck to the dispatcher, noting the white CB antenna, the chrome mirrors, and the white brush guard. He let McElroy come on through the intersection, then made a U-turn and dropped in behind him, staying about twenty-five yards back. His radio crackled, and the dispatcher reported that the truck was registered to a Tammy McElroy, and matched the description of the one seen in Skidmore at the time of the shooting. The adrenaline hit Stratton's system in a blast: I've got the bastard cold!
The truck picked up speed to about 40 miles per hour, and Stratton a A\s\a.tvee cA about \Oft teeV \ishv% tveWhet t
The two vehicles passed the schoolhouse and the double-S curve a few miles south of Fillmore, Stratton still hanging back, not crowding McElroy. As the other deputies and patrolmen heard Stratton's dispatch, the chatter of locations and instructions increased. Stratton could tell they were closing in from all directions, and he could sense their excitement. He would dog McElroy until three or four other cars were in position, probably around Route 59, and then he would close in quickly.
McElroy must have understood the transmissions and sensed the trap. His left-turn signal blinked and he turned east onto a gravel road.
He's trying to take me into the bush, thought Stratton. No way I can let that happen.
The gravel roads wound around and forked off in all directions in that area. If Stratton let McElroy pull him into the maze, the other cars would never be able to find them. He was headed for isolated country, no place for a gunfight, particularly not with two against one. He radioed his position and told the dispatcher that he was going to take McElroy alone, then and there. Figuring that McElroy might run for it, Stratton checked his seat belt and equipment, then flipped on his red light. The Chevy pickup eased onto the shoulder and stopped.
Stratton pulled up about twelve feet behind the Chevy, angling his front end slightly toward the center of the road so he could use his door as a shield. He flicked on his bright lights and trained the spotlight on the rear window of the truck. Stratton grabbed his riot gun, a Remington Wingmaster 12-gauge pump, loaded with shells containing nine 00 buck pellets. With its barrel sawed off to nineteen inches, the riot gun was a short-range weapon designed to stop a human being by ripping him apart or an automobile by shredding its block. Stratton wanted all the firepower he could get, and he wanted it from the very beginning. If McElroy came out shooting, there would be no time-out while Stratton got his gun. As he pushed the door open with his elbow, he pumped a shell into the chamber. He flipped the safety off with his thumb and wrapped his finger around the trigger, which didn't take much of a squeeze. He stood behind the door with the shotgun at a forty-five-degree angle, ready to lower the barrel and fire in an instant.
Stratton had been trained to exercise restraint with firearms, to avoid firing until absolutely sure that the other person had a weapon and was going to use it. But Stratton had no intention of holding back this time. That split second could be the difference between living and dying. If McElroy appeared in the door with a shotgun, if Stratton saw a shotgun in motion, he would shoot to kill.
Stratton had a buzz in his system, but he wasn't shaking. Concentrating on survival, he was methodically planning each move he would make. First he had to get McElroy out of the truck, then Trena. Afterward, he would get both of them to the back of the truck, cuffed and under his control.
"Ken McElroy," Stratton said, not yelling, but commanding, "open the door and step outside." Thinking that McElroy might roll out of the truck onto the ground and begin firing, Stratton lowered his shotgun a couple of degrees in the direction of the driver's door.
The door opened slowly, a brown cowboy boot gingerly pushing the bottom edge out. Gradually the door widened, and Stratton could see blue jeans and then a leg from the knee down. McElroy's left hand appeared in the light, about shoulder level, palm out and fingers spread wide. Stratton knew the open hand was for his benefit. Then the right hand appeared, palm out and fingers spread. Stratton's eyes flicked to the rear window and Trena's blond head. He considered her to be every bit as dangerous as Ken McElroy, but as far as he could tell, she hadn't moved since he put the spotlight on them. She appeared to be looking straight ahead. McElroy pivoted in his seat, and his right boot stuck out. He slid from the seat and stood erect, arms outstretched, palms out and fingers open. He's never been dumb, Stratton thought. He's buying all the insurance he can.
"Ken McElroy," he said, "you're under arrest for investigation of assault with a deadly weapon."
Stratton looked McElroy over. His rust-trimmed beige knit shirt stretched tight over his huge belly. His jeans were tight, too, and his belt disappeared under a massive layer of flesh. Knowing that McElroy often carried a .38 on his person, Stratton looked for the bulge of a hidden handgun in the tight clothing.
"What do you mean?" Ken asked.
"You're wanted for a shooting in Skidmore," said Stratton. "Who got shot?" McElroy asked innocently. "Turn around."
Stratton came out from behind the door but kept the shotgun angled only a degree or two over McElroy's head. Both men seemed to understand that one quick move, a lunge by McElroy or Trena's door flying open, and Stratton would blow McElroy's head off. Although Stratton held the weapon, they were still two to one against him.
McElroy turned around slowly, feet spread, hands out. No bulges showed in the small of his back or in the belt line of his rear pockets. McElroy might have a weapon in his boot, but he would have to make a move for it, and Stratton felt sure he could beat him.
"Walk to the back of the pickup and put both hands on the tailgate with your feet spread," Stratton ordered. McElroy obeyed, moving slowly and deliberately, uttering no arguments or curses. Stratton turned to the other source of danger.
"Trena, get out of the truck," he said loudly. He stepped toward the center of the road, out of her line of vision in the rear-view mirror. He didn't want her to know exactly where he was. Stratton had known Trena for a long time, having first met her when she was fifteen. At twenty-five, she looked sorrier than hell.
"Slide over under the wheel and come out the left side of the truck," he said. He didn't want the truck between her and him. But the right door popped open.
Here we go, thought Stratton, lowering the barrel a fraction. Here's where it all comes undone.
The door opened the rest of the way, and Trena stepped out. She stood on the far side of the truck bed, which covered her from her chest down. She was wearing a light blue T-shirt. She looked first at Stratton, then McElroy. Stratton could not see her hands.
"Hold it right there," he said. "Put your hands above the bed." He glanced over at McElroy, who hadn't moved an inch.
"Do what he says," McElroy said, probably realizing that he was in the line of fire between Stratton and Trena. She put her hands up, and Stratton directed her to the back of the truck. He moved McElroy to the left taillight and put Trena at the right one. Stratton thought of handcuffing them one by one, but decided it would be too risky. He had the situation under control. I could sit here until midnight, he thought, pointing the barrel of the shotgun over their heads. The voices on the radio told him that the other cars were getting close and would arrive in a couple of minutes.
"Who was it got shot?" Trena asked, not turning her head.
"The grocer in Skidmore," Stratton replied.
"I ain't shot nobody," McElroy protested.
"He was home with me," Trena said. "All night. He didn't go anywhere."
Stratton was still in the center of the road, out of their sight. He kicked some gravel, then crept back behind the door. If they moved, they would go for him in the center of the road, and that would give him the advantage he needed. He checked the safety to make sure it was off, then just stood and waited.
He could hear the motors humming and see the red lights flashing in his peripheral vision as two cars arrived from opposite directions-a patrol car heading south and an Andrew County sheriff's car coming north.
"It's all right; it's secure," Stratton said to the two officers as they jumped from their cars, guns drawn. They covered McElroy while Stratton reached inside his car, grabbed the mike, and reported in that he was O.K. Two other patrol cars arrived, followed a few seconds later by three or four more police cars.
Stratton walked up to McElroy and cuffed him, hands behind his back, while another officer cuffed Trena. McElroy's forearms were as big as an ordinary man's legs, and his wrists were only slightly narrower. The cuffs only clicked one or two notches, and Stratton worried that they might not hold.
"The cuffs are too tight," complained McElroy.
"You'll live, " replied Stratton.
Stratton pulled McElroy's jeans up and felt around inside his boot for a weapon, then put him into the right front seat of the patrol car. Patrolman Riney sat in the back seat, and Stratton pulled out his plastic card and read McElroy his Miranda rights. In the background, the radio broadcast the details of the arrest. McElroy sat quietly, staring out the window.
Before driving away with his prisoner, Stratton walked over to the truck and searched it. It was clean-no guns, no ammo, no casings, no boxes, nothing. McElroy must have run home, cleaned out the Chevy, and grabbed Trena before heading for the river. Another fifteen minutes, Stratton thought, and he would have made it.
Because the arrest was made in Andrew County, Stratton drove his prisoner to the sheriff's office in Savannah. Trena rode in another patrol car, and a deputy drove the green Chevy. While McElroy was being booked and fingerprinted, Stratton and a deputy talked with the Nodaway County sheriff, who had primary jurisdiction in the shooting. The sheriff told Stratton that because McElroy had been alone when he shot Bo, they had no grounds to hold Trena, and she should be released.
Sergeant Rhoades and Stratton felt sure that McElroy wouldn't talk, but they asked him a couple of questions, just in case.
"I don't know anything about it. It wasn't me. I didn't shoot anybody," he responded each time. "I want to talk to my lawyer." After a few minutes, Stratton and Rhoades looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and gave up.
About ten minutes after Trena was released from custody, the telephone rang in Stratton's home. His wife, Margaret, answered, and a man's voice said, "Something bad's going to happen to your husband. He's not going to live until the trial." Click.
Margaret called 911 and within three minutes, a St. Joe policeman was at her door. The officer called Troop H and learned that Stratton had busted Ken McElroy. The officer then called his supervisor, who told him to stay with Mrs. Stratton until ordered to do otherwise. A patrolman called Stratton at the sheriff's office in Savannah, where he was still processing McElroy, and told him of the phone call.
Stratton called home immediately.
"What's going on?" Margaret said anxiously.
"I got Ken McElroy tonight," he responded.
Stratton thought he understood the call: As soon as Trena was released, she probably called one of McElroy's friends in St. Joe and told him what had happened.
Later, as Stratton and Rhoades were talking, McElroy approached them, looked Rhoades in the eye, and said, "You got an oak bookcase in your study that has a top shelf filled with books bound in leather. Three of the books are red, three are brown, and two are black."
Saying nothing, Rhoades and Stratton turned and walked outside. "He's never been inside my house and, as far as I know, he's never even been at my door," Rhoades said. "He's right on the bookcase and the colors, but wrong on the number of books."