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hen the skeletal remains of local WWII hero Wille Barnes were unearthed while repairing the rotten cement foundation of Pumphouse 17 out by Millford Reservoir on May 23, 1988, it partially solved a decades-old mystery dating back to July 27, 1953. That’s the date he disappeared, tragically leaving behind his remaining family Shelley, his wife, and son David to face a hardscrabble life until she remarried eight years later.
Notice I said “partially solved.”
Notice that I also mentioned Willie’s “remaining” family.
Both, as things turned out, were vitally important for what my father told me shortly after Willie’s skeleton was found, and the story hit the local rag like stink in a florist’s shop.
As I said, when Willie’s remains turned up in the rotten concrete floor of pumphouse 17, it answered the “where” of the mystery. But it didn’t explain the “who or why.”
Turns out the real, underlying reason Willie ended up as an impromptu additive to a batch of concrete back in ’53 was for very dark reasons.
My father told me the rest of the story two months ago before cancer finished him off. I’d gone to visit him that particular day, and it was a steamy August bastard. I was glad when baby sitting the BBQ pit and brisket was over and the beer drinking, eating, and bull session moved indoors, along with a couple dozen ’skeeters or so.
Two hours later with several beers apiece behind us and lightning flashing in the west (setting the stage for more ’skeeters), I casually mentioned the subject of Willie Barnes’s skeletal remains turning up in the concrete floor of pumphouse 17. Dad, who was pretty well into his cups, turned to me with haunted eyes and said, “Thought I could take the secret to the grave, son, but I can’t. You see, I killed Willie Barnes and buried him in the new concrete floor of pumphouse 17 that summer in ’53.”
I was as shocked as some idiot who’d stuck his finger in a 220 outlet while pissing on an electric fence. “In God’s name, why?” I blurted. “Willie was your best friend, from what you’ve said. Why, he’d even saved your life in WW II!”
“Some people simply aren’t fit to live,” dad said bluntly. Sighing, he added, “Regardless of what Willie did for me in Iwo Jima, what he did years later offset that 100 to 1. I’ll get to that later, but to do so, I gotta spill the whole thing.
“True, Willie and I had always been best friends. We’d both loved fishing down by pumphouse 17 at the reservoir year-round since we were kids. If you couldn’t find us anywhere else, you’d find us there. Back then, the hike to the pumphouse was a scratchy two mile booger lined with stinging nettles and blackberry bushes, so you had to want to find us pretty bad.
“Pumphouse 17 was one of those ugly duckling WPA buildings built during the depression. There’s only three pumphouses out at the reservoir, so why it was tagged with the number 17 is beyond me. The feds funded it, so there you go.
“As far as work quality goes, pumphouse 17 was pretty forgettable. Heavy rains in the summers of ’51 and ’52 pretty much polished off the rotting concrete floor. So in late winter and early spring of ’53, I started removing the rotted cement floor in preparation for pouring a new slab.
“But I’m getting ahead of myself.
“Back in ’42 when Willie enlisted, I signed on with him. Friggin’ Mutt and Jeff, we were. Where you found one, you found the other. We both ended up in the Pacific Theater in Iwo Jima fighting side by side. And let me tell you: that rocky Pacific armpit of an island was the closest thing to hell on earth I’ve ever seen.
“One day during intense fighting, I took a round in the gut from a Japanese sniper hidden in one of the numerous rocky caves and crevasses. Willie saved my life and earned a Purple Heart, taking two bullets in the leg and a glancer off his temple while lugging my 200 pound carcass to safety on his back. I took another bullet in the ass along the way, and they never quite got it all removed.
“That’s why I always took a crap with one cheek hanging half off the stool.
“Anyway, after Willie and I reached safety, we were critical for days before pulling through, and so shot up that we were honorably discharged and sent home. We sat out the rest of the war fishing down by pumphouse 17, and didn’t mind one little bit.
“Back then, serving your country still stood for something, and I got a job straight off doing pump motor maintenance for Millford Power and Light. Putting me in charge of the pumphouses at Millford was like giving a mouse a job in a cheese factory ’cause that meant Willie and I could drive to within about a tenth of a mile of pumphouse 17 by passing through a locked gate behind the power plant, and fish our asses off.
“By then, pumphouse 17 and the rest of the power plant grounds were off limits to the general public because there’d been a spate of vandalism. Only myself and Willie had a key. Only three or four other locals were allowed back there to fish and they had to call me, first. Things went on that way until the summer of ’53.
“One Friday night the day before things went crazy, Willie called to see if I wanted to go fishing out at pumphouse 17 Saturday morning. I was coming down with a mild bug, so I begged off.
“But by ten next morning, I was feeling better so I loaded up my truck with fishing gear, and off I went. Rather than park at the usual spot outside the locked gate by Willie’s car, I thought it might be fun to take the older, longer trail to the pumphouse because of the scenery. So I unlocked the gate, drove through, relocked it, and parked at the far end of the lot behind some discarded diesel engine parts and lumber where the old trail started.
“About two-thirds of the way to pumphouse 17, I was surprised by the muffled sobs of a girl off in the woods to my left. Alarmed and concerned, I leaned my fishing gear and pole against a tree, and worked my way closer.” Dad paused and wiped his sweaty brow at horrible memories. “What I saw next was the last thing I ever expected to see.
“I’d crawled up to the edge of a small clearing in the middle of the forest, and came upon Willie and his daughter Becky. He was - - having sex with her. And I could tell that it was far from the first time. At some point in the past, he’d obviously roughed her up when she’d resisted his advances. Shown her who was ‘in charge’, so to speak.
“You’ve got to remember that this was back in the early ’50s, son, and not like it is today with all these whiny-ass nutsos running around raping and doing drive-bys for kicks. Back then, such things were flat unknown.
And had such things been known, who was going to doubt the word of a decorated war vet in good social standing over the word of his sixteen year-old daughter? Just knowing that made my gorge rise, and I had to stifle a gag to keep from being heard.
“Good thing I did, ’cause Willie had a shotgun resting on a log about six feet away. And I knew he’d use if he discovered I was there; knew it just as sure as you find flies on shit. I lay on the ground for the next twenty minutes with ants crawling all over me, too afraid to move. Every so often, Becky would sob and whimper while her beast of a father pawed and had at her.
“Willie finally finished, and was pulling up his pants when Becky made the mistake of stuttering out that she’d missed her period, and thought she might be pregnant.
“Facing in my direction thirty feet away, Willie glared down at Becky as if it was her fault, and I never saw a colder, more inhuman light in anyone’s eyes. It only flashed there for a second, and then he covered it up. Becky never saw it, because her head was lowered in shame and fright at her predicament.
Then my dad’s eyes grew distant and misty, and his lower lip trembled. Emitting a shuddery sob, he added, “But nothing on God’s earth could have prepared me for what came next. I swear on your mother’s grave, son, if I’d had even a pocketknife on me that day, I’d have charged the bastard, and taken my chances despite his shotgun lying within easy reach. Didn’t even have a fillet knife in my fishing gear.
“Anyway, Willie kneeled, leaned forward, smiled, and extended his arms to Becky, telling her not to worry. Incredibly, Becky responded and embraced him, reaching out to the one person who should care.
“Then while cradling her head to his chest, Willie grabbed her long blonde hair with one hand from behind, jerking and twisting hard. Becky’s neck broke with a series of muffled pops, like firecrackers going off inside a birdhouse.
“I bit my tongue so hard to keep from screaming that it bled for the next three days. Keeping quiet, I watched in shock as Willie stood over the body of his daughter in indifferent silence. After a few moments, he kneeled, scooped her up, and slung her over his shoulder like you or I would a bag of feed. Then he kneeled and grabbed the shotgun with his free hand, and left the clearing for his car.
“I waited for an hour before daring to head back the way I’d come. . .and then it hit me: If I’d parked in my usual spot, my vehicle would have been right next to Willie’s car, and I’d have been up one hell of a nasty creek.
“But that’s not the way it was, and that’s when I decided what had to be done: for better or worse, I had to take care of Willie, myself. Maybe the inhuman thing he’d become was partly due to the bullet wound to his head he’d received during the war, and not entirely his fault. But I wonder.
“Anyway, it made no difference.
“The monster he’d become could not be allowed to live, and I dared not risk placing his justice in the hands of the law. Willie might avoid prosecution, and he might do further harm.
“And sure enough, it got around town that evening that his daughter Becky’d had a tragic accident while riding her horse at the back end of the pasture behind the Barnes’s home that afternoon.
“That night at dinner your mom commented how my color was off and that I’d barely touched my dinner, and scolded the fire out of me for going to the reservoir instead of resting like I’d promised. Later in front of the TV she got in one last shot, commenting that she thought the reservoir ‘wasn’t good for me, sometimes.’ She couldn’t have been more right that particular day, but for reasons she’d never believe.
“One thing’s sure: being out there sure as hell hadn’t done Becky any good.
“Later that night while I tossed and turned in bed unable to sleep, I pondered the dilemma of where to bury Willie’s body where no one would think to look, after I’d killed him. And then it hit me: beneath the floor of pumphouse 17. What could be more fitting than to bury the murderous bastard within spitting distance of his favorite fishing hole? The beauty of the solution was that I’d already removed most of the old, rotted concrete in preparation for pouring the new slab. No one else at the plant ever ventured out there, so if I did the work myself, no one would ever know. The pumphouses were always locked 24-7 to prevent vandalism, so it was unlikely the authorities would bother to look there, even if they had reason to search the fishing spot, which they might.
“Over the next three weeks, I spent time removing the rest of the concrete and dumping it in the reservoir. When I was through, I’d removed a section four by nine by two feet deep. Once Willie’s body was placed there, I’d space rebar in the floor, pour the concrete, smooth it out, and be done with it.
“With Willie’s grave dug, it was time to move the bags of concrete to the pumphouse. It took a lot of backbreaking labor to lug those sacks of concrete a tenth of a mile and store them inside after dark. It damn near broke me, and your mom wondered more than once why I was too tired later at night to make love during that five night stretch.
“Waiting for the right time to snuff Willie was hard, but I had to plan it so he’d be out there alone and your mom and you would be away. I’d known for years that Willie didn’t tell his wife Shelley doodledy about his comings and goings. When he decided to go fishing, he just up and went without saying ‘boo.’ So one Saturday when he called later that spring, I begged off.
“Around noon, I drove out to the power plant. After making sure Willie wasn’t anywhere around, I unlocked the gate, drove through, relocked it, and parked my truck out back where it couldn’t be seen.
“Then I hiked to a concealing stand of Elms by the pumphouse, patiently watched Willie fish, and waited for the right moment. It came while he was bent over the bank putting a nice-sized bass on his stringer. With my fillet knife drawn, I crept up noiselessly to within ten feet of him.
“Everything went perfectly until a damn covey of quail in the underbrush somewhere behind me exploded skyward with a furious beating of wings. Startled, Willie turned and saw me with the fillet knife even as I lunged at him. Without nothing being said, the dark, reptilian part of him knew why I was there.
“Willie wasn’t very big, but he was wiry as hell. He caught my wrist in his hand even as I made to plunge the knife into his chest. We struggled on the slippery, algae-coated rocks on the bank like a couple of drunken walruses before both of us slipped and fell. There by the water’s edge, he and I were locked in a muddy death grip, rolling around with that fillet knife poised quivering two inches above his chest. Then in superhuman desperation and fear, he wrenched my arm and the knife to one side, smashing my wrist on a rock. It hurt so bad I thought he’d broken it, but somehow I maintained my grip on the knife.
“But during the split second or two when I was focused on the pain in my wrist, Willie wriggled from beneath me like a muddy eel, lurched upright, and aimed a murderous kick at my ribcage. But he slipped on the rocks and impaled himself through his neck on my upturned knife.
“Somehow, Willie managed to regain his feet. Then, swaying like a drunken tree in a high wind, he tumbled into the reservoir with a wheezy grunt and splash.
Then dad chuckled, shaking his head. “If I’d gone to a movie and seen that, I’d have laughed my ass off and asked for my money back. But that’s the way it happened.
“Anyway, I was panting like a dog, and my poor wrist was throbbing like hell. I rested a few minutes on the bank, and then waded out into the water, retrieved my knife, and felt through his pockets until I found his car keys. Then I weighed his body down with rocks to let him bleed out, and keep his body hidden in case someone came by.
“But I was far from finished.
“Wading back to shore I donned gloves, gathered all his fishing gear, and placed them at the door of the pumphouse, and unlocked it. Then I returned to the reservoir, retrieved his body, tied a rag around his neck so as not to leave any trace of blood in the weeds, lugged the body inside the pumphouse and placed it in the hole.
“Mixing, pouring, and smoothing the concrete that night damn near killed me. But by four in the morning, the job was finished enough that anyone who poked around in there wouldn’t think that anything was abnormal.
“I locked the pumphouse and staggered back to my car with Willie’s gear. After placing the stuff inside my car, I casually looked around to make sure I was alone. Then I donned the gloves once again, unlocked Willie’s car, and drove it to Poosie’s Roadhouse midway between the reservoir and town. I concealed it under a shady, droopy oak tree out back. Poosie’s was a rough hangout back then before it burned to the ground in the early ’60s. Willie went there often, so anyone seeing his car parked out back no matter the hour wouldn’t think anything of it. More than once, Willie had got so plastered that he’d slept off his hangover in that same spot until next morning.
“Then, I walked back to the reservoir to get my car. I got home just about seven, and slept like a dead man until three that afternoon.
“When you and your mom arrived home that evening from your trip, I was sitting in front of the TV chipper as could be, eating a bowl of popcorn without a care in the world.” Then dad smiled with a wink, adding, “Well, not completely carefree. You see, that’s why I remember eating the popcorn. I’d burnt the hell out of it. Never could make popcorn worth a shit, as you know.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, dad and I got a good laugh out of the popcorn bit because he was being generous with himself concerning the definition of “burnt”, and we both knew it.
“Anyway,” dad continued, “the authorities ventured out to pumphouse 17 late next day, but they never found a thing. When they saw the rusty lock on the pumphouse door, they dismissed it outright like I was sure they would.
Sheriff Bartsch questioned me down at the station briefly. But because of what I’d seen Willie do to his daughter, I had no problem lying through my teeth, and showing all the proper emotions one would expect of a concerned, close friend.
“Anyway, that’s what really happened back in ’53.”
Sitting on the porch swing with the warm breeze of late afternoon blowing through my hair, I looked at my father in a new light. After what I’d just heard, the thought of turning dad in never crossed my mind.
I’m glad I didn’t.
My father passed less than three months later. I know this sounds cosmically weird, but I suspect his body had been marking time, kept alive just long enough to purge itself of the terrible secret burden he’d carried around for decades.
“Do you mean to tell me that no one ever suspected you?” I’d asked my father that day.
Dad regarded me with solemn eyes before he’d replied, “Oh, Sheriff Bartch, God rest his soul, knew all along.
“You see, there had been two or three other cases of girls being molested in surrounding towns about that time. Sheriff Bartch suspected Willie of being involved based on the testimony of one thirteen year-old in neighboring Sykeston. But back in those days, they didn’t have DNA or any of that other new-fangled forensics stuff, so the sheriff was never able to prove it. There were no witnesses other than her, and the rape happened near dusk when light made suspect ID doubtful.
“Anyway, three days after Willie disappeared, Sheriff Bartsch pulled into my driveway unexpectedly to shoot the shit the day after he’d questioned me at his office.
After a long pause, dad had laughed mirthfully at the memory. “Some smart, bigtime killer I turned out to be.
“While the sheriff was jawing away leaning on my car, he glanced casually through the rear passenger window, and spotted Willie’s fishing gear.
I just about shit ice cubes, ’cause I knew what he was looking at. I’d placed Willie’s initialed reel and rod across the back seat that morning at the reservoir, and forgotten completely about them when I returned later to retrieve my car after parking Willie’s vehicle out back of Poosie’s. Everyone in town knew Willie’s fishing gear on sight, ’cause he bragged about it and showed it off to anyone who’d listen. Worse, Willie and Sheriff Bartsch had fished together almost as often as Willie and I had. Why in hell I just didn’t toss Willie’s gear in with his carcass out at the pumphouse is one for the books.
“Anyway, Sheriff Bartch’s eyes bugged out big as hen’s eggs, and he froze like an ice sculpture for a split second.
“Then he turned to me just as casual as you please, and shot the shit for ten minutes or so before sayin’ he had to get back to the shop. “You remember anything else about Willie’s case, give me a call,” he’d said.
“I lied and said I would, and that’s how it ended.”
Yawning and stretching, dad concluded, “Anyway, I reckon you might call Sheriff Bartsch’s silence regarding my involvement a partial ‘balancing of the books’ concerning those three innocent young women, ’cause I was able to do what legally he could not.” |
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