It was dark and cold that early morning of December 3, 1945, as young Bill Parker, sheriff of Maries County swung his car out of Vienna and sped through the Missouri Ozarks over State Route 42. Dr. S. C. Howard, county coroner, sat beside him.

"You say Henry Westerman's dead," Parker remarked. "How did it happen?" Dr. Howard stared at the dancing shadows cast by head lamps on the graveled road. "Arthur Wilson didn't tell me," he answered. "All he said over the phone was, "Henry Westermans dead and we want you and the sheriff to get here as quick as you can."

Parker guided the car skillfully around sharp turns in the Ozark Highway. In less than 20 minutes he turned off down a steep hill to the first house on the right side of the narrow lane. Before switching on the dash light the sheriff glanced at his watch. It was 3 o'clock. There was no moon and the only light over the entire countryside was the sickly gleam from a weather-grimed window in the Westerman abode. The house beyond the iron gate was a story and a half affair. It had been weathered by the rain and snows of two dozen winters until it reminded Parker, who had been there before, of a leathered-faced hill country crone.

The two men went through the gate to the front porch. Parker played his flashlight over the steps and it was there he came upon the body of Henry Westerman. He was sprawled crazily in front of the door. The head overhung the edge of the top step. And the sheriff could see that the prematurely white hair was caked with blood.

The coroner dropped his instrument bag and went to work. Just then the door opened and two men stepped into the freezing cold. Parker threw his light on them and recognized Arthur Wilson and Thereon Ellis.    They were Henry Westerman's nearest neighbors.

"What do you know about this?" the sheriff demanded.

"Not much," Wilson said. "Henry's kid Gene came running down to my house about 2 o'clock and said his dad had been shot and asked me to call the law."

"That's all I know, too," Ellis chimed in. "Gene notified me, the same as he did the rest of the neighbors. I came over as quick as I could get into my clothes."

"But if Gene notified the other neighbors where are they?" Parker demanded. "Someone mentioned that Ben French had gone over to Fort Leonard Wood to get Mrs. Westerman's mother," Wilson explained. "I can't say as to anybody else. Maybe they're out running other errands for the family." Or maybe, Parker thought grimly, one of them is getting as far away from the arm of the law as possible.

The sheriff studied the position of the body as thoroughly as he could in the illumination furnished by his flashlight. The dead man was fully clothed even to socks and shoes. His arms were out flung at right angles to the body and near to the right hand lay an old 22-caliber revolver. The sheriff picked up the gun in his handkerchief and broke the weapon open. There was no cartridge, either empty or loaded in the chamber.

"He's been shot twice," Dr. Howard said.  "In the left temple and through the breast."

"It's murder, sheriff," Wilson said. "Edna Westerman said some man came to the door, called Henry out and shot him." "Doesn't she know who it was?" Parker persisted. "You'd better talk to her about that," the neighbor replied. "She and the kids are so upset we haven't been able to get head, nor tail of what happened."

Parker nodded. Before going into the house, however, he asked one of the neighbors to telephone Troop F headquarters of the Missouri Highway Patrol, and to notify a Vienna undertaker to send a ambulance for the body.

Then he went inside. The flame of the oil lamp on a drop-leaf table flickered as he banged the door shut. In its dim light he could see the weeping widow and her five children huddled on the chairs and on the bottom steps of the narrow stairs leading to the second story.

"Now, Edna, I want you to tell me in your own words just what happened here tonight," he urged.

The young widow dried her eyes and smoothed out her crumpled dress. "It happened about 1 o'clock," she began. "Gene yelled up the stairs that someone wanted to see Henry about a Job. He got out of bed, dressed, and came on down to the front porch. I heard him talking a moment, then there were two shots. When I got downstairs Henry was out there on the porch - dead. I heard footsteps running along the gravel going south. I ran to the back window and saw the tail lights of an automobile going up the hill. It turned west on the highway."

Parker displayed the old revolver. Know anything about this?" The woman nodded.  "It's Henry's gun." "Was he expecting some kind of trouble?" The woman hesitated. "I'll tell you more about that later. I'd rather not talk in front of the children."   Sheriff Parker nodded, then turned to 16-year-old Gene Westerman." "And what do you know about all this?"   "It's   just like Mom says," the light haired, brown-eyed youth replied. "I heard the shots and when I ran to the door dad was down on the porch and a car was climbing the hill toward the highway." "And you didn't see the man who asked for your father?" Gene shook his head. "No. He stayed out on the porch and it was dark. I didn't recognize his voice, either." "Looks like you could have seen him in the light of the lamp." Parker stated. "I didn't light the lamp until after dad was--was shot," the boy said quietly. "But how did it happen that you answered the door instead of your mother?" Parker persisted. Gene glanced at the cot in one corner of the small room.  "That's my bed.  I sleep here." When the sheriff questioned the four smaller children he learned that they were all asleep at the time the tragedy took place. After Mrs. Westerman had taken them upstairs and tucked them into bed, she picked up the lamp and motioned for the sheriff to follow her into another room.

"You asked me if Henry was expecting trouble," she began. "Well, he was. He got out that old gun last Saturday and loaded it." "Did he tell you what the trouble was?" asked the sheriff. "No, he just said someone had threatened to kill him and he was going to be ready for the fellow." stated Mrs. Westerman.   "Do you have any idea who that person was?" asked Parker. She was silent a moment. "Yes, I have an idea," she replied, "you know Henry's been working in a war plant in Kansas. Well he got into it with Sam Johnson several times. The way Henry told it they'd both get drunk and Johnson would try to pick fights. Henry never did say what it was all about." Maybe it was over a woman," Parker suggested cannily. The young matron's dark eyes flashed angrily.  "It might have been. Henry's been gone from home constantly these past few years. I've had a lonely road to hoe." "Know where we can find Johnson now?" "He lives in Richland, MO. He was laid off from work at the same time Henry was."   Richland was approximately 50 miles from Vienna, a drive of an hour and a half. Johnson might be a prime subject, but the sheriff was thinking of something else - something which had happened six months before. Henry Westerman and his wife had come into his office and reported that someone had broken into their home and had taken $1,250 which he had sent from Kansas. He had been saving the money to apply on a new home for his family. His wife had kept the money in a tomato can hidden in the flour barrel.

Parker had investigated at the time and found that although Westerman's back door had been pried open, the house had not been ransacked. He had concluded that the money had been taken by someone who know exactly where to find it.

Several persons had come under suspicion. One man in particular was quiet, hard working Ken French, father of eight children. Neighbors suspected him because he spent so much time at the Westerman place. Sheriff Parker had investigated French thoroughly. He learned that the man had done odd jobs for Henry Westerman over a period of years and had assisted Mrs. Westerman in caring for her children during a severe illness while her husband was away.  Also he had obligingly taken her to Vienna to buy groceries and medicines from time to time. Gossiping tongues attributed his kindly actions to more than mere neighborliness.

"Why shouldn't Ben help us out?" Westerman had said at the time French's name cropped up as a suspect in the robbery.   "We've been friends for years.   Don't pay any attention to the old hens out here." French had taken the matter of suspicion quietly and had insisted that the sheriff make an exhaustive search of his place. But try as he did. Parker got exactly nowhere with his investigation of the theft and the matter of the missing money was still a deep mystery.

Had the robber come back to make a try for the rest of

Westerman's savings? Had he resorted to murder in an attempt to get more money? Mrs. Westerman agreed it was possible that the person who had stolen the $1,250 had killed her husband, but she was more inclined to believe in the guilt of Sam Johnson. "Henry was terribly jittery when he came home," she said. "He wouldn't stir out of the house. And he loaded up that gun and put it in his pocket first thing." "But the pistol wasn't loaded when I picked it up on the porch," Parker told her. The woman's Jaw dropped open. "It wasn't," she echoed. "But I saw him put shells in it." "Maybe one of the children monkeyed with it after that," the officer suggested. "Only Gene knows enough about guns to do that," she said. However Gene Westerman declared he had not touched his father's revolver since the parent had taken it out of the trunk the previous Saturday. "Dad would have beat me good if I'd laid a finger on it." the boy said seriously.

Other neighbors and friends of the Westermans began to arrive. The ambulance also came and Parker instructed the attendants to stand by until he gave them permission to remove the corpse. Then he hurried to a phone and called the state patrol Headquarters nearest Richland. He got Trooper Knight on the phone. "I want you to pick up Sam Johnson in Richland at once," Parker said. "For suspicion of murder." He explained the situation briefly, then hurried back into the Westerman place. Troopers C.W. Houston and C.V. Arnold of Troop F at Jefferson City arrived. It was 5:30 in the morning and the wind was still icy. Parker went over the ground he had already covered with the patrol officers. A state photographer took several pictures of the scene, and after the troopers had studied the body carefully, Parker signaled the ambulance attendants to remove it. The sheriff made arrangements for Mrs. Westerman and her children to go to Vienna while the investigation was in progress. "You may be in danger out here," he warned. "The killer may come back. You'll be safer in town and handy for us if we want to ask you any more questions."

After the family left the house, Parker and the patrol officers went through the rooms thoroughly. They examined the family papers in an effort to find the name of someone other than Sam Johnson who might have born a grudge against the dead man. The papers revealed nothing except a picture of an average rural Missouri family. It was evident that the war years had been Henry Westerman's only prosperous years. And a callous robber had taken that meager prosperity away from him.

Parker remembered the story of Westerman's marriage. Edna Adkins, who lived at Tavern, MO, had written her name and address on an egg which was later shipped to St. Louis, where Westerman was working.   He ordered eggs in a restaurant and saw the girl's name.    A three-year correspondence followed and resulted in her marriage, at the age of 15 to Westerman, 14 years her senior.

The sheriff and patrol officers studied the porch again and then started on a house-to-house canvass of that section of Maries County.

They heard repeated the gossip about Edna Westerman and Ben French. But when pinned down, those circulating the stories admitted they had never seen Mrs. Westerman and French in compromising circumstances.  They had merely noticed the man turning in at the Westerman gate frequently and had seen Mrs. Westerman riding into Vienna in his car.

When the officers reached the French home they learned that Ben French had not yet returned from Fort Leonard Wood. Parker asked Mrs. French to tell her husband to contact him at the courthouse in Vienna as soon as he returned.

No tangible clues were picked up in the extensive canvass. Westerman's neighbors said they had not heard a car the night before, but one of them pointed out that they couldn't have heard an automobile traveling toward the highway, since Westerman's house was the nearest dwelling to the main road.

Parker and the patrol officers drove back to Vienna. Trooper Knight came in from Richland, MO, with Sam Johnson. "When I got to Johnson's house, around 5:30 this morning, I found Sam just getting out of his car, " Knight reported. Parker turned to the tired-eyed suspect, "And where have you been all night?" he demanded.

The man shook his head. "I don't know. I was drinking. I just drove around. I can't remember all the places I've been. But I had no reason to kill Henry Westerman," Johnson declared. "And even though I was in a foggy state, I'm sure I didn't kill anybody. I haven't got a gun. Trooper Knight can tell you he didn't find one."

"Mrs. Westerman says Henry told her that he had had trouble from somebody because he was dressed and ready for it." Sheriff Parker stated.

Johnson shook his head. "There's a mistake somewhere. I was acquainted with Henry Westerman, all right, but I had no trouble with him."

"Since you've got no alibi, we'll have to hold you for further questioning," Parker said. He placed the prisoner in a cell. Then he went over to the mortuary. Dr. Howard was just finishing with the autopsy. The coroner dropped a lead slug in the sheriff's hand. Parker noted that it was small, possibly of .22 caliber. Was it from Westerman's own gun?

The sheriff hurried back to his office and examined the .22 revolver carefully. When he broke it open and held the barrel up to the light he found cobwebs inside.

The sheriff showed the bullet to the patrol officers. One of them, a firearms identification expert, said, "That's from a .22 rifle, not a revolver."

Rifles, the sheriff reflected, were more common in Maries County, and especially in rural areas, than were hand weapons. It would be a gigantic task to check all the rifles in the county.

Ben French telephoned that he was at home. The sheriff, accompanied by the state patrol officers, lost no time in getting there. The 43-year-old farmer received them cordially.

"I suppose you know the gossip has placed you in a suspicious position," Parker began.

French nodded. "The old biddies out here are always busy tearing away at somebody's reputation," he commented, but without bitterness.

"That means I'll have to ask you for an alibi for last night." "I was right here at home," French asserted. "My wife can bear me out in that."

Mrs. French told the sheriff her husband had slept at her side from 10 o'clock the previous night until he was awaken by Gene Westerman. "I'm a light sleeper," she explained. "And if Ben had tried to slip out of bed I would have known it. In fact I was awake several times and he was right there."

The sheriff turned to French. "Okay, so your alibi is solid. We've learned, though, that Westerman was killed with a .22 rifle and we're going to check every rifle in this part of the country. Do you own one?"

The farmer's face was grave. "I did own a .22 until about a week ago," he said. "I sold it to a soldier from Fort Wood. He was out here hunting, saw my rifle and took a fancy to it."

"Know who the soldier is?" French shook his head. "Never saw him before or since. He paid me in cash, so I let him have it. I only used it to kill cats with anyway." " I don't suppose you got an idea who shot Henry Westerman?" "A man in a car with Kansas license stopped me on the highway near Vienna Saturday and asked me how to get to the Westerman place. He didn't tell me his name, but said he wanted to see Henry about getting some carpenter work done."  The farmer consented to accompany the officers to Vienna, where Parker

took him to Johnson's cell. "Is he the man you saw Saturday?" Parker asked. Ben French studied Sam Johnson's face for a long time then shook his head. "He's not the one," he said.

The Sheriff and the patrol officers drove to Fort Leonard Wood near Rolla, MO, and interviewed the commanding officer. In a matter of minutes MP's were searching the barracks building. But when this task was finished the commanding officer informed Parker that they had not found a single .22 rifle.

Back in Vienna, Parker called in Hamp Rothwell, county prosecutor, and discussed the case. "It looks bad for Sam Johnson," the sheriff ventured.   Rothwell shook his head doubtfully. "Unless he makes a confession, we have no case against him.  We've got to have better than evidence of suspicion based on a foggy memory.  I'd like to look the Westerman place over myself. Let's go back there."

Parker, Deputy Les Armor and the prosecutor drove out to the crime scene. They started with the front porch. "The body lay right here. His head was hanging over the edge of the top step and...." He paused, staring at the rough flooring. "What's the matter?" asked Rothwell. "There's no blood there - Westerman was shot in the head and head wounds bleed a lot. There should be bloodstains all around." "Maybe somebody wiped them up," Rothwell suggested. Parker shook his head. "In that case, the smears would still show. This means that Henry Westerman was moved after he was killed!"

The men trooped through the unlocked front door. Parker scanned every piece of flooring in the little room at the foot of the stairs. Presently, when he reached a point at the back of the steps, he whistled sharply. "Look -- this part of the floor is cleaner that the rest!" he shouted. "It's been mopped recently."

Rothwell studied the flooring. It had a new look. Was it blood that had been washed off these boards? Nothing more was found in the house. Outside the officers began looking through sheds scattered about the place. In one corner of the smokehouse was a wad of crumpled papers. Parker smoothed several of the sheets out. They were pages from a mail order catalogue.   The sheets looked as if they had been literally dipped in blood! The sheriff gathered the pages together, stuffed them into a burlap sack he found nearby and carried them to his car.

"Think Westerman was killed by one of his family?" Rothwell queried. The young sheriff was thoughtful. "There are several things puzzling me about all this. For one thing, Gene says he didn't light the lamp until after his dad was killed. How could the killer have placed those shots in the dark? The night was as black as the ace of spades. We'd better check again with the neighbors and find out if anyone noticed a light in the Westerman house before they heard the shots." "A good idea," said Rothwell. "And another thing," Parker went on. "Why would a man expecting trouble carry an unloaded gun to the door? My guess is that the weapon was placed near the body after the murder."

The sheriff took the bloodstained papers to the laboratory of the state patrol headquarters at Jefferson City, then set out to determine whether he could learn anything more definite about the lighted lamp.

Eventually he ran across one neighbor who said he had been particularly wakeful the night of the murder. And that farmer remembered seeing a light in the Westerman residence around 1 o'clock in the morning. "Did you hear any shots?" "I heard something I thought was an automobile backfiring," the man stated. As the sheriff continued his rounds of the district, more than one resident suggested that he was making a mistake not taking Ben French into custody for the crime. "But he's got an ironclad alibi," Parker protested. "And he had satisfactorily explained his connection with the Westerman family." "All the same," one man snorted. "I still think it was Ben French who got Henry's money and you can't make me believe anything else. Maybe he was in cahoots with Edna Westerman. Maybe she just up and gave him the dough. And there's the matter of his rifle. You didn't find that soldier he said he sold it to, did you?"

Parker began asking questions.  He was not long in finding four men, each of whom insisted that French had offered him $500 or more to kill Henry Westerman. Each had promptly refused. The sheriff thought about the manner in which French and his huge family lived. Where did he get $500 to make the offer? Was he the mysterious robber who had taken the $1250 from the tomato can in the front bin?

Parker kept digging, but he didn't learn any more from Maries County residents. The air was thick with suspicion, but witnesses had nothing else to back it up. It was true that the testimony of the four men whom French had tried to hire for the murder job would go far in court, but he realized that a confession from the killer and recovery of the death weapon would be the most concrete kind of evidence he could present to a jury.

He immediately took young Westerman, his mother, and Ben French into custody. Parker, Rothwell, and several patrol officers took turns questioning the trio. But they clung to their stories with a tenacity which seemed compatible only with complete innocence.

Later that night an officer at Troop F headquarters called Parker to report that blood on the catalogue pages found in the smokehouse was human. That settled things for Parker. He went upstairs to Gene Westerman's cell.

"Son," the sheriff began in a kindly tone, "you've been lying to me and I know it. In the morning I'm going to get a lie detector in here, and I'm going to put all of you on it and find out the truth of this whole business. Now why don't you tell me about it and get it off your conscience? You'll save yourself a lot of trouble if you do things the right way now."

The youth hung his head as if considering the sheriffs words. Finally, he said, "If you'll take me out of here, I'll tell you the whole truth." Parker escorted the boy downstairs at once and called in Prosecutor Rothwell, who brought a court stenographer with him.

"I killed my dad," young Westerman blurted out. "I killed him with Ben's rifle.  Dad had been mean to us, and he threatened to kill me and mother and Ben French.   He threatened us on Saturday, so Ben and I made a plan to kill him first.  Ben put his rifle where I could get to it in a neighbor's barn." "I was going to kill dad when he went outside to slop the hogs. But he must have felt something was going to happen because he wouldn't get out of the house." Gene then related how he awakened his father in the middle of the night by telling him there was a man at the door wanting to see him about a Job. He shot his father in the chest as he came down the stairs, he told Parker. "Ben told me to get him in the body first, then in the head. Dad fell when I shot him in the chest and then I shot him again in the head. I was reloading to shoot him a third time when my mother came downstairs and said he was dead and not to shoot him any more." Westerman said he and his mother dragged the body out on the porch because French had advised him it should be there in order to support the story they were going to tell. He said he hid the rifle in the barn loft and then ran to tell the neighbors about the tragedy.

Gene Westerman signed the statement.  Parker then handcuffed the young man and took him out to the barn where they quickly recovered the murder rifle. Before they left the farm, however, Parker asked him what he knew about the missing money. "Mother gave $1250 to Ben French to keep for her," the young man stated. "She gave me $65 and I put it in a fruit Jar and buried it at the foot of a tree." " I want you to get that fruit jar for me," Parker said. Gene walked to a tree near the creek which crossed the Westerman land and dug up ajar containing exactly $65 in currency.

Early the following morning Parker brought Ben French down to his quarters. He pointed to the death rifle which he had propped up in one corner of the room. "Ever see that before?" he asked. French glanced at the weapon then looked quickly away. "No, I never did," he replied. "Take a close look at it," the sheriff urged. The prisoner inspected the weapon. Then he nodded. "That's my gun. Where did you get it?" "Where you told Gene to hide it," the sheriff replied. " Now, Ben, Gene has confessed to pulling the trigger. And he says you and Edna egged him on. I've got the goods on you and I can get a conviction against you in court. Why don't you get it off your mind?"

There was a long silence as Ben French studied the sheriff's words. "I guess you're right," he sighed. "I'll tell you about it. Gene isn't responsible for what he's done. I was the one who told the boy what to do and how to do it." "And what was your motive?" " I think a heap of Edna Westerman and her kids and I didn't figure to stand by and see Henry Westerman kill them." French said, "And he said he'd kill me, too. You see, he finally got to believing what the gossips said about Edna and me." "And it looks like the gossips were right," Parker pointed out.  "Edna and I are good friends," French said quickly. "And she is too young a woman to go on living the miserable existence she had with Henry Westerman. When he came home he beat her and the kids something fierce. I felt it was my duty to put an end to the outrage."

French confessed to coaching Gene Westerman for his job of murder, and furnishing the rifle.   He admitted having possession of the $1250 in savings which Westerman had sent home to his wife. He admitted trying to hire four men to kill Westerman for him. And after his statement was completed he led Parker and patrol officers to the spot where he had buried the missing money. He dug it up and handed it intact to the sheriff. When the party got back to Vienna, Sheriff Parker faced Mrs. Westerman with the statements of her son and her neighbor. But she stubbornly clung to her original statement. "They're lying ," she said fiercely. '7 don't know why, but they're lying!" Parker put her back in her cell and bided his time. He was confident that she would ultimately add her confession to the others.

Late that evening one of Henry Westerman's relatives called Mrs. Westerman from St. Louis. The sheriff allowed her to take the call and listened closely as Edna told her in-law about the mysterious stranger and the vanishing tail lights in great detail, just as she had told the phony story to Sheriff Parker. When she finished talking, Parker took the receiver and said, "Edna's been lying to you. Gene's confessed to killing his father and says he was aided by Ben French and his mother. French has already made a confession, and if Edna doesn't confess, we are sure to get a conviction against her anyway." He put up the receiver and faced Mrs. Westerman. "You see, I know all about what you've done. You might as well confess. It could do you some good in court."

Mrs. Westerman then admitted her part in the crime, but declared she had not known Gene would carry it out when he did. She signed a statement, and the county authorities moved to bring all three defendants to trial.

Sam Johnson was, of course, released from jail with Porker's apologies.

French, Gene, and Mrs. Westerman waived preliminary hearings. On January 28 all three appeared in the court of Judge Sam C. Blair and pleaded guilty, French and Mrs. Westerman to first-degree murder and Gene to second-degree murder. The mother and Ken French got life terms, the boy a 12-year sentence.

EDITOR'S NOTE

To spare the possible embarrassment to an innocent person, the name Sam Johnson, used in this story, is not real but fictitious.

 

W. C. Parker was the Sheriff of Maries County for 16 years. He died in August of 1973 of Heart Failure. He left behind a wife, 7 children, many grandchildren, and a lot of friends. To this day his picture hangs in the Maries County Courthouse Courtroom, in memory of all the great work he did.

Wife:

Myrtle (Bassford) Parker

 

Children:

Joy (Parker) Chambers

Louise (Parker) Roberson

Billie (Parker) Havens

Nellie (Parker) Sandbothe

Ruth (Parker) Poor

Andrew "Jim" Parker

Terry Parker

TAKE SOME TIME (Words he lived by)

Take some time to smell the flowers, As you walk the paths of life. Take some time to ease the tensions, From the challenges and strife.

Take some time to count your blessings, Though you feel they're not that great. You will find they're more abundant, Than you thought, at any rate.

Take some time to love your children. Every moment you are free. The benefits exceedeth, A university degree.

Take some time to help another, Who you think might need a hand. You will find the satisfaction, Leaves you feeling sort of grand.

Take some time to live by virtue in the best way that is known, And respect the rights of others as equal to your own.

Take some time to just appreciate the fact that you are here, And to know that Higher Power and to trust It without fear.

If you do these things with diligence, You will eventually be glad. If you don't attempt to do them, You may one day wish you had.

And though you might not be as wealthy, Nor drive so fine a car, You'll find you will be richer, In other ways by far.

Book prepared by grand-daughter: Amber (Parker) Schell