Path of Clues

      “This doesn’t feel right, Mac.”

      “Look – another cigarette butt!”

      Deputy Mac Sanders retrieved a half-smoked cigarette from the brush. The other deputy shined a quavering flashlight on the butt pinched between Mac’s index finger and thumb.

      “Yep, it’s a Lucky Strike … half smoked,” Mac said with a grin. “It’s our man.”

      “I think we need some back-up,” Deputy Skip Conway responded.

      The two Oregon County Deputies had been patrolling near the Clark and Mark Twain National Forest in Oregon County Missouri. A series of murders had local law enforcement perplexed. Five murders within the last year, all in isolated areas near the national forest – it seemed as if the targets had been lured to their deaths. Each victim had been shot once in the chest.

      By today’s standards, these similar murders would be considered the work of a serial killer; however, in 1962, the term “serial killer” had not yet been coined. The folks of rural Southern Missouri were shocked and terrified; most of the small population stayed locked in their homes, except for when they needed necessities. The two deputies, especially Mac, now seemed convinced that they were on the trail of the unknown killer.

      The deputies had first spotted a white handkerchief caught on a briar bush as they cruised north on Oregon County Road 135. (They were returning from a false alarm.) It was a woman’s handkerchief with yellow flowers embroidered around the corner edges. Broken and flattened brush showed the path through the woods where the person or persons had continued.

      “Go call the station and give our location and our intent to follow the path,” Mac directed Conway. “He might be in the very act of killing victim six.”

      “Okay,” said Conway as he trotted back to the patrol car. Mac was already following the crushed path of crushed brush. When Conway caught up with him, the senior deputy was striding through gnarled briars and old leaves on the forest floor. The further the two headed into the forest, the more darkness curled its tentacles around their forms.

      After finding two more half-smoked Lucky Strike cigarette butts and a torn piece of material, Mac was sure that he and Conway were closing in on the murderer with a victim. Conway wasn’t so sure.

      “Maybe we should come back when it’s daylight,” Conway said hoarsely.

      “Are you kidding?” Mac said in disbelief. “He might have a woman that he’s in the process of killing right now! If you’re scared of every little shadow, why’d you become a sheriff's deputy?”

      “This just seems weird,” Conway said defensively. “These ‘clues’ seem way too easy. What if they were planted here to lure us to the killer?”

      “That’s crazy,” Mac responded with disdain. “Criminals are stupid. They don’t think up plans. They just act on an animal instinct that feeds their cravings.”

      “What if this killer isn’t so stupid? What if he doesn’t even smoke and he just plants the cigarette butts to point evidence away from himself?”

      “You’ve got a great imagination, kid. Maybe you should write detective stories … look – it’s a woman’s high heel shoe!” Mac forgot the conversation as he snatched a light pink pump from the ground.

“Shhhh, now quit talking,” Mac said in a whisper. We might be closer than we think to the killer.”

      Conway didn’t answer, but he continued to closely follow Mac as they gingerly crept deeper into the forest.

      Suddenly Mac stopped. He turned and whispered excitedly, “There’s a light shining up by that clearing.” Conway squinted as he tried to see a light. “Stay close behind me,” Mac said over his shoulder.

      The two deputies crept slowly closer, trying not to make any noise in the surrounding weeds and leaves scattered across the forest’s floor. When they got within two hundred feet, Mac motioned for Conway to get down in a squat as he was doing. The deputies saw a man sitting on a log with a blanket around his shoulders; his back was facing the deputies; an oil lantern glowed in front of him. Another form was lying next to the man. He, she, or it was completely covered in a bed sheet. The sheet-covered form was shaped like a body.

      “See the guy sitting on the log with a blanket around him?” Mac whispered.

      “Yeah, I see him,” Conway whispered back.

      “On his left, see that long form wrapped in a sheet?”

      Conway nodded and gulped, “Yep.”

      “I think that’s a body wrapped in the sheet,” Mac barely breathed. “Maybe the person is still alive. We must go in.”

      “We should have back-up,” Conway said with a tremor.

      “It’s too late now,” Mac replied. “Get your pistol ready.”

      Both deputies pulled their revolvers from their gun belts and slowly crept toward the crude makeshift camp. The man on the log didn’t move. He seemed to be in a deep sleep.

      “Put your hands in the air, you’re under arrest!” Mac boomed.

      The man on the log didn’t budge.

      “I said, ‘Hands in the air!’”

      The man continued to remain motionless.

      “Keep me covered,” Mac barked at his now pale companion. Mac looked at his anxious partner. “Buck up, Conway!” Mac hissed at the frozen, wide-eyed deputy. Mac then marched toward the killer.

      “Hands in the air!” Mac yelled one last time at the suspect. Still no motion. Mac gave the guy a shoving kick with his booted foot, right between the shoulder blades.

      To his astonishment, Mac felt little resistance when he kicked the guy. The suspect literally fell apart. A log, some pillows, and an oblong-shaped rock with a cap on it tumbled to the clearing’s rocky floor.

      Mac quickly turned his attention to the body on the ground. He bent down, and with one tug, he unfurled the sheet – out rolled more pillows.

      “Conway – you were right, this is a setup. Let’s …”

      Four hours later, the Oregon County Sheriff’s Department dispatch received a frantic radio call.

      “SOS, I need help!” the call was faint and crackling.

      “Who is this?” the dispatcher tried to remain calm.

      “This is Deputy Skip Conway. Deputy Mac Sanders has gone missing in the Clark and Mark Twain National Forest.”

      “What is your location?” the dispatcher called back.

      “I’m at County Road 3173, east of State Highway 99 … near the forest,” Conway squawked.

      “Stay at your location, I’m sending more officers,” the dispatcher tried to keep the desperation out of his voice.

      “I don’t want to stay here – the murderer is here!” Conway practically screamed.

      “Conway – I need for you to stay at your location. We don’t know what the circumstances are.”

      “Please hurry … please hurry,” Conway whimpered across the radio waves.

      The dispatcher immediately called Sheriff Raymond Burlson at his home. The sheriff contacted the Missouri State Highway Patrol.

      It took the sheriff and two Missouri State patrolmen 40 minutes to find the deputy on the secluded state road. A spotlight revealed Conway, crouched down on the back seat floorboard with pistol held tightly between his shaking hands.

      “Conway – it’s Sheriff Burlson,” the sheriff shouted through cupped hands. “Don’t shoot. The highway patrol is here with me.”

      Conway opened the back door of the deputy’s vehicle, tumbled out and fell into a puddle of frenzied wailing.

      “Get a hold of yourself,” the sheriff said to his young deputy. “Please try to calmly tell us what happened,” the sheriff said patiently.

      Conway took a deep breath. “Mac saw something at the side of the road as we were driving here on this road. He got out to investigate and said he found a Lucky Strike cigarette butt, like the kind the killer smokes – the guy we’ve been trying to find.

      “He told me to stay back and wait while he went into the woods. After a few minutes, I heard Mac scream and there was a shot. I got back into our car, locked all the doors, and called the dispatcher on the radio.”

      “While you waited for us to arrive, did you hear or see anything more?” Sheriff Burlson asked.

      “No.” Conway held his bowed head in his hands. “We’ve got to find Mac,” the young deputy cried.

      Years would pass before anything more would be known. For weeks after the deputy went missing, law enforcement scoured the Clark and Mark Twain National Forest, but there were no signs of Deputy Mac Sanders.

      Deputy Skip Conway’s mental state collapsed after the night his partner disappeared. He had quit his deputy job because his anguish had extinguished what little mettle he ever had. Occasionally, Conway’s car would be seen near the area where Mac was last seen. He seemed to be praying near the forest for his friend. Sometimes, drivers would note, his hands would be clasped in front of his chest as he looked heavenward for answers. Eventually, he and his wife moved back to Ohio, where their families lived.

      In 1972, Sheriff Burlson retired without ever solving the Deputy Mac Sanders disappearance case. The murderer of the six victims was never discovered – he never killed again after Mac disappeared … at least not in Southern Missouri.

      The only one who may know who the murderer is might just be the murderer. But let’s see if we can unearth a few more clues than the bumbling Missouri rubes did in 1962. Let’s go back to the night when Mac vanished.

      If you were paying close attention to the story, you would have noticed that Deputy Sanders and Conway had stopped at Oregon County Road 135. Four hours later, when Conway called the dispatcher, he gave his location as Oregon County Road 3173. No wonder no one could find Sanders: the inept Conway had given the wrong location. But how did Conway get to County Road 3173? Why had four hours transpired since Mac had pounced upon the decoy camp site and murderer? The answer is – the killer had been planning the deputy ambush for several months – it took more planning to cover the murder.

      Conway wasn’t as stupefied as everyone seemed to think. He was more adept at crime clues than Mac. Remember, it was Conway who mentioned that the clues seemed too obvious as they followed the path to Mac’s demise. Skip also mentioned that maybe the killer didn’t even smoke. Smart boy. He was right.

      Let’s take a closer look at the young deputy who survived the night. Everyone in Oregon County thought of him as a cowardly awkward deputy. But was he?

      It was 1955 when Samuel “Skip” Hearns Conway graduated from Pasco High School in Dade City, Florida. Within a month of graduation, Conway married his high school sweetheart, Lorelei Syrenne. In Skip’s eyes she was the most beautiful girl in the world. She also proved to be the perfect wife.

      Lorelei was the epitome of the impeccable stay-at-home wife. After their honeymoon, Skip began working at the Cutler Power Plant and every night Lorelei would have a home-cooked meal ready for Skip’s return. The house was kept immaculately, and Lorelei always wore beautiful clothes, with matching accessories and jewelry. Her golden hair was always perfectly coifed in the latest hair do. Skip was amazed that he had wooed and won the most accomplished and beautiful girl at school.

      By 1957, the Conways’ lives seemed almost perfect. The only thing missing were children; nonetheless, Skip counted their many blessings – he figured there was plenty of time for kids.

      Only one ugly shadow was cast upon their idyllic life. A string of murders had been occurring near their Miami neighborhood. The count was up to four victims who had been shot and killed. Skip had recently started working as a foreman on the second shift. It was a nice raise in money and prestige, but Lorelei was at home by herself until after midnight. She had started quilting and embroidery to calm her nerves, but she became unhinged when a murder occurred only two doors from their home.

      After unrelenting insistence from Lorelei, Skip had found a good production management job at the Logan Company in Louisville, Kentucky. The couple settled into a quaint brick home on Fairlawn Street in the very safe St. Matthews community. Lorelei worked her usual magic to make the home beautiful, inside and out. Skip worked diligently for Logan and was promoted within his first year.

      The young couple seemed to have it all. For three years, everything in their lives was tranquil – then it started again.

      First it was one murder in the close-knit neighborhood. Then two … and three. Lorelei’s anxiety spiraled out of control. Skip would come home to find her weeping in her bed, too paralyzed with fear to function.

      This was when Skip started studying criminology at the library, but few people knew of his secret studies. He also started looking for a new job in a new location that had a non-existent crime rate.

      One of Skip’s best friends from high school, Alvin, had moved to the small farming town of Zalma, Missouri. He and Skip stayed connected through the years by phone. Alvin mentioned to Skip that nearby (nearly crime-free) Oregon County was looking for a deputy for its sheriff’s office. With his new interest in crime, Skip called the Oregon County Sheriff’s office. Sheriff Burlson immediately offered him a job. Skip took the deputy position, along with a huge pay cut. He was able to find a fairly nice home on Pine Street in Alton, Missouri, but it wasn’t as attractive as the Conway’s Louisville home.

      Lorelei seemed content, though, and that’s what mattered. She soon had the Pine Street home sparkling clean and comfortable. The delicious aromas of her unparalleled home cooking could make a man forget any troubles … that is, until it started again.

      Have you figured it out yet? No? I guess I will just have to tell you. Let’s go back again to the night Deputy Mac disappeared.

      “Go call the station and give our location and our intent to follow the path,” Mac directed Conway. “He might be in the very act of killing victim six.”

      “Okay,” said Conway. He trotted back to the squad car, but he never made the radio call.

      When Skip caught up to Mac on the path, he tried to convince him not to pursue the “clues.” But there was no stopping Mac. He was determined to take down the killer.

      After Mac pulled the sheet from the decoy “dead body,” he turned to Skip to say, “Let’s get out of here,” but he never finished his sentence. The sound of a gun shot ripped through the fall night. Mac looked at Skip with his revolver in hand. Then Mac crumpled to the ground.

      Skip ran to Mac crying, “I tried to warn you. I tried to warn you.” Mac’s lifeless eyes stared into the black sky.

      Skip knelt and cried uncontrollably. He wrapped his arms around his body as if he were holding a baby and started rocking as he sobbed.

      After a few moments of sobbing, he dropped the pistol that was still in his hand. He stood up and spread his arms out as if he were hanging on a cross.

      “Why’d you do it?” He yelled. Tears and spit spattered into the moonless night. “Why?”

      “Go ahead and shoot me too!” He walked around the open space with his arms still spread out at his sides. “Here I am! I’m an easy target!”

      The silence of the forest didn’t reveal a clue.

      “I know who you are! The embroidered handkerchief … the pink pump … the shoe you said you couldn’t find last week. I know who you are!”

      There was a rustling of brush from the opposite side of the clearing. Lorelei appeared. As usual, she was impeccably dressed in a rust-colored sweater and pale orange pants. An orange bubble necklace and matching earrings danced as she walked toward him. She even wore matching orange skippers. Not a hair out of place. She carried a rifle that she held down at her side.

      “I wouldn’t kill you, Skippy,” Lorelei said softly. “I love you.” A tear streamed down her cheek.

      Skip looked at his wife with intense sadness. How could such a beautiful, perfect woman be so diabolical?

      “How many people have you killed?”

      “I don’t know,” she responded. “I don’t count.”

      “Where’d you get the gun?”

      “A pawn shop in Miami.”

      At that moment, Lorelei dropped the rifle and ran into her husband’s arms crying. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

      Skip held his wife close as if he were fearful she’d be ripped from his arms. Now, it was Lorelei that was crying uncontrollably.

      “Listen, I want you to go home. Don’t stop anywhere. Just go home and go to bed. I’ll take care of this.”

      Skip gently peeled his wife’s arms from his midsection as if he might break the delicate limbs. He walked her to their car, which was parked on a small dirt road that veered east off County Road 135. Then he returned to the scene of the crime. He knew what he had to do, and he had to play his part well.

      “They did find the remains in 2003.”

      “What?”

      “They found Mac’s remains 150 miles south – in Arkansas,” the old woman said with a sparkling smile.

      The nurse’s aide looked incredulously at the elderly woman. “You’re Lorelei Conway … you murdered people?”

      “Yes, that’s why someone always must stay with me now. Skippy doesn’t trust me anymore,” she responded with a pout from her bed.

      The aide blinked with disbelieve. Mrs.Conway’s husband had been deceased for several years.

      “Just always remember, the right path is sometimes the wrong path to take in life,” Mrs. Conway said with another dazzling smile. “Good night, dear.”

      The young aide decided in that moment that she would no longer follow the career path of nursing. She’d become a truck driver – it's safer.