The Case Of The Deer Camp Killer

By Roger Mallon

Hunter Tom Messner is found dead in his treestand, shot through the head with his own rifle. Was his death a suicide, a tragic accident or was it a cold blooded murder? In The Case Of The Deer Camp Killer, outdoor writer Philip Hook with his genius buddy, Hobson O'Hair, and their fumbling pal, Crisis Bowersox, lead an exciting, humorous, hunt for the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Mallon
• Release date: Aug 5, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452360225

Roger Mallon

Roger Mallon and his family live in Reading, PA. He is a full-time outdoors writer, radio host, and a part-time actor.As manager of the Reading Eagle's outdoor coverage, Roger writes and edits the paper's weekly outdoors page. He is co-host of "A Great Day Outdoors radio, a regionally syndicated outdoors radio program.As an actor, Roger performs as a MarkTwain impersonator in the one-man show he created:http://www.HeresMarkTwain.com.The Case of the Deer Camp Killer is Roger's first novel. He has published three other books,one about camping (long out of print) and twocookbooks associated with his long-running regional TV show "The Fishin'Kitchen".Roger enjoys fishing, upland bird hunting, and talking about writing.

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The Case Of The Deer Camp Killer

A Philip Hook Mystery

By Roger Mallon

Smashwords Edition

The Case of the Deer Camp Killer

Copyright 2010 © by Roger Mallon

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The publication/use of known places, trademarks and products is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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The case Of The Deer Camp Killer

Chapter One

Sunday breakfast was on the line. A feisty brown trout with a powerful set of shoulders splashed in the frigid stream as I kept my rod tip high, line tight and drew the plump beauty to my net. Only two weeks before Christmas and I was catching trout. Proof, indeed, that life was good.

I hail from a long line of dedicated fishing Hooks. My father, Robert Hook taught me how to fly fish in the cold spring waters of southeastern Pennsylvania, and my grandfather, Edward Hook, enjoyed a reputation as an angler who stretched the truth a bit. My name is Philip Hook and I am the outdoors editor for the local newspaper with some mighty big ancestral waders to fill.

Icy water rippled over my boots as I sat along the stream field-dressing my trout. The cell phone rang inside the waterproof pocket of my neoprene waders and when I withdrew it, I saw that my pal, Hobson O’Hair, was calling. Hands down, Hobs is the smartest man I have ever known. He can walk through a forest and identify every plant, tree, bird and animal he sees. On the down side, he sometimes lacks the common sense of us ordinary mortals, an affliction, I’ve noticed, not uncommon among geniuses. Hobs normally sleeps late on Sundays, so because of the early hour of his call--it was only 7:30-- I assumed he had something important to say.

"I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?

No, just gutting a fish.

Really? Where are you?

Tulpehocken Creek.

Good for you. Sorry to interrupt, but I have sad news this morning. Tom Messner is dead."

Tom Messner? I laid my Swiss Army knife on the bank. Shot himself hunting at their cabin in Potter County yesterday.

My God. How did you find out?

Violet Feese, his sister-in-law. She’s with Rose at the house.

You’re not talking suicide. It was accidental, right?

Appears to be. Right now it looks like Tom dropped his rifle from his treestand and it went off. Shot him in the head.

Who was he hunting with?

His boys. They found him. Violet said they were hunting up the mountain and heard a shot. Figured Tom got a deer and came down to help. Found his rifle on the ground next to the tree. Tom was strapped in his treestand, dead.

You think the rifle went off when it hit the ground?

I don’t know, maybe.

What are the odds of a gun going off like that? I asked, trying to comprehend the incident.

About one-in-a-million.

What about Rose. She must be devastated.

I knew Messner’s wife from our shooting club banquets.

The boys are staying at the cabin in Potter until they can bring Tom’s body home. I am going to visit Rose later this morning; see if she needs anything. You want to come?

Of course.

9:30, okay?

Sure. Pick me up.

Hobs knew the Messner family better than I did, although I got to know Tom and his boys, Bobby and Kyle, pretty well a few years ago when we hunted from their Hard Bunks hunting camp in Potter County, Pennsylvania’s north central region known as God’s Country. The cabin was named for the roughly constructed bunk beds in the loft, four beds with no box spring mattresses. I couldn’t sleep a wink in those things, but I could picture the scene of Tom’s death. I knew the cabin and mountain behind it.

Last month Tom Messner was named the Berks County Outdoor Sportsman of the Year, an award that our paper and local radio station present to a hunter or angler for volunteer work in the outdoors. Tom was selected because of his years of work with pheasant habitat on state game lands. The paper held a banquet in Tom’s honor. I took his picture and wrote an article about him. Now he was dead.

As soon as I got home I made coffee and started warming butter and minced garlic in our Lodge iron skillet to cook my little trout. I only had one commitment for the day, a meeting with Barry Sterner at his gun shop in Shillington. He was mounting a new scope on my Savage 30.06.It wasn’t a firm appointment. Now I would have to stop by next week.

I called Larry Vostovich at the paper, probably the only person in editorial at this hour on a Sunday. Maybe he heard about Tom’s death.

A computerized voice answered. Please say the name of the person you are calling.

Larry Vostovich. If Larry were there, he would pick up. Last year when the paper installed this digital name recognition system, I had garbled muffled sounds as a joke.Ruh, ruh, ruh, ruh, I had said, sounding like a dying car battery, and instantly a woman had responded: Ruth Herman speaking, how may I help you? I had not known Ruth so I apologized for dialing the wrong extension and wondered what other souls I may have encountered if I had tried ooga, ooga or made turkey calls.

Larry Vostovich.

"Hey Larry, its Hook.

Why aren’t you in church?

I am calling you from church and the Lord knows you are a sinner, by the way.

Vostovich was a good guy, an experienced newspaperman, and easy to talk to. I just called to see if anything came over the wire about a death from a hunting accident in Potter County? I heard Tom Messner from Mount Penn was killed up there.

You talking about the Messner who won the outdoor award a few weeks ago?

That’s him. Unbelievable. I heard he dropped his rifle from his treestand and was shot in the head.

Whoa! Well, nothing here yet. I’ll watch for it. You knew the guy well?

He and his sons belonged to our gun club. I hunted at his place a couple of times.

Let’s see what comes over the wire. Stay in touch.

I finished cooking my trout in garlic butter and ate it with slices of cold grapefruit while I read the Sunday paper. My outdoor articles appear on Sunday mornings and I scanned today’s stories for any changes by the editors. I never got upset if they snipped a word or deleted a sentence or two. I was curious how they edited my copy, the same way I’m interested in what sort of knot a fishing guide chooses.

My mind filled with images of Messner hanging dead in his treestand. Were his brains spattered on the tree trunk? His chest covered with blood? The few fatal injuries I had seen were all torn bodies not traumatic head wounds. My God, did he even have a face left?

I’ve dropped things from treestands-- arrows, ropes, gloves-- but never a rifle, although I could see it happening easily enough. Rifles can be awkward and slippery sometimes. The rifle must have hit the ground pretty hard. Gun safeties are not foolproof. A rifle can fire without the trigger being pulled if the circumstances are right enough, or in Messner’s case, wrong enough.

I had nearly an hour before Hobs would pick me up, so I decided to see if my next door neighbors were up and about.

Stan Rightmyer is a State Police Lieutenant with Troop L in Reading. His wife Elly works at a law firm in Wyomissing. I figured they’d have a pot of coffee going and I was curious about their take on Messner’s death.

The Rightmyer’s home had the exact floor plan as ours, only reversed. I say our home out of force of habit and 31 years of marriage. I live alone now with my English springer spaniel, Mopsy. Six months ago, my wife Peg finally had enough of my outdoor obsessions and indoor messes, and she moved to an apartment across town. We finalized the divorce a few weeks ago, so I’m still stinging and still getting the I-We thing and the Mine-Ours thing confused.

It could be worse, I guess. I met a guy once who said he lost two wives to turkey hunting. Peg tried for 31 years and still never got it. Of course, there was my drinking too, but that’s over now. I came to my senses on that.

Anyway, I walked across the Rightmyer’s front yard, up their driveway and knocked on their kitchen door.

A cheery woman in a bathrobe. Look who’s up early this Sunday morning.

Merry Christmas, Elly.

Thank you and the same to you, hon. Come inside. It’s cold out there.

The kitchen smelled of bacon. Good thing Mopsy was at home or she’d be leaping onto the Rightmyer’s kitchen counter. Stan sat at the table reading the paper. His short brown hair was mussed and he needed a shave. The Rightmyers were good neighbors, kept their grass neatly cut, their bushes trimmed and never complained about the uncut grass and untrimmed bushes in my yard.

Sit down. Want a cup of coffee? Stan said.

Elly poured me a cup and laid a plate of Christmas cookies on the table. Never being one to refuse a treat, I selected three cookies and laid them on a napkin in front of me. Elly gave me a gentle look of rebuke.

Only three, I said, embarrassed. I’m on a diet.

So, what’s up? asked Stan, pulling his robe tight and folding his arms across his chest in anticipation of my message.

Got some bad news this morning. A friend of mine was found dead at his hunting camp yesterday, shot through the head.

That’s awful. Who was it? asked Elly."

Tom Messner. Lived in Mount Penn. You might have heard of him.

Name sounds familiar, but I didn’t know him, said Stan.

I recounted the few details I knew of Messner’s death. It seems that one of three things happened up there. Tom was killed accidentally; he was shot by somebody; or he took his own life. How long does it usually take officials to decide among those cheerful options?

Stan took a sip of coffee. I can tell you that accidental death is the last thing investigators are assuming right now. Procedure is to gather evidence and interview everyone possible to eliminate murder and suicide. If the evidence doesn’t add up to either of those, then the death will be listed as accidental.

How long might that take?

Depends. A few days, maybe. They have to follow the evidence until they are certain of what happened. I have friends in Troop F up there. I can call them if you want.

Thanks, but I don’t want to stir up anything. Let me get more information. Hobs and I are going to visit Tom’s wife in a little while. I’m just asking for a grieving friend right now. Mighty fine cookies, Elly.

She offered one more for the road, which I declined, I’m proud to say.

Hobs and I arrived at the Messner home in Mount Penn an hour later. The first thing I noticed was a deflated plastic lawn display of Santa and his reindeer laying lifeless in the front yard. Sort of set the mood for our visit. Rose’s sister, Violet Feese, answered the door. A hefty gal with short brown hair. She seemed like an organized sort who might work in a municipal office collecting water bills. She wore one of those glitzy sweaters that some women find attractive, bulky knit with over-sized designs stitched on the front. This one sported a set of large bells the color of duct tape. Ring-a-ding-ding. Where do women buy such things?

It’s nice of you to come, Hobsy, she said, holding Hobs’ hand for an uncomfortably long time, it seemed to me. Was there history between these two that I didn’t know?

I hope you enjoyed the pumpkin pie?

Oh, very much, thank you, said Hobs. It was gone the next day.

Ah ha, there was history and pie! I needed to find out more about this duo, but the solemn purpose of our visit took precedence.

Come in, please. It’s a sad day in this house.

Yes, we’re very sorry. This is my friend Philip Hook, Hobs said, giving me a glance that promised an explanation of the pumpkin pie and the little sweetie pie too.

How do you do, I said, keeping my hands to my side. I’d grown up believing that when a man meets a lady, he does not shakes hands with the lady unless the lady extends her hand first, and hers did not extend.

We removed our winter jackets and laid them on a chair in the foyer atop a pile of bulky winter outerwear belonging to the other visitors.

With her hand in the small of Hobs’ back, Violet led us into a beige- painted living room with plush carpet, the color that Chevy dealers might call Sandalwood, while confiding that the whole affair has been so overwhelming to her sister

Rose sat in the middle of a floral patterned sofa, her eyes red, tissue in hand, surrounded by several folks comforting her.

We shook Rose’s hand and said her how sorry we were about Tom. Rose said she appreciated our coming, that Tom’s loss was a great shock and did we want something to eat?

You just relax, dear. I’ll see to that, said Violet, taking Hobs’ hand and leading us to a pair of seats at the dining room table.

"I’ll get you some coffee and pie. It’s fresh baked cherry. Violet disappeared into the kitchen. I swear she had a Tinkerbell flit in her step despite the day’s sad circumstances.

What was going on with Hobs and this sweater girl? Considering how much time I spend with my brilliant bachelor friend, I was confounded by this here-to-fore unknown relationship. Hobs and I met at an AA meeting years ago, and other than his sister in Wilkes Barre, I’d never known him to be close to any woman.

I exchanged a solemn head shake and closed-lip smile with a fellow seated at the end of the table whose name I couldn’t recall but I had seen him around town. Two vases of flowers served as the table’s centerpiece and as I read their gift cards, Violet returned with our coffee and pie.

I inhaled the bitter odor of coffee left sitting on the burner too long. Hobs asked Violet when the boys were expected home.

We thought they would bring Tom home tomorrow, dear, she said, unfurling a napkin and placing it on Hob’s lap. (You don’t see that every day.)

But the coroner won’t release Tom’s body yet, so now it looks like Tuesday or Wednesday.

Did the Game Commission come to the cabin? Hobs asked, not looking my way.

Yes, and the state police from Coudersport. They questioned Bobby and Kyle and then took Tom’s body to Cole Memorial in Coudersport.

What do you know about the accident? I asked.

"All I know is what I told Hobsy. Bobby and Kyle found Tom in his treestand. The rifle was on the ground and Tom was dead. Now the police and