Sheriff: A Memoir of a Lawman from Bloody Williamson County, Illinois

By Harry Spiller

This 160 page book serves as a memoir of a lawman (Harry Spiller) from Williamson County, Illinois and tells of his stories and ventures as a sheriff.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Turner Publishing Company
• Release date: Jun 15, 1999
• ISBN: 9781681623573

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

I first became a lawman in Williamson County, Illinois, in February 1974 when Sheriff Russell Oxford hired me as a radio dispatcher for the Sheriff’s Department. From that time until March 1979 I worked as a radio dispatcher, deputy sheriff, and chief deputy in the department. In March of 1979 I had the opportunity to take a job with the John A. Logan College Security department working the midnight shift, which enabled me to continue a long interrupted pursuit of a college degree. I worked at the college from 1979 until November 1982 and in that time completed a B.A. in political science, a B.S. in administration of justice, and a masters degree in public affairs. I also made the decision to run for sheriff and campaigned in 1981 and 1982.

On November 2, 1982, I was elected as the forty-second Sheriff of Williamson County, Illinois. I served as sheriff for 6 years, 8 months, and 22 days before I resigned from the office to take a job as a professor in criminal justice at John A. Logan College. I suppose I can claim to have made two marks in the history of Williamson County law enforcement-the first being that I am the only forty-second sheriff and the second being that I am the only sheriff in the county’s history to resign. Not much of a mark in history!

Williamson County, established on February 28, 1839, is located in the middle of southern Illinois, some fifty miles straight north of Cairo, Illinois, and centered between the Ohio and Mississippi. The county is a rectangle measuring 24 miles from east to west and 18 miles from north to south and containing 432 square miles or 267,480 acres. It is bounded on the north by Franklin County, on the south by Johnson County, on the east by Saline County and on the west by Jackson County.

Williamson County has a history of violence that reaches back to Independence Day 1868, when members of a couple of families engaged in a card game that ended in a brawl. Later several prominent families came into conflict over a few bushels of oats, and the dispute resulted in a lawsuit. These incidents caused a blood feud between the Bulliners and Crains against the Sisneys and Hendersons that went on for about eight years, festering into what would be known as the Bloody Vendetta.

At the same time Williamson County was infested with the Ku Klux Klan, which was established, according to the members, to clean up improper behavior. Locally, the Klan sought mainly to rid the county of liquor and, of course, minorities. Its activities ended in much bloodshed.

On June 22, 1922, the violence in the county reached a new level when 2,000 union miners and their sympathizers clashed with some 50 strikebreakers working a strip mine southeast of Herrin. The confrontation ended with 30 men massacred by the union workers, bringing of a half century of violent incidents to a bloody climax. The county acquired a new name-Bloody Williamson.

When I was elected sheriff, 60 years had passed since the Herrin Massacre. It and other events had been recorded and locked into their place in history books such as Bloody Williamson, The Herrin Massacre,and Charlie Burger. But those of my generation who were raised in Williamson County dealt with a mixed bag of feelings about violence. From the time I was in kindergarten until I graduated from high school, I walked to the Marion schools almost every day just as many other kids growing up in this area did. We never worried about murder or other crime. It was seldom that our doors were locked or that we or our parents were concerned about crime. It was all in the history books or it happened some place else, not here!

For 16 years I worked as a deputy sheriff, investigator, and sheriff in a place where murder and other crime isn’t supposed to happen. Investigating murder cases and other crimes mainly in Williamson County, but assisting in other counties, too, I learned the unpleasant reality: murder and crime are all around us. They come swiftly to their victims, and these victims can be anyone-the rich, the poor, the old and the young. It can happen anywhere day or night. It doesn’t matter if we live in an area with brick-front towns, small farms, white church houses, lakes and ponds, the Shawnee National Forest, and the muddy rivers, because all too often victims fall prey in places that we think are safe to live healthy lives and raise our children-places where we take walks on hot summer nights, where our children play in the park without concern, where we fish in the local pond to land the big one, and where we leave our doors unlocked at night.

But there is one other unfortunate reality that remains in the community as this bizarre and unpredictable human behavior increases in rural America: the refusal of the people to believe that these incidents are anything but isolated incidents, coupled with the belief that the real problems of crime and murder are still confined to large cities of America.

Williamson County’s crime rate is in the upper third of the 102 counties in the state of Illinois. We have a unique history of violence for a rural county, but our day-to-day lives are typical of most other rural counties in America. There have been many changes in this county since those days of the Bloody Vendettas, and much of that change began in the 1960s. The turbulence of the 1960s-the civil rights movement, the Vietnam War, increased drug problems, free love, and increased crime-sparked President Nixon to appoint a commission to study the crime problem in America. The main focus of the study was the criminal justice system. The study revealed that police agencies throughout the country were understaffed, poorly trained, and lacked adequate equipment to fulfill law enforcement functions. Further, it found that many agencies used patronage hiring practices with political corruption all-to-often present. As a result, the Ombinus Safe Streets Act of 1968 was passed and by the mid-1970s law enforcement agencies throughout the country were receiving federal revenue Sharing Funds to upgrade local law enforcement. In addition, many laws were changed to require more training.

By the mid-1980s personnel in local police departments of southern Illinois had changed from good-old-boys to professionals. I lived and worked as a lawman during many of those changes, and eventually I felt compelled to share them with those who are interested. The information for this book came from my personal diary, interviews with police, official police records, court records from Williamson and Jackson Counties, newspaper articles, and county records. The dialogue used in this book in experiences on patrol is not exact, as I did not record conversations word for word in my diary, but I am confident that it is very close in both tone and content. The dialogue in the murder cases is exact, as it is taken from the official court and police records. This book is a first person account of the changes from 1974 through 1989 as I saw them, both as a deputy sheriff and as sheriff in Williamson County. Running the gamut from real slices of life, murder, drugs, domestic problems, overcrowded jails, political corruption, and personnel problems to outright humor, this memoir reflects changes and experiences common to local police departments throughout rural America.

CHAPTER 1

A CALL TO DUTY

All I wanted was a job. I had just finished ten year’s service in the Marine Corps in June 1973. All summer I had worked as a laborer in construction while I applied for every local, state, and federal cop job in the area. It was now the fall of 1973 and I had just received a letter to report for testing for a county deputy sheriff’s job. I was excited.

A few days later I took a written exam for the job. The exam had two parts. The first was an intelligence test, I guess. It had a lot of algebra questions on it, which was puzzling to me because I never could figure out what the relationship was between algebra and police work.

The second part of the test made a little more sense. It was a psychological exam with a lot of questions-Do you love your mother? Do you hate your dad? I got past the written test and the next day came phase two, a session with a psych. We all went into an empty room in the courthouse. Six chairs sat in a semicircle with an additional chair centered in front of and facing the other chairs. We all sat quietly waiting for the Doc to arrive.

A few minutes passed and the Doc came in and shuffled over to his chair. He was carrying a clipboard and a few folders in his hand. He looked just like Sigmund Freud puffing on his pipe. He glanced at us as he sat down then looked back down at his clipboard without saying a word. He plopped the armload of folders down on his lap. I looked around the semicircle at the other applicants. They were dressed casually with the exception of one guy in his fifties who was wearing a western suit, green alligator cowboy boots and a white Stetson hat. He was sitting straight in his chair with the intensity of a track runner in the starting blocks, just waiting for the Doc to ask him a question.

The Doc cleared his throat and then asked, Why do you want to be a police officer?

The guy in the western suit burst out, I need a job.

Is that all? the Doc asked.

Well, no, I would like to enforce the laws of the county, there is too much crime going on in the county.

Anyone else? he asked. A couple of guys just grunted. I tried to give a little speech about how important it was to protect society. I almost choked on the words and the Doc almost choked on his pipe.

Then he tossed out a hypothetical question: If you had a man standing on this water tower with a crowd of people standing around the base of the tower watching; the person is suicidal, and is about to jump, what would you do?

I’d tell the silly son-of-a-bitch to jump, Cowboy blurted out. If he ain’t got any more sense than that, why waste your time?

I snickered along with the rest of the applicants while the Doc’s face pruned and he quickly scribbled on his note pad. He regained his composure as some of the other applicants began to respond. I would try to talk the guy down, one said. I don’t know what I would do, another applicant said.

Then he asked if we were going to do a search of a house whether we should have a search warrant. Cowboy piped up again. If you think there is something in the house, you should go in and get it.

You mean people have no rights?

Damn criminals don’t have no rights and that’s the way it is. How the hell we going to catch anybody if we have to go get a search warrant? It’s like tipping them off.

The Doc sucked in on his pipe deeply. Maybe I should ask another question. When should a person be able to use a gun? When should they be able to shoot someone?

Whenever it’s necessary.

What?

Whenever it is necessary. If you have a person that you are in danger from, you should just blow him away. How else we going to get rid of these criminals? Hell, I don’t want to go out there as a police officer and get shot myself.

The psychologist sat for a while writing on his pad. He looked up and went from left to right scanning the applicants. He stopped when he got to the cowboy and stared silently for a moment. That will be all, I think.

I guess I loved my mother and dad because about a month later, I found out through the mail that I had passed the examination. I was placed on the merit list and started praying for an opening.

One day shortly after I received the notification, my next door neighbor came up. He said, You’ve been applying for all these different jobs, why don’t you apply up at county? I said I had and he told me that a radio dispatcher had just died. It was in the paper, he said. You might want to apply there, he suggested.

I got on the telephone that night and called the sheriff. I had only been back in the area for a few months, and other than someone telling me his name, I didn’t know him. I called the office and he happened to be in. I told him who I was and that I had been in the Marine Corps for 10 years and that I really needed a job. I’ll do anything. I’ll pick cigarette butts out of the ashtrays, I’ll sweep floors, I’ll do whatever you say, but I need a job. He asked me to come to his office the next morning at 10:00 so he could interview me. In the office the next day, I could tell immediately that he did not like my hair, which I had let grow over my ears with a mustache and porkchop sideburns. The sheriff talked to me about my background and described what I would be doing if I were hired. He asked me if I would be willing to do this type of work. Once again I told him, Yes, I would and assured him I would work diligently. He asked me to wait out in the lobby, which I did, and after a few minutes he came out to inform me that I was going to be hired, and that I was to come to work one week later. And, uh, get a haircut, son."

Over the next couple of days, the chief deputy showed me around the department. He was an ex-Marine and we hit it off right away. We swapped a few war stories and then he introduced me to some of the deputies and shared a few episodes about them, too. I met some of the eight deputies and radio dispatchers and the five people that worked in the jail. They ranged in age from 28 to 66. As I was introduced to the staff I learned that most were good old boys who were retired, had their own businesses, or kept other employment besides working at the Sheriff’s Department.

I had already gotten a lesson in police professionalism, but there were more surprises to come. I found out that none of the staff had any formal training. Everyone received on-the-job training (OJT). One of the officers explained that the state of Illinois, did have a police training institute and would pay for local police training, but most local police would not send the officers- mainly because the officers themselves were political appointees who did not want to go, or because the departments couldn’t do without the manpower or simply did not want to pay the officers while they were going to school. To make a long story short, all you needed was a warm body and the right politics to become a deputy. I had been fortunate. It was a matter of necessity, not politics, that landed me the job. The other men on the merit list had all turned the job down because the position was for radio dispatcher instead of deputy. I was the last one on the list to call, and I took the job. So here I was with my brand new job, a sworn officer in Illinois’ notorious Bloody Williamson County in the land between the rivers in Southern Illinois.

A week later, I reported for work. I nervously looked at my watch as I entered the courthouse and walked down the hall toward the sheriff’s office. It was 7:30 a.m. Better early than late, I reasoned, as I continued through an open entrance, walked down a short hallway, rounded the corner, and found myself standing in the middle of the communication room. Sitting half slumped in his chair, his hair slightly wild, was the radio dispatcher.

Excuse me, I said, swallowing hard.

The dispatcher quickly turned his swivel chair and looked up at me, surprised. Red streaks crisscrossed the whites of his eyes as clearly as a roadmap. Both sunken eyes seemed to rest on the dark puffy bags underneath them. A hook and prosthetic had replaced his right forearm. With a boyish grin on his face, he came halfway out of his chair with his good arm extended. Hey you’re the new dispatcher, he said. Met you the other day.

Yes, uh, yes sir, I managed to say as we shook hands. I’m supposed to come to work today.

Oh! You’re my replacement!

Well, uh, no, I don’t think so. I mean, well, I’m just supposed to come to work today.

The dispatcher stood, grabbed the backrest of the swivel chair, and rolled the chair to a centered position in front of the desk. Gripping the handle of his lunch pail with the artificial hook, he looked at me with a smile, said, It’s nice you came in early, then turned and walked out of the room.

I stood with my mouth open as I looked around the empty, silent communication room.

Hey! Hey! Wait a minute! I yelled, running down the hall after the dispatcher.

He stopped, turned, and looked at me, disconcerted. What’s wrong?

With both arms extended and palms up, I nervously replied, I —uh — I don’t know what to do, I mean you can’t just leave, not being trained, I’ve — I’ve never worked at a police department.

With a disgusted look, the dispatcher turned his small frame towards the communication room. Come on, I’ll show ya. Hell, there’s not a whole lot that you gotta do. Just answer the phone, and if Bill calls, ya know, just answer him.

Oh, I see, I replied. Who’s Bill?

Bill’s the deputy.

We both entered the communication room and walked over to the radios. Two gray microphones sat side by side. The mikes were identical, each about twelve inches in height with a speaker at the top. A skinny neck rested on a round base. A key button was located in the center of each base plate, with red pieces of tape just above the key. In white letters one read, High Band, the other, Low Band.

The dispatcher pointed to the radio microphones. That’s High Band. Ya call Bill on that one. That’s Low Band. You can get a hold of the city or other counties with that mike. Understand? Push the button to talk, let it up to listen. Understand?

Well, uh, yeah, but, uh, what about the ten codes? I mean, I don’t know them.

The red streaks were bulging from the whites of his eyes as he rolled them and pulled the desk drawer open. He reached in and picked up a white five inch by eight inch card covered with columns of black letters. This is the code card. Use it till you know ‘em.

I quickly glanced up and down the card. Okay, I said slowly, not satisfied yet, what about answering the phone?

That’s simple, he replied in an aggravated tone. If the phone rings, answer ‘Sheriff’s department.’ If something has happened in the county, tell them to call the state’s attorney. If it happens on state property, tell them to call the state police. If it happens in the city, tell them to contact the city police. Understand?

Well, uh, yes-I suppose I can do that, that’s not, uh, too hard. Is that it?

He turned and briskly walked across the room, shaking his head in disgust. That’s it! echoed through the room as the dispatcher disappeared through the door.

I looked around the empty room, then pulled the swivel chair out from the desk and sat down. I looked at my watch. I glanced at the phone, over at the radio, and then leaned back in my chair as I thought, That’s the fastest training session I’ve ever been through! It was 7:36 a.m. Six minutes of OJT.

CHAPTER 2

OLD BLUE

I must have done all right for the first couple of weeks on the radio because the sheriff came in and told me that I was going on the road as a patrol officer. He said that I was going to start on the midnight shift because it was slow. When I reported for work at about 11:30 that first night, the sheriff was in the radio room leaning back against the wall with both hands shoved in his pockets. Facing the sheriff, the dispatcher sat reared back in his swivel chair, both elbows and forearms facing toward the ceiling and his hands locked firmly behind his head. Both men became silent when I walked into the room.

Hi, Sheriff, I said cheerfully.

Howdy, son, you doing all right tonight? he asked as he walked toward me with his arm extended to shake hands.

Yes sir! I’m ready for patrol.

The sheriff reached into his pocket and handed me a set of keys. These are to the squad car out front.

Well, uh, okay, who am I riding with? Who’s my partner?

The sheriff told me that I was going to be on the road by myself. I had done a good job and the midnight shift was slow so I would be able to get the hang of things.

I just looked at the sheriff dumbfounded.

Well, believe I’ll call it a night, the sheriff announced as he nudged me on the shoulder. You’ll do fine, just fine, son. Oh, yeah, remember you got to live and let live.

The sheriff now gone, I looked down at the dispatcher, who was still tilted