Kings Corners: The True Story of a Small Town Cop in Rural Missouri

By Randy H. Greer

From the pages of a lost journal comes the true story of a small town police officer in the 1980s. Author, Randy H. Greer, details his experiences fighting crime in an era when resources were slim, backup was far away, and danger was often present.

Equipped only with a badge and revolver Greer patrolled the streets and back roads of this rural community battling ruffians, gun runners, thieves, killers, and even town officials.

Greers memoirs include accounts of manhunts and murders, sheriffs and shenanigans, triumphs and tragedies, punctuated with historical events of the region. Working the night shift, Greer shares details of a world virtually unknown by most, a world where criminal activity hides under the cover of darkness. A personal account of the life and times of a small town police officer, this book serves as a tribute to those who dedicate their lives to protect and serve.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463401290

Randy H. Greer

This is the true story of a young man who became a police officer in rural southern Missouri. Accustomed to the disciplined routine of a Combat Soldier, Greer finds himself in the chaotic world of small town justice where he faces local roughians wielding axes, knives, and plenty of attitude. His career began 28 years ago when he pinned on a badge and gun belt and began patrolling the streets of a small town; a town that showed him very little gratitude or appreciation and whose Kings guided the lives of its citizens. Greer grew up trapping, hunting and exploring the hills, timber and caves in Webster County Missouri. He was a man who knew how to fight and yet held the teachings of his church and upbringing close to his heart. Seymour, Missouri was a stepping stone, however imperfect, for a young man out to make a name for himself. The road was often full of obstacles and pitfalls but the years spent in “Kings Corners” would leave an indelible mark on his life. Almost everyone from those days is now gone. To those few, those very few who still remain, those days are but a faded memory of forgotten times and people who once touched their lives. Mr. Greer went on to become a State Correctional Officer, Federal Correctional Officer, and a Defensive Tactics and Riot Instructor before retiring in 2010. Greer continues his career now by working in the Municipal Court System and for a Security Company in Branson, Missouri, and still holds a Class A license in the State of Missouri to work as a law enforcement officer.

Book preview

Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1

The Application

Chapter 2

Memories of Seymour

Chapter 3

The Seymour Drive-In

Chapter 4

Knocked through a window

Chapter 5

My First Day

Chapter 6

Small town cop

Chapter 7

Seymour’s police force

Chapter 8

The board of aldermen

Chapter 9

Two officers resign

Chapter 10

We’re In Pursuit! Let’s Go Get Them!

Chapter 11

The Fordland Honor Camp Prison

Chapter 12

If you weren’t wearing that badge…

Chapter 13

Billy Holt, Rape, Chub and Johnson

Chapter 14

The final round

Chapter 15

Guns & 1,2,3, . . .

Chapter 16

The Toughest Sheriff in Southwest Missouri

Chapter 17

Precious

Chapter 18

Diggins, Fordland & don’t leave town!

Chapter 19

Larry Martin & Running from the Cops

Chapter 20

Trouble in the bar

Chapter 21

The bully

Chapter 22

My life as a cop

Chapter 23

Matt Morgan and I

Chapter 24

Knives, flasbacks, and a trooper is murdered

Chapter 25

The usual stuff

Chapter 26

Murder, shootings and acquittals

Chapter 27

Back to the Seymour Lounge

Chapter 28

Big Junior and Johnny Lee

Chapter 29

Johnny Lee Davis

Chapter 30

Almost a hero

Chapter 31

Time to leave

Chapter 32

The rest of the story

CHAPTER 33

Seymour’s early town marshals and policemen

CHAPTER 34

Seymour and Webster County Missouri

Sources

Interviews\Corresspondence

Special Thanks

Acknowledgements

Foreword

In 2007 while rummaging through an old storage shed I came across a brown dilapidated cardboard box. Inside that box I found a journal; a journal whose pages depicted the pride and frustrations that I had once experienced while serving as a small town police officer.

The stories in that journal, inscribed more than twenty years ago, prompted me to write this book. While some of the names have been changed, the stories in this book are true.

At the age of 23 I became one of Seymour’s youngest police officers. I was full of pride and my heart beat heavily the day I was sworn in as a Seymour, Missouri Police Officer. I knew at that moment that I would do anything to protect the citizens of my new home town.

But for the next three years I would have to fight to keep that job. I would be investigated and my life would be threatened. The people who had hired me had failed to tell me that throughout history, Seymour City Police Officers weren’t expected to keep their jobs very long.

While at Seymour I was a Policeman, member of the Seymour Lions Club, and I rushed to fires as a member of the Seymour Volunteer Fire Department. I even played basketball to raise money for the fire department and I was an inductee into the Seymour Lodge. I attended funerals, chaperoned at high school dances, gave presentations to the local schools\organizations and did my best to win over the respect of everyone I met.

I did everything I could do to get to know my neighbors and the people whom I was sworn to protect. When I put on my uniform, buckled on my gun belt and got into my patrol car, it was my job to protect every man, woman and child in Seymour. And I meant to do it even if it meant risking my own life to save theirs. And sometimes it meant just that.

The stories, the town, and the people in this book are REAL. When it was necessary to change someone’s name I have indicated that change by placing an asterisk (*) at the beginning of the name.

The character Looty Bradshaw represents all the officers I worked with in the 1980’s. Rather than use the real officer’s name when telling an unflattering story about that officer, I have replaced their name with the name Looty Bradshaw. I have gone to great lengths to conceal the true identities of anyone who I thought might be embarrassed. I had no intention of discrediting anyone in this book.

I would like to write about the sensationalism of gunfights, killings, rapes and mass murders but if I did it would have to be fiction. This is not to say that some of those things didn’t happen in and around Seymour, but they were far from being everyday occurrences. Seymour, for the most part, was a quiet, subdued little town. It was no Mayberry, but it was no Springfield, Kansas City or St. Louis either. It was a small town in America surviving through the help of friends, family and tradition.

The Mystery

Writing this book has been a fascinating and frustrating experience. I rarely found anyone from Seymour who was willing to talk to me about their home town. One former city official flat out told me, I don’t remember anything and don’t use my name in the book.

It made me wonder what secrets may be lurking in Seymour’s past. The silence planted a seed of suspicion in my mind.

I spoke to city officials, former Seymour law enforcement officers, people who grew up in Seymour and the families of the people whom I had once been friends with. I figured they’d want to brag about their family members, but few did.

Ninety-five percent of the people I contacted refused to talk to me. As soon as I brought up the past they became guarded and fortified. One person even developed a memory loss for those years in question.

My first reaction was that they had something to hide or that there was some mystery about those years that I wasn’t aware of. I dug deeper.

What I found were scandalous rumors and accusations, but very few facts to support any charges or documentation to give credence to the stories.

I was left with the postulation that if there were any crimes committed, cover ups, or wrong doings among the city employees there weren’t enough facts to constitute any arrests.

My opinion is the people who refused to answer my emails, letters and interviews did not want the rumors and scandals to resurface, even though many of them were not true.

On one occasion I approached a lady at the Seymour Library and explained to her the research I was doing. I inquired about some of the people I had known and asked her if she had any additional information about them. I will never forget the candidness of her reply, nor will my wife who was standing next to me. This is what she had to say;

Yep, he’s daid (dead)!

Yep, he’s daid too! And Yep, he’s daid also!

And she was right. By 2009 all but one of the officers whom I had worked with as a police officer in the 1980’s had passed away. Six of us worked together at the time, only two of us are left.

So I did the next best thing. I began researching the town through books, newspapers, interviews and the internet. I looked for anything with the name of Seymour on it. I literally spent weeks, months and years pouring over hundreds of documents from the 1930’s to 2010. The results were an interesting but often frustrating journey back into time.

This is not a story where I intend to belittle or trash-talk anyone. It is, however, a story about a farm boy and former Sergeant in the Army who became a Police Officer in a small town in Missouri at the age of 23.

The people, places and events I have reported on are a snapshot of what I saw and experienced in Seymour in the early 1980’s. I assure you my intention was not to write a book that would embarrass, harm, or discredit any of the citizens of Seymour, either past or present.

I chose the name Kings Corners for this book because across the country there are literally thousands of small towns and hamlets like Seymour in every state. Each one is different and yet they all are the same. They have their small town politics, problems, and home grown governments. Much like Seymour, they are governed by a Board of Aldermen or City Fathers (Kings).

The City Fathers\Board of Alderman (Kings) are charged with helping to make the city a safer and more enjoyable place for the rest of us to live. For better or worse, good or bad, these few Kings govern the city and make decisions that affect the whole town, hence the name, Kings Corners.

As for the town of Seymour, it is to be commended. It exhibits a small-town charm that is both attractive and unique. Seymour is primarily comprised of productive and honest, hard working American citizens. Those who were not became my business… . .

I hope you enjoy the book—Randy H. Greer

Chapter 1

The Application

WANTED

SEYMOUR POLICE OFFICER

Apply at City Hall—Seymour, Missouri

The help wanted ad appeared in both the Webster County Citizen and the Marshfield Mail newspapers. Like a Las Vegas marquee the announcement jumped out at me.

Seymour was looking for a City Police Officer. Most small towns like Seymour went on what we called the ‘good old boy system’. In other words, when a job came open you either hired your relatives or someone everybody knew. I was surprised to see the position advertised.

I scanned the listing once more, laid the paper down, and went about my business. The job didn’t interest me. I had a job. I worked for the Webster County Road District building and maintaining roads. I drove a dump truck and operated most of their machinery. It wasn’t great, but it paid the bills.

A few days later I picked up the newspaper from the corner of the coffee table. I re-read the ad, but this time out loud to myself. Police Officer wanted. Hmm, I could do that.

Fresh out of the Army and a member of the Springfield, Missouri National Guard, I felt like I was more than qualified for the position.

The Military taught me reconnaissance, how to handle weapons, survive off the land, seek and destroy the enemy, and how to escape and evade when necessary.

I had been awarded a couple of ribbons and citations while overseas. I was big and tough and there wasn’t much out there that intimidated me.

Maybe I SHOULD apply for the job. It couldn’t hurt to at least try. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. So what if they turned me down?

That same evening I called my dad on the phone and he agreed with me. I should fill out the application. Dad was a cattleman who raised and sold beef cattle on the farm that had been in our family for two generations.

I knew very little about law enforcement and I could never picture Dad as a cop. Like most farmers and cattlemen, dad rarely wore a tie or slacks, unless he was going to a funeral or wedding. But in 1886 my great, great grandfather had been the Sheriff of Webster County in Marshfield. So if they selected me I wouldn’t be the first lawman in our family… that is, if they hired me.

I wondered what the worst part of the job might be. Picking up a few drunks on a Saturday night who had sucked down too much moonshine? Or stopping speeders and catching kids out after curfew? It didn’t seem too tough to me.

A few days later Dad and I drove southeast to Seymour. We entered town through the west exit driving past the cemetery down old Skyline Road. At the Seymour Bank we turned right and crossed the railroad tracks. We came to a stop at a little donut shop on the west end of the square.

The Seymour Bakery had opened two years before in 1980. A man and wife team operated the business. Tiny bells at the top of the door jingled as we walked through the front door. A tall man with glasses and a dirty apron rushed from the back of the shop to greet us. He appeared pleasant and I sensed kindness in his voice, but he also seemed a little wary of us.

Hardly a minute had passed before the man asked about our business in town. He sat down two steaming hot cups of coffee in front of us as he spoke.

What are you boys up to today?

Oh, I just rode up here with the boy. He’s putting in an application for police officer.

The donut man’s friendly expression quickly faded, replaced with a look of concern and guardedness. Why does he want to do that for?

I guess I didn’t understand his question. What did he mean by Why would he want to do that? What kind of a question was that? What was wrong with wanting to be a police officer? It’s an honorable profession. I decided to speak up for myself.

I guess because I always wanted to do that kind of work.

The donut man looked confused and apprehensive. He shook his head as he topped off our coffees. Are you boys from around here? You know, they mostly hire local boys.

No sir, I’m from Marshfield. I figured they already had someone in mind for the job but I didn’t think it would hurt to fill out an application.

No, no, I guess it wouldn’t hurt. His voice trailed as he turned and wrung his hands on his flour smeared apron. He was still mumbling to himself as he disappeared back into the kitchen.

Dad and I looked at each other, perplexed. What was he trying to tell us? Whatever it was, I wasn’t getting it. The man returned a few seconds later with two big donuts on paper plates.

Here, try these. They’re still hot. You know, I was thinking, maybe this town DOES need some new blood.

I don’t know, maybe. How long have you lived here? Are you from around here? I asked.

No, no, no, not me. The wife and I moved here a while back and bought this place. We have a whole different way of looking at things than the folks around here do. You know the Chief of police is…

Abruptly, the donut man stopped in mid-sentence, bent over at the waist, and looked past us through the picture window into the street. A red patrol car was circling the square.

What is it, something wrong?

Oh, nothing I suppose. Hey, I’ve talked too much already. You boys go ahead and enjoy your donuts. They’re on me. It was nice to meet you and good luck to you on your application!

What just happened? The man was talkative until he looked out the window and saw the patrol car. Was I reading something into this or was he suddenly acting mysterious? Maybe the man was just busy and had some donuts in the oven or something. His behavior didn’t make sense to me.

The man quickly disappeared into the back while Dad and I finished our coffee. We left the bakery and hopped back into Dad’s pickup and drove around the square to the City Hall\Police Station\Fire Station on Washington Street.

We entered the building through the City Hall side. We were greeted by the ladies behind the counter, Judy and Doris. Judy was young, pretty and plump, with blonde hair. Doris was older, a sweet lady with glasses. I asked for an application for the police officer position and the girls sprang into action.

On the way back to Marshfield I told dad that I thought it was pointless to fill out the application. They weren’t going to hire me, so why bother? It was a waste of time. But Dad insisted that I apply anyway. A few days later I drove back to Seymour and dropped off the paperwork.

Two weeks later I received a notice in the mail. It said to report to the Seymour High School cafeteria to take the police officer written examination. I was shocked to receive the notification but happy at the same time.

That following Saturday the Seymour High School cafeteria was full of people prepared to take the test. I estimated 40 to 50 people had shown up.

An officer handed me my test and told me where to sit. I looked around the room. How could I compete against all of these people? I didn’t stand a chance. I wanted to hand the test back but it was too late to walk out now. I had come this far, I might as well see it through.

I eased into my seat and started in on the 100 questions that included vocabulary and multiple choices. The test was the POLICE MAN EXAMINATION GENERAL ADAPTABILITY TEST copyright 1934, by L. J. O’Rourke.

1934??? The test they were administering was 45 years old! When this test was copyrighted Franklin D. Roosevelt was the President of the United States, John Dillinger had just broken out of jail using a wooden gun, and Bonnie and Clyde had killed 2 police officers. Baseball legend, Babe Ruth, had hit home run number 700, and World War II wouldn’t begin for another five years!

Using a 45 year old test seemed absurd to me! It was probably the first time the test had ever been given in Seymour. Nevertheless, all that mattered was that I scored high on it.

Here are some sample questions from the original test I took that Saturday morning (I still have a copy):

Question #54. To say that a condition is generally or extensively existing means that it is

1.) Artificial

2.) Prevalent

3.) Recurrent

4.) Timely

5.) Transient

Question #92. An action is said to be furtive when it is

1.) Accidental

2.) Desperate

3.) Flagrant

4.) Quick

5.) Stealthy

How often do you use the word furtive in a sentence? I bet there weren’t five people in the room who knew the definition of furtive, or had used it in a sentence. I know I hadn’t. But I knew its meaning and the definition of all the other words.

I quickly completed the test knowing I had gotten a good score. But in the back of my mind something still bothered me. Would my test score really mean anything? Would anyone even bother to grade these forms?

Before I had scratched my first answer on the page the Mayor and Chief of Police in all likelihood had picked who they were going to hire. That’s the way things were done in small towns and I was not naive to it. Turns out this time I was wrong.

Imagine my surprise when a week later I received another written notice from Seymour. It stated that I had scored high on the exam and that if I was still interested in the job I should report to the Seymour High School for a physical agility test.

Once again, I was excited and shocked to have received the letter. The agility test would be a breeze for me.

I was a distance runner on the track team for a short time in High School and while in the Army I ran every day. With the exception of one or two soldiers I was the fastest long distance runner in my company. I was in great shape and loved running.

The number of applicants had been narrowed down from about 50 to 10 for this phase. Running was our first event. In two groups of five, we lined up next to each other in the schoolyard. When the whistle blew we all ran a mile around the field. I took first place.

Next, we changed a flat tire, climbed a fireman’s ladder to the top of the Seymour Bank, and jumped through a five foot window behind City Hall.

I left Seymour that day knowing I had aced the physical agility test. But would it really matter? A week later I received a phone call from Chief of Police Verl Pogue. After reviewing all the scores it was down to me and one other guy. I had made the cut.

The bad news? Upon reviewing my application the town council had noticed that I was a member of the Missouri National Guard. The board presented me with an ultimatum; resign from the National Guard and the town council would hire me, or stay in the National Guard and forget about the job.

Within a month of leaving active duty in the Army I had joined the Missouri National Guard. I was a Sergeant in charge of Nuclear, Biological, Chemical and Radiation NCO (Non Commissioned Officer). I loved my job. I trained once a month and earned a Sergeant’s pay of about $145.

But family came first and I believed I had a shot at being hired as a policeman. So under protest I agreed to quit the Guard. One week later I officially resigned my position and left the 1106th National Guard unit in Springfield, Missouri.

On September 22nd, 1983, around 7:00 p.m., the Board of Aldermen met at City Hall. They discussed railroad crossings, street repairs, and a sewer project on Steel Street. Afterwards, they went into executive session where they accepted the resignation of Police Officer Manuel (Dusty) Rhodes, and approved the employment of one Randy H. Greer (me) as one of their new police officers. A motion to adjourn the meeting was made by Aldermen Butler and *Denise Ludlow. The meeting ended at 10:45 p.m. The next evening (Friday), Chief Pogue called me and gave me the good news—I had the job.

Applicant *Matthew (Matt) Morgan from Seymour was also hired as police officer. The board overlooked the fact that Matt did not have a high school diploma; however he was to obtain a GED before he would be allowed to work fulltime. I don’t recall if Matt ever got his GED but it didn’t matter to me either way.

I hung up the phone and stood in the middle of my living room in Marshfield, stunned. I was trying to take in all that Chief Pogue had just said to me. He had emphasized that I needed to relocate to Seymour as soon as possible. He said that he’d help me find a place to live. And he did. My family and I moved into a tiny little house on the west side of town. My first day on the job would be in three days. I was to report to the Seymour Police Station on Monday morning at 8:00 a.m.

I couldn’t believe it! I had to call my Dad and my best friend, David Crom. I was anxious to announce that I was moving to Seymour to be a cop!

On that day in 1983 I was extremely proud of myself. I was on top of the world. For almost four years I had crawled in mud, waded through snow that was hip deep, and survived on boxes of C-rations. Joining the Army had finally paid off.

I was 23 years old and starting a career in law enforcement that would span more than 30 years.

Chapter 2

Memories of Seymour

We were outlaws. My cousins, Johnny and Don were 12 and 14 years old, and I was only 10. It was a warm summer morning with no rain in sight and we were looking for trouble.

We left cousin Don’s house where we had spent the night and headed south to the city square a few blocks away.

As we crossed the yard of the rock elementary school, Cousin Johnny suggested we go to the pool hall and shoot a game of pool. I was all for that. I had never seen the inside of a pool hall before.

There was just one problem. Uncle Henry, who was at home sleeping so he could work the night shift at the police department, had told us to stay away from the pool hall. He suggested that we go over to the ball diamond and play ball. I liked Johnny’s idea better.

It was the early 1970’s. Richard Nixon was President, the price of gas was only thirty-six cents a gallon and All in the Family was America’s number one show on television. Star Trek re-runs weren’t that old and cell phones, IPods, video games, VCR’s, CD’s and home computers were unheard of. In those days we were relegated to creating our own adventures.

As far back as I can remember, my cousin, Johnny, and his parents drove from Kansas to Marshfield every summer to spend time with family. While in Missouri they visited Grandma, our cattle farm north of town, and Uncle Henry and Aunt Carmen in Seymour.

In the 1970’s the pool hall in Seymour, Missouri was located on the south side of the square. Ironically, I believe it was located where the Police Department is today. I recall it was to the right of the historical Owen Theater if you were facing south. I can’t remember the name of the proprietor, only that it had a reputation as being a rough place to hang out.

Cousin Don, Uncle Henry’s boy, tried to convince us that going in the pool hall was a bad idea. Don was worried that we might get caught and even worse, we might get into trouble. But Cousin Johnny had it covered. He was from Kansas where he wrestled in High School and he reminded Don and me that he could handle himself and even protect us if necessary.

Whether Cousin Johnny really wrestled in school or not didn’t matter to me. I was happy to use Johnny’s wrestling prowess as a selling point to the more cautious member of our gang, Don.

That Saturday morning around 10:00 a.m. the three of us crossed the railroad tracks, stopped at Ramey’s Supermarket on the northeast portion of the square and bought some peppermint gum and a bag of Red Hots candy.

We exited the store, crossed the street and entered the park, convening in the gazebo. After some deliberation our plans were laid. We jumped out of the gazebo and headed south across the park to the pool hall. We crossed Washington Street and stood for a moment outside the front door.

Johnny walked in first, then Don. I was trailing in last place. In front of us were several pool tables with fluorescent lights that hung low from the ceiling. Two guys in the back with sticks were leaned over a table lining up a shot. They both looked up as we walked through the door.

To the left of us was a round little man reading a newspaper behind a long wooden counter. A cigarette, most of it in ashes, sat smoldering between the