There's Gold in Them There Hills

By Wayne Turner

This book was written about a law enforcement officer and the trials and tribulations of several cases he worked in the area of northern California and southern Oregon. The names and places in this book have been changed to protect the innocent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491838853

Wayne Turner

Wayne Turner was born in Indianapolis, Indiana in 1940 to a poor farm family. He remained there as he grew up and was educated in public schools. He lived with his siblings which were two brothers and two sisters. They were farmed out as a couple and four kids to do farm work, which included picking tomatoes, shoveling horse manure, filling grain bins, watering the animals, and other farm-type work. He, after getting into trouble with the law, the judge gave him a choice of entering the military or going to juvenile camp. He chose the first and signed up with the US Marine Corps at 17 years of age. After serving, Wayne pursued a career in communications and then in law enforcement. He was hired as a resident deputy sheriff in a small town in Northern California, where he received two awards as Law Enforcement Officer of the Year and Deputy of the Year. After retiring from law enforcement he became a Private Investigator and worked with a law firm also nestled in the hills of northern California. Wayne loved his country and the Corps. He was a Marine’s Marine. Wayne married his sweetheart from the Marines in 1961, they were married 48 years. They had two boys who excelled in sports which turned into careers for both.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Winter had a firm grip on the mountains of northern California and southern Oregon. It had snowed the day before, and the weather remained harsh and cold, but the roads were clear. A white SUV with tinted windows and multiple radio antennas pulled up in front of a modern, single-story office complex just off the main drag in Cave Junction, Oregon.

Two men stepped out. Both wore tiger-striped military-style uniforms. Their boots were bloused, and both wore a combination of tactical swat harnesses with strap-down leg harnesses.

The older man, who had driven the SUV north from California in the early morning hours, located the office doors and checked that they were secure. The men, whose uniforms carried no visible identifying marks, walked toward an unmarked brown metal door. As they reached it, they removed Velcro straps, exposing the sheriff’s badges on their chests.

The older of the two turned the knob and opened the door. As they stepped inside, a heavy-set middle-aged woman with a vaguely pretty face approached and said, They are all waiting in the briefing room. She then directed them through another door.

The briefing room was well lit, with two long wooden tables and several metal chairs. A large blackboard covered one wall. The room was without windows and smelled of fresh-brewed coffee. A tall, heavily built sergeant wearing a Josephine County sheriff’s uniform introduced the officers in attendance. There were six deputies dressed in black tactical uniforms, and two K-9 handlers. The sergeant looked around the room and spoke in a loud voice. This is Detective Wayne Turner and Deputy Mike Graves from the Alpine County Sheriff’s Department, he said. They will handle the briefing, and I suggest that you all listen closely.

Turner moved to the front of the room. He stood just over six feet and had the look of a seasoned cop. The creases in his uniform had been stitched, and a camouflage hat covered his short hair. He was in his early forties but had served in the Marines as a younger man and was still in good physical condition. Graves was in his early thirties, and though he was shorter, he had the build of a running back. He wore a serious look on his round face, but his rosy cheeks and curly blond hair made him appear younger than his years. The two were members of their department’s SWAT entry team and had served together on dangerous arrests of homicide suspects, during hostage situations, and in meth-lab takedowns. They had busted marijuana growing operations and executed high-risk search warrants.

Turner briefed the men on the information he had received the day prior from what sounded like a reliable informant. With all eyes focused on him, he described the suspect who had brought the officers together. His name is Jeff O’Malley, Turner said. "He stands about five ten, has black hair and bad teeth, and wears a beat-up pair of eyeglasses.

"This guy is one tough son of a bitch. If we jump him, he’ll run straight for the river. That’s why I asked your sergeant to bring the two K-9s. If this guy takes off, the dogs will be the only way to bring him down to the ground. Deputy Graves has photographs of Jeff from his driver’s license. They are not recent, but he’ll appear much the same. I will pass these around.

I briefed your sergeant last evening about what the informant had said. I will go over it again in case one of you may have seen Jeff around. The informant lives here in Cave Junction and agreed to talk with me only if I promised that our conversation would remain confidential. He refused to provide his name, but when they hear what he had to say, maybe one of your local patrol guys might give us a name.

Chapter 2

The previous morning, Turner had been seated at his desk reading reports forwarded to him from the patrol division for follow-up when the phone rang.

This is Marie, said an operator from dispatch. There’s this guy on the phone. He will only whisper and will not identify himself. He wants to talk to a ‘homicide detective.’

Put him through, Turner said. The telephone went silent for a moment. Then a man spoke in a low voice.

Is this a detective?

Yes. Detective Turner.

The caller sounded as if he were afraid someone would hear him. Turner activated his cell phone recorder.

Is some guy wanted for murder down here? the caller whispered.

Yeah. There’s a couple of them. Why? Turner said. The man’s voice became even quieter.

Does the name Jeff O’Malley mean anything to you? he asked.

It might, Turner answered.

Then it wasn’t bullshit, the caller said.

Where are you calling from? Turner asked.

Listen, man, I should hang up. The sucker will kill me, the caller said.

Hey, calm down. We’ve been chasing Mr. O’Malley for some time, and if you want to remain anonymous, then we can do that, but tell me what you know.

Turner knew that the man had been on the telephone long enough for a trace, but he wanted to hear more.

Hey, man, is this guy really dangerous? the caller asked.

Well, we have a warrant for his arrest for homicide, and now we want to get him off the streets.

The caller went quiet for a long moment before speaking again. Well, I went to the bar for a couple of beers, and there was this guy there who looked like he had been living in the woods. He was dirty and smelled of wood smoke. I was just minding my own business when the guy moved to the stool next to me. He was drunk, and every time the bartender moved away, the guy would talk bullshit.

Okay, sir. You are doing fine so far. Go ahead, Turner said.

Well, he told me how he was mining on the Illinois River about two miles from town, and I couldn’t believe that because fuck, man, it’s the middle of the winter here.

Turner decided to take a chance. Hey, listen. Tell me where you are calling from, because the weather means nothing, and if it was Jeff we need your help to put his ass behind bars.

Again a long moment passed. Okay. I guess I have to trust you, but man, I only wanted a beer, not the shit. I’m calling from Cave Junction in Oregon, and this guy even drew me a map to his tent and said if I come out, to bring beer. As the caller relaxed, he described Jeff O’Malley to a tee. Then he outlined the area of O’Malley’s camp, naming the road off of Highway 199 where O’Malley accessed the site.

Turner jotted down the directions so he could compare them with a road map for Cave Junction.

I’m calling you from a pay phone, so don’t try to locate me, the caller said. I don’t want that bastard hunting me down.

Turner told the caller to keep an eye on his local paper for news of O’Malley’s arrest. After the caller hung up, Turner checked his recorder and found that the conversation had been captured. He picked up the phone and asked to speak with the dispatch supervisor. Katherine came on the line. We expected you to call, she said. He was calling from a pay phone in Cave Junction, Oregon, and I’ve got the number for you.

Turner recorded the number in his notebook. If the information didn’t pan out, at least he could locate the phone used by the informant. Then he phoned the department secretary and asked if the sheriff was available.

The sheriff is in, she said. Get over here.

I’m on my way, Turner said.

David Carlson had made big news in California, becoming the first African American to be elected a sheriff in the state. He was a big man with a quick smile and a booming voice. Sheriff Carlson was highly respected for his leadership and for his management skills. He was a politician, but he was also a no-nonsense cop.

Carlson grew up in West, California, a mill town named after its founder, Anthony West, who had constructed his lumber mill at the western base of Mount Pleasant. The strong winds that the mountain created helped cure his freshly milled lumber. Blacks were brought to West from Louisiana to provide cheap labor for the mill. Carlson was a product of that environment. He attended West High School, and after graduation enrolled at the College of the Siskiyous where he was an asset to the football team. When he had earned his degree, he applied to be a patrolman with the West Police Department. Carlson was the department’s only black officer. He worked his way through the ranks and was appointed chief of police. Carlson paid no attention to color and treated everyone with equal respect. He won the sheriff’s election with more than 70 percent of the vote in Alpine County.

The county is vast, with mountains, rivers, lakes, large cattle ranches, farms, and huge blocks of US Forest Service lands, much of it remote wilderness. Its forty thousand people consist of loggers, ranchers, farmers, mill workers, and gold miners. Fewer than a thousand residents are black, and they prefer to live together in West.

Carlson had decided to run for sheriff after the deaths of two young deputies during a marijuana reconnaissance flight. The entire law enforcement community was soon involved in the search for their aircraft. Carlson, then West’s chief of police, assigned all of his off-duty personnel to the hunt. The two deputies were home-grown. Dwight Rothman was a deputy sheriff assigned to the jail division. He had once worked in the woods as a tree faller. Gary Burns had done a tour with the Marine Corps and had returned home to drive logging trucks before entering law enforcement. Both deputies were family men with two children and were respected as deputy sheriffs. Turner was a field deputy assigned to the headquarters division when the two deputies, the pilot, and the aircraft went missing. He had been involved with the search for three days and nights. Sleep was not a concern for those taking part.

It soon became apparent that something very serious had happened to the deputies. Both were woodsmen and knew that a fire in mid-July in the dense timber would bring help. Aircraft flew each night until dawn, searching for any sign of fire, but found none.

On the second day the search, his day off, Turner drove his truck up Bear Creek Road, a north-south path off of Highway 96 that winds through the steep, timber-covered hills at the south base of Mount Pleasant. Turner stopped at every house to ask if anyone had seen a low-flying, fixed-wing aircraft. He was told about a small, blue-and-white plane seen flying just above the treetops and heading up the canyon. However, no one reported seeing the plane return.

Chapter 3

The following morning, on what was supposed to be his second day off, Turner drove to the Montenegro airport, the command center for the search. There he learned that during the first day of the search, a man had asked to speak with the person in charge. He said that he had been driving south from Medford, Oregon, on the day the deputies were reported missing and had seen what he described as a flash fire. At the command tent, he pointed to a spot on a Forest Service topographical map.

Turner entered the command tent at just after 6 a.m. There he met with Lieutenant Ted Kilmer, who pointed out the location of the reported fire. Kilmer said several flyovers of the area had found nothing. Turner examined the map closely and saw that the location