The True Story of the Sharpest Ever-: Michael Eugene Sharp

By Mike Eggleston

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469136752

Mike Eggleston

MIKE EGGLESTON was born and raised in Big Spring, Texas. His life centered around cattle and cattle trucks before becoming a police officer. On four different occasions while he was a patrolman with the Big Spring police Department he captured burglars in the act of burglary. He advanced to the lead of the major crimes task force, where he was very successful in solving crimes and making drug busts (sometimes as many as three per day). Eggleston received several letters of commendation, including one from the government of Texas,. Also, he was assigned to help protect President Ford when he visited Big Spring to turn Webb Air Force base over to the city.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Well, then. Let me ask you this. Did you at any time feel any remorse?

Oh, I guess, he replied in a sarcastic smirk.

Then how did it feel to throw that first shovel of dirt in the little girl’s face? Make you feel like a real man? Maybe it was necessary for sexual gratification.

Across the table he came. I had never dreamed of being involved in this big of a murder case in such a small community. I had retired from big city routine crime about eleven months earlier and transferred to this very small oil dependent community. I planned to retire here, and I had planned on a slow, easy pace until my retirement arrived in about thirty years.

He was quickly brought under control and put back in his cell. I suppose it was wrong to enjoy getting him under control, but with a murderer you couldn’t worry about hurting his feelings. I felt it was a good interview. This was more information than I had ever gotten out of him during any other interview since he had been taken into custody.

I returned to the back roads of the county, where I always did my best thinking. I had just recently been promoted to the position that all officers dread being inducted into, scapegoat. I began thinking how this had all come about—all the way back to day one, when I was sworn in as a deputy sheriff.

Stepping down from head honcho of a major crime task force in the city with my own personal secretary and a whole police force behind me to now being in a small town with a one hundred-year-old courthouse was a drastic change. The local newspaper and radio station were in attendance along with all courthouse personnel as I raised my right hand and took the oath. It was the best entertainment most of them had seen in quite some time. There was even a reception in the courtroom, where there was plenty of seating. I felt extremely awkward. I never have liked being the center of attention—shaking hands with people that you have absolutely no idea who they are, while at the same time being totally in awe as to how your paths may be destined to cross in the future.

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Experience reminds me that the folks attending the ceremony appear to be the upper class of people, with most of them having spotless criminal records and the absolute best intentions. They want you to be their friend and will always treat you right. That is, until you refuse to officially do something they feel is your sworn duty, and they refuse to realize it would be illegal for you to carry out their request. From then on you are referred to as incompetent or uncaring. I’m not what you would call a loner, but I am usually more comfortable with no one around to critique my every stressed-out action.

People in this community are a world apart from the people of the community from which I came. When you are right, you have respect; but when you are wrong, you automatically develop leprosy. It appeared that everyone knew everyone else and everything about each other. I argued with myself as to whether gossip was an everyday ritual and to how much of it concerned me, since I’m in phase one of blending in.

I had to be sharp as I could be in order to understand the chitchat. I hate it when people try to use big words they don’t fully understand, hoping to sound intelligent. My experience had put me in situations where I had to use impressive words. You have to know a lot of fancy words for use in the courtroom and such. Take for instance the word demeanor. Instead of saying, He’s acting like a dang fool, you must say, The gentleman’s demeanor is puckish. Isn’t that something? Just looking at the word implies to me that it should be used in the following manner: de meaner guy threw de first punch! Oh well, so much for impressive words.

As I was about to take the first sip of my second cup of punch, I tried to remember if I was supposed to stick my pinkie out or not. The dispatcher, a large big-boned blonde, who was obviously shy around bathroom scales, came in and said something to the sheriff. He turned beet red, put his hand to his mouth and appeared to be giggling. Ben was his name. He was a large and tall (not fat) likeable sixty-year-old with thick black hair (greased back like they did in the 1950’s). He had gold-rimmed glasses and smoked Marlboros chain-style.

The sheriff was completely flush-faced as he stooped over to set his punch cup down so that he could motion for me to come with him. I had studied him enough to know that he embarrassed easily. I followed him through the swinging double doors of the courtroom. Once in the hall and away from the crowd, he turned to me while giggling. He was more flush than he was in the courtroom. You know what a D9 Caterpillar is? he asked while lighting another cigarette.

You mean like in a bulldozer?

Yeah, he was still giggling. The biggest one they make!

Oh. Yes, Sir.

Well, he explained, The city used to have one at the city dump. He chuckled.

By stating that, I assumed he had set me up to ask, What do you mean by ‘used to have’?

Well. Some kids apparently got it started, and it’s running around the county at about 18 miles per hour in reverse. If it was going forward, the blade would bury up, and it would stop. With it in reverse, the blade just bounces behind it. Top speed on it is about 18 mph. It’s already covered over seven miles, and the city maintenance guys can’t get it stopped. We better get out there and keep traffic away from it, if at all possible.

Yes, Sir. That’s gonna be a trick. There are not a lot of things out there that will stop a D9 Caterpillar.

I know! he laughed.

We jumped in our cars and took off towards the east. The city dump was east of town, and the big cat was headed in that direction. Big Cat is what I started calling it for short over the radio, and so did K1.

K stood for Kain County, and 1 stood for number 1 in rank, head honcho, commander and/or sheriff. I was K5—K for Kain County and 5 for bottom of the totem pole, end of the line, least important and/or last hired. Besides the sheriff, there was the chief deputy (K2), then K3 (a young Mexican guy who worked days, mostly delivering civil papers) and the night deputy (K4). There was also a new kid, Keith, whom they had just hired and who rode with K4 most of the time. Weekends were rotated between us. Last, but by no means least, there was the constable, Henry Lee. Henry Lee was an overly active 66-year-old man. He was about five feet six inches tall and very much on the level. The huge bubble, square in his middle, was proof of that. He wore bib overalls, tenny shoes and an oil-soaked cap, which read, Coors—Breakfast of Champions.

Anyway, back to the runaway bulldozer. I had hoped that by calling the runaway dozer Big Cat that people listening in on scanners might get concerned that a circus truck had turned over in the area; thus giving them a little excitement in their lives. As I thought about it, the runaway bulldozer was much more dangerous to the public. Locked doors would stop a feline, but not a bulldozer. There was a little over 1400 square miles in Kain County. Ninety-five percent of it was desolate, except for oil fields and cattle. The more I considered the situation, the more concerned I became. There was a very strong chance of the bulldozer hitting some of the natural gas wells, and then there would surely be an explosion and possible well fire.

Kain County. K1?

K1. Go ahead.

K1, be advised the ‘big cat’ has hit an electrical pole with its track, whatever that means, and has changed direction. It should be crossing Highway 302 heading south within the next ten minutes, if it is not stopped or the direction of travel is not changed. Be also advised that it should be crossing Highway 302 between eight and ten miles east of town.

I was following the sheriff around the loop at a high rate of speed. He had only a single magnetic, roof-mount red bubble, which due to a weak magnet bounced to the pavement at the first bump. It remained plugged into the cigarette lighter socket, causing it to drag beside his car. I had a complete state-of-the-art police bubble system with red, blue and white bubbles.

Come on around me, K5, he told me over the radio. I’ll follow you.

I didn’t really know if it was because of the bubbles or the fact that the sheriff hadn’t run hot in several years, but I’m sure that if someone was to be run over, politically he preferred it be me.

As we approached the eighth mile, to my left I could see a cloud of brown dust quite some distance away. It was traveling south at a rate that should enable us to get there before it crossed the highway. I looked back at the sheriff in the mirror to check his position. What was left of his twirly bubble was dragging along the side of his car, sparking every time it hit the pavement.

See it over there, Sheriff? I asked.

No, I don’t.

Look to the left, about nine o’clock! Must be the age difference, I thought.

Ok, now I see it.

How you want to handle it, Sir?

I guess I’ll stop right here and stop traffic. You go on the other side and stop traffic till it crosses.

10-4, Sheriff. Will do.

I had already made up my mind as to how I was going to stop it.

K5. Kain County, do you still have city maintenance on the phone?

Yes, but its awful choppy. They are on a mobile phone.

Ask them what side of the dozer the fuel filters are on.

K5, they advise that the filters are located on the right side of it, if you are in front of the bulldozer.

10-4. Thank you, Kain County.

Even though it was a very small sheriff’s office, I had been equipped with all the firepower any lawman should ever need. I had a 223 full automatic rifle, a 45 Thompson machine gun, a 30-06 rifle with scope, and a 12-gauge semi-automatic shotgun loaded with eight rounds of #4 magnums.

In golf lingo, you might say I had chosen the 12-iron for the up and coming shot. It didn’t really matter if it was a birdie, an eagle or a bald butted buzzard, the 12-iron should do the job.

I rushed up the highway about 40 yards past where I thought the dozer should cross, put my car on the center stripe with head lights on bright and bubbles twirling, opened both front doors and popped the trunk. I grabbed the case and started taking the 12-iron out as I ran back past the point where I would be on the right side of the dozer. I didn’t feel it was necessary to take a couple of practice swings like most pros, for I was more concerned with the dozer changing directions where it might possibly compact my car. Or me, for that matter. Also, I tried not to think about anyone stealing my car and my having to chase the dozer on foot so as to impress the sheriff.

I refused to take my eyes off the dozer. My mind was concentrating on 27 bb’s in the magnum load, which would keep the shot from spreading much, as well as finding the fuel filters and getting them drained before the thing got away. What if I only wound it? It should be easy to track, I thought, even for the most inexperienced hunter. I was even calculating how far the barbed wire fence would stretch before breaking and curling backward like shrapnel. I might have to run with it until the fence snapped!

It was getting close; there was no backing out. As it was approaching, I was scanning for the filters, and I doubled checked the gun to make sure it was ready. I put the gun to my shoulder as the cat hit the fence. I could hear the fence posts crackling over the screeching of its tracks.

There they were—two round oblong canisters just above the frame with hoses going in and hoses going out. My class at the academy on cat killing was paying off, but it hadn’t elaborated on the size the thing would be at the time of the kill! I gave each canister a blast and immediately heard spitter, sputter, choke, and gasp. Luckily, the dozer (with a barbed wire necklace and matching fencepost earrings) stopped just before it reached the shoulder of the road. It died with dignity!

The sheriff then jumped in his car and started toward me, still dragging the bubble remains. He pulled up to me, smiling big time. Get in, and I’ll take you to your car, Dead Eye. I got in as he put his hand to his mouth, and with a humph he started giggling again. Guess we put a stop to that nonsense, he stated.

I moved my car out of the way and motioned for traffic to come on through. Every one of them was waving and smiling. The sheriff was, also. That’s the politician in him, I thought. We loaded up and headed for the courthouse, and the sheriff got on the radio.

K1. Kain County? Uh, be advised that the situation is under control. It’s safe for everyone to go about his or her business. Uh, K… uh, K5 and I will be returning shortly.

That got me to wondering just how many scanners were in this county. Must be a lot, because the man was sending a political message to voters over the radio without having to spend a dime for his campaign message. Smooth, I thought. The more I learned about the man, the more I liked him.

It was obvious to me that Ben was a local country boy who had gotten into law enforcement and survived long enough for his political career to blossom. Even though he had 40 years experience in law enforcement, he was sort of a rookie. He had the basic academy knowledge and 40 years of routine, boring experience with no outside training—only what he had absorbed on his own. Civil papers, wrecks, cows on the road and an occasional oilfield theft had more than likely been the basis for Ben’s experience in a community of this nature. I might just have to take him under my wing, I thought. On several occasions I had observed that Ben was very self-conscious. That was why he put his hand to his mouth every time he giggled. He had dentures, and they had obviously popped out at some point in his life.

Unfortunately, the crowd had not dispersed at the courthouse. They had been listening to a walkie-talkie the secretary had brought to the courtroom. When the sheriff walked in, he was applauded. He turned beet red, but he was eating up the attention. No one in the courthouse knew exactly what had happened to the Big Cat since the crisis settlement was not broadcast over the radio. All the citizens needed to know was that the sheriff went out there. The sheriff came back. The crisis was over. I was glad for him. It made me feel good to do something that made someone happy. What had occurred out there had assured him of another term in office.

I went back to the first floor, sat down and started talking to the secretary, whom I had already met. An older heavyset woman, Deb pretty much ran the show around the office when the sheriff wasn’t in. The expression on her face implied that she had been in this business a long time and was tired of it. She had on her impress me look, like she had seen it all.

Don’t like crowds, huh? she asked.

No, not really. I’m bad about putting my foot in my mouth, and these old wore out boots don’t keep moisture out.

What happened out there? she asked while still typing.

Well, the thing just ran out of diesel and died.

Usually when that happens, the fuel filters are stopped up or it’s sucking air, she replied. She was still typing.

Well, yes ma’am. I’ve heard of that sort of thing happening.

I was just curious. No big deal, she smirked.

I got the impression that she was making sure I knew she had not just crawled out from under the desk, but had been on top of it all of these years (as well as everything else around there).

You suppose they would think less of me if I just went outside and cleaned my windshield? I asked.

I don’t blame you for not wanting to hang around those stuffed shirts. Go up and make a jail check. I’ll cover for you.

Thanks, Ma’am!

Deb. It’s Deb. Ma’am is too much like madam, and we put those in jail around here. She never looked up.

I started to get on the elevator and noticed Albert chuckling to himself. Albert was the elevator operator. He was a petite gray-headed little man with wire rim glasses. He was five feet nine inches in height and extremely thin. Albert was very well mannered, friendly and likeable.

The elevator itself was installed in the 1930’s. It had solid brass doors with thin folding mesh doors on the inside so you could admire the wall of the shaft during the trip. A large brass lever with a brass knob was the only means of controlling the human cargo box—left for down, right for up. There were no means for hitting a floor just right. It always went too high or too low. If you didn’t know what you were doing, it could take eight or ten tries to keep from having to jump up or down to the floor you were attempting to reach.

The elevator itself was located in Deb’s office. The purpose for it being that it made a convenient straight shot to the third floor jail and dispatch office. The dispatcher was also required to be a certified jailer. During the day, a woman cook would be there for the first four hours. The jailer and a trustee would then feed the local prisoners, which usually totaled less than three. The reason Albert was there during the day was because the people who worked in the second floor offices and courtrooms felt that they were above using the immaculate stairs in the lobby. The stairs were of a beautiful 1930’s décor.

As I stepped from the elevator onto the third floor, Albert was already disappearing beneath my feet. Karen, the dispatcher, smiled a friendly hello, and I sat down to talk awhile. Karen weighed over 300 pounds. The kitchen was one room over from her office. Karen loved to talk, as she was lonely. She was cooped up there for twelve hours per day with no one to talk to. I could learn more about the county and its occupants in an hour with Karen than I could by talking to each one individually. A fellar can learn more about who is really whom and who is really doing what when he knows a good gossip!

CHAPTER 2

The radio in the car blaring out my number snapped me back into reality. I dropped my rod and reel and answered.

K5. Kain County, go ahead.

K1 needs to see you in his office when you have time.

10-4, Kain County. Be there shortly.

Where I did my best thinking on the back roads was actually a large dirt watering hole for stock. It had become a bad habit, or a good habit, depending on how you looked at it, to visit when I had something to mull over. I could come to the watering hole and relax; therefore, I could do my best thinking. Out here there were no cars, people or timepieces to worry about, only the car radio, which I wasn’t to be concerned with unless the title of K5 blared. There were no smelly, unsightly oilfield reminders or indications of it being close by. It was located in the northwest corner of the county, about 26 miles from the courthouse. It was very well stocked with fish. Rabbits, squirrels and cattle were part of the flexible scenery. Continuous bird and frog singing could lull a fellar into nap mode, if he wasn’t careful! It was the ultimate escape for a burned-out cowboy cop, and I had permission to be there any time I wanted, on or off duty.

I had become a good friend with R. L. Strason, the owner of the ranch. I had met him a few months ago when he had reported eighteen head of prime Angus heifers missing. The ranch was big enough that anything could happen out there without him knowing about it for days. It was just he and his wife, no employees.

I had been the one chosen to investigate his report. I had heard rumors of how he would stop oilfield traffic on his property; and, using a rifle, he would charge $50 to cross his land. This affected large trucks mostly; since they stirred up so much dust, he could see them for miles. There was also a $50 fine for speeding. The rate of speed was determined according to the amount of dust. It had become customary for oilfield people to have a cash flow of $50 before leaving town, if there was a chance of driving on Strason’s land. Credit was unheard of; and if it weren’t for two-way radios, Strason would have had an impressive fleet of trucks of his own. Believe it or not, he gave receipts!

I suppose it was legal, as long as he didn’t point the gun directly at someone or assault him. It had been going on for years, and I didn’t feel obligated to change it. Some things are better left alone. Rumor has it that there are alleged bodies of dead wetbacks, who had worked for Strason, buried on his land. In order to keep from paying them, Strason would just shoot ’em and bury ’em. As far as I know, no one has ever checked into it. This type of rumor would definitely put him in the eccentric category.

I, with the help of the state brand inspector, had located Mr. Strason’s cattle at the cattle auction in a neighboring town. I even helped him haul them back to his place with my gooseneck trailer, in order to keep him from having to make two trips. Strason insisted on paying me, and I almost had to become rude with the guy to make him understand that it would be illegal for me to accept money from him. He did have a little difficulty understanding why these cattle had to be ear-tagged, in order to tell them apart from his other cattle, until the case against the thieves was completed. After that, he treated me as if I had hung the moon.

I loaded up my gear, put it back into the trunk, washed my hands with handy wipes and headed for town. I always threw the fish back so there would never be anything fishy about me or my patrol car.

When I arrived at the courthouse, the sheriff wanted me to accompany him while he served some civil papers. I got the impression that whoever we were serving them to, the sheriff didn’t want to be alone with him. The defendant on the papers could not be found. Then it was obvious to me that the sheriff just wanted to talk, but he wasn’t quite sure of what he wanted to say.

You believe in destiny, Mike? he asked.

In a way, yes. I do.

I do, too. I believe that sometimes things are or aren’t meant to be, regardless of what you want, what you do or what you plan on.

Kinda like fate, you mean?

Yeah, like fate. My wife and I have been discussing you, and we, uh… Well, we think it’s fate that you came here.

Well, Sir, why do you figure that fate has brought me here?

Well, uh. You know. Uh… on account of what’s happened, and, uh, all that this last month.

Well, Sir, I never considered anything like that. I just happened to be at the right place at the right time.

That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Mike. I’m not so sure what would have happened if you hadn’t been here to, uh, you know, uh, take charge of the case and all.

Ok, now I see what you’re talking about. You think so, huh?

Well, yeah, and you have no idea how much I appreciate you. The whole county appreciates you, he said as we pulled up beside my car.

Well thank you, Sir. That makes me feel better about myself, I said, feeling somewhat embarrassed.

His expression changed. That’s what I’m concerned about, Mike.

My mind started racing. What do you mean, Sheriff? I stared at the dash of his car while waiting for him to speak.

I hope this doesn’t go to your head or make you have thoughts about turning against me.

I’m not sure where you are coming from, Sheriff.

You’re not taking my job, Mike, regardless of how important you think you are.

That’s the last thing you need to worry about, Sheriff. I don’t believe in backstabbing, and I sure don’t practice it. In no way will I underhand you, Boss.

He smiled. See you tomorrow, Mike.

Yes, Sir. Good night.

He drove away. Well now, that certainly got me to thinking. I went to the house that I had rented for $75 per month. It was a heck of a bargain, I thought, with three bedrooms, two baths, a den with a fireplace, and a large dining room. It also had a two-stall garage with a large patio and barbecue area. I had just assumed that I got it for that price because I was a deputy sheriff—sort of a gratuity thing, maybe.

Hips didn’t like the place. He was always hiding and whining. Hips, my German shepherd, moved here with me. I used him as a doorbell and garbage disposal, as well as a companion.

I was stretched out on the couch (going over my report on the recent murders, just to make sure I hadn’t left anything out) when I thought back to what the sheriff wanted to talk about but couldn’t quite get across—fate, this over-publicized murder case and me versus his remaining the sheriff.

I suppose it received so much attention because of the small, lawful community. Maybe it was the way He terrorized and shamed his victims, or perhaps it was the fact that they were buried in a shallow grave. I had learned over the past eleven days that too much attention in the wrong direction could lead to a disaster.

Hips started growling and tore out toward the utility room. I thought maybe someone was at the back door. Nope, it was the dryer again.

That thing had started coming on by itself ever since I moved here. I figured it must have gotten damaged during the move. I turned it off and went back to the couch. I started at the beginning of my report and pondered prior events.

Eleven days ago had started out all wrong. I was up at 6:00 that morning, showered and dressed, and leaving through the kitchen when the oddest thing caught my eye right away. In the center of the kitchen table was a carton of milk with a full glass beside it. Lord, I gotta be walking in my sleep or getting senile! I put the carton and the full glass inside the refrigerator and left for the courthouse.

It was Friday morning, June 11, 1982. While drinking coffee with the crew, Deb took a call from the sheriff’s office in Monahans in reference to a girl at Holiday Rig #1 being tied and beaten, and also of two women who had been stabbed and killed. It was 8:20 AM when she told the sheriff about it in front of Keith (the new kid), Eldon (the chief deputy—K2) and me. Saul (K3) hadn’t made it in yet. We rolled our eyes at each other.

Prank call, Keith, a 21-year-old rookie who was about to start the academy

at Pecos, smirked.

The sheriff put his hand to his mouth, Humph! he uttered as he was giggling and turning red. Sure as I’m sitting here, it’s a prank call, he stated, but we probably ought to go out there and make sure. Mike, why don’t you take ole Keith here with you? Go on out there, and maybe he’ll learn something.

Yes, Sir.

I had to wait for the boy to get a cup to go, full of sugar, so that when we hit a bump, the stain would be sweet and more colored in my new LTD.

Holiday Rig #1 was located