The Adventures of Shawn Haslett: What if Sherlock Holmes was an American Country Boy?

By Larry Botkins

The plain-looking, unpretentious Shawn Haslett would seem to be the last person consulted by anyone about anything. Yet his skills of observation and deduction, combined with an American country boy’s extensive knowledge, allow him to shed light upon a series of local crime mysteries.
Readers who enjoy the timeless works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle will delight in these six stories. Despite the considerable changes in characters and settings, they honor the spirit of the early Sherlock Holmes works and pay homage to the qualities which made them immensely popular.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Oct 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662916595

Book preview

Book One

THE ADVENTURES OF SHAWN HASLETT

THE CASE OF THE STRAY BULLET

My name is Jonathan Wilson, and I worked as a general practitioner here for the past eleven years, before taking an early retirement. I don’t have any association with any county or police agency, but the county commissioners, with the concurrence of Sheriff Livingston, requested that I prepare a written narrative to describe the actions and events related to a recent murder case.

At the outset, there was a strong suspicion that one of his deputies, Jarod Long, had compromised the murder investigation with the inappropriate involvement of a civilian, a Mr. Shawn Haslett. Although I was asked only to document Deputy Long’s actions in this case, the unique circumstances required that I take a more active role in determining the facts of the matter. Accordingly, after I had become involved in the investigation, I began accompanying Deputy Long and Mr. Haslett as part of the county’s ride-along program. Although that program was created to promote community engagement in police activities, and without any intention of accommodating a fact-finding role, it suited my needs perfectly.

The case itself began with a report of a dead body lying in a driveway off Perkins Road, as reported with a 911 call from a local machinist. Because he was absolved of any wrongdoing in the matter and merely reported what he saw while on his way to work, his name will not be included in this report.

The deceased was later identified as Mr. Alan Green, a retired high school math teacher and coach. An autopsy, performed by the county medical examiner (ME), revealed Mr. Green had died as a result of a gunshot wound to his neck. The wound severed his right carotid artery, which caused massive blood loss, almost certainly resulting in exsanguination within ten seconds.

Sheriff Livingston ran the case personally, with Deputy Long assisting. Within a few days, Mr. Jeff Humphries had been arrested and charged with the murder of Mr. Green. In fact, Sheriff Livingston had reported the case solved, both to county government officials and the local news media, before Deputy Long discussed the case with Mr. Haslett.

Following the arraignment of Mr. Humphries, his wife called 911 and expressed her extreme frustration with her husband being charged with murder. She demanded the sheriff reexamine the particulars of the case, apparently hoping the charges against her husband would be dropped. Deputy Long was dispatched to the Humphries residence to inform Mrs. Haslett that non-emergency 911 calls are a misdemeanor offense, and she should cease such calls immediately.

When Deputy Long was dispatched to the Humphries residence, Mr. Haslett was a passenger in Deputy Long’s county-owned vehicle. Deputy Long later reported that he’d picked up Mr. Haslett while he was walking along Potts Creek Road. Mr. Haslett was apparently unavailable for comment before my involvement in the matter.

In any case, Deputy Long transported Mr. Haslett to the Humphries residence. He claimed the short driving distance prevented any practical alternative, as requiring Mr. Haslett to exit the vehicle would have left him near the Humphries residence anyway.

When they arrived, Mrs. Humphries demanded that a Mr. Matt Preston be investigated and expressed her opinion that he was somehow responsible for the murder of Mr. Green. Within the first moments of Deputy Long’s contact with Mrs. Humphries, Mr. Haslett inserted himself into the conversation and began questioning Mrs. Humphries. Her concern about Mr. Haslett’s involvement in the case, his physical appearance, and especially his spitting of tobacco juice in her yard, resulted in another 911 call.

When Mrs. Humphries was advised her call was yet another offense, she responded with the accusation the scruffy civilian participating in the case was at least improper, and probably unlawful. At that point, she abruptly ended that call and proceeded to call each of the county commissioners, which led directly to my involvement.

My direct involvement began by meeting Deputy Long and Mr. Haslett in the driveway in front of the Humphries residence, which was their second visit. Deputy Long had the typical bulk of someone who does push-ups as a hobby, but my attention was immediately drawn to Mr. Haslett. He was, frankly, a skinny little hayseed. His shirt and trousers seemed old and worn, and the stains on the front of his trouser legs gave them a dirty appearance at first glance. But looking again, I saw that his clothing—although stained—wasn’t dirty, and he seemed generally clean and well groomed, except for his goatee-dominated scraggly beard and an unsightly bulge in his right cheek.

As I regarded him, he viewed me intently. Having finished his visual examination of me, he turned his head slightly, spat a disgusting amount of brown tobacco juice to the side, and said, with his nasal backwoods twang, Hello, Doctor.

Having not fully identified myself to Deputy Long when our appointment was set, I was taken aback. How did you know I’m a doctor? I asked.

Our discussion was interrupted by the slam of Mrs. Humphries’s screen door and her appearance on her front porch.

Why did you bring that backwoods bum back here? she demanded. And who’s he? she said, pointing to me.

Ma’am, Deputy Long began. We’re here because you requested we investigate—

I never invited that Haslett boy here!

I’m Dr. Jonathan Wilson, I said. The chairman of the county commissioners asked me to write up an independent report about their last visit here. So, with your permission, I’d like to recreate what happened. Also, only with your permission, I’d like to record our conversations, to ensure the accuracy of my report.

That’s fine with me, she said with a scowl and arms crossed, inconsistent with her verbal approval. But if that bum spits any more of his tobacco mess on my property, I’ll poke a shotgun out the window and let loose!

Deputy Long said, Ma’am, that kind of threat—

I interrupted Deputy Long with a raised palm. Mr. Haslett will go across the road and rid himself of that disgusting tobacco, I said. Won’t you, sir? I directed toward him.

He turned without expressing any agreement, saying only, Call me Shawn, and began walking across the road. I pulled my cell phone from my sport jacket pocket, started a recording, and placed it upside down in my jacket’s breast pocket, screen outward, which also pointed its microphone outward.

Thank you for your cooperation— I began, but Mrs. Humphries was already going back inside. The loud slam of her screen door was her closing remark.

Welcome to the neighborhood, Deputy Long quipped.

There, Shawn slurred upon his return, using an index finger to show me the tobacco in his mouth was gone. His teeth were discolored, giving his mouth an especially dark and unpleasant appearance.

I didn’t need to see that, I said.

He withdrew the finger, revealing that his cheek had been permanently misshaped by habitual use of tobacco. Only then did I realize the residual bulge would have led me to believe some tobacco remained. But thank you, I said, realizing he’d been a step ahead of me.

Another slam of the screen door announced Mrs. Humphries’s reappearance up on the porch. She tossed a small object down the concrete front steps. After a few tinkling bounces, I saw it was a key. She turned without comment, went back in, and slammed the door with finality.

Shawn laughed and said, She’s nuttier than a squirrel turd.

I ignored him.

So how do you want to start? Deputy Long asked, also ignoring Shawn.

With the truth, I said.

Good! Shawn brayed, his face glowing with glee.

Still ignoring Shawn, I said to the deputy, I drove down Potts Creek Road on my way here. So I know there were at least ten miles, and two country convenience stores known to sell beer and chewing tobacco, where you could have rid yourself of Mr. Haslett. And that’s assuming he was in your county vehicle for a legitimate purpose in the first place, which I doubt. Why did you really bring him here?

Deputy Long looked as unhappy as Mr. Haslett was delighted.

Out with it, I said.

I first met Mr. Haslett on a case at his neighbor’s house. He picked up on some details I hadn’t noticed, and his assistance helped resolve the case. The sheriff thanked me personally—

But you didn’t tell him about Mr. Haslett’s involvement, I said. And let me guess. You began to use Mr. Haslett as an assistant during your later unauthorized investigations.

Assistant?! Shawn snorted.

Shut up, Shawn, the deputy said. They weren’t unauthorized—

Even if you were dispatched to the given locations for whatever reason, you aren’t a member of the investigations section. Hence you’re not a sheriff’s department investigator.

No, I’m not. But my reports have proven to be helpful, and Investigator Harris encouraged me to continue—

I’ve got it, I said, attempting to wipe the disapproval from my face. I assumed Investigator Harris didn’t disclose Shawn’s involvement in their cases either.

Sheriff won’t be happy, Shawn said with a wink, intruding into my thoughts.

Further discussion with Deputy Long on that point seemed pointless. That would be the sheriff’s job, as soon as the commissioners got my report. And I assumed the sheriff’s job would be a matter for the commissioners to review. So, briefly, show me what happened here last time.

Well, the first part isn’t likely, Shawn twanged. We had a good ol’ time chewin’ the fat with Mrs. Humphries out here, because we weren’t invited in. He drew a silver-colored pouch from his back right pocket, accompanied by a red bandanna.

Shawn, don’t even, the deputy ordered.

Shawn placed the items back in his pocket. Only then did I realize the pouch was his chewing tobacco.

Sorry, he said. Force o’ habit.

I’ll tell it, Deputy Long said. She called us here to express her suspicions about Matt Preston. He’d been a friend of her husband for a couple of years, and they went on shooting and hunting outings together. Apparently they were excellent marksmen. But recently there’d been some falling out, and then they had a fistfight in the tavern on route 92.

Why?

There’s always a woman, Shawn remarked, rolling his eyes.

You don’t know that, Shawn, the deputy said.

Don’t I?

Look, let’s skip that, I said. I need facts, not opinions, and certainly not gossip.

Anyway, the deputy continued, shaking his head at Shawn, Preston came here a couple of days before the murder, while Mr. Humphries was at work. Said he’d been jogging along this road and remembered he’d left something in the shop out back the previous time he was here. Mrs. Humphries said she went in the house, retrieved the key to the shop, and brought it back out front to Mr. Preston.

Notice he didn’t get invited in anymore either, Shawn commented with a bounce of his eyebrows.

Stop, the deputy said. Preston went back to the shop, but spent more time in there than Mrs. Humphries expected. She said there were some banging noises. He finally came back out front, but he wasn’t carrying anything but the key. When Mrs. Humphries asked about the forgotten item, Preston said he hadn’t found it.

Does he live around here? I asked. And what was he wearing?

Excellent! Shawn said.

His house is beyond marathon distance from here, round trip. So the jogging thing wasn’t likely. He was wearing only gym shorts of some kind and a sleeveless shirt. Mrs. Humphries said it didn’t seem possible he had anything in his pockets, even if he had pockets. Because she assumed he hadn’t taken anything from the shop, she took the key back and thought nothing more about it.

Of course, she didn’t say anything to her husband about Matt’s visit, Shawn said in a conspiratorial tone.

Really? I said.

I asked her about that, Shawn replied with a nod.

And at that point, she suddenly liked Shawn a lot less than she had before, the deputy said. Surprised the hell out of me. I hadn’t thought that was possible.

I sighed. Let’s see the shop.

* * *

The inside of the shop didn’t seem unusual. Its generous open floor space and good ventilation made it feel comfortable. There were common hand and power tools neatly stored on the wall to the left. They all seemed familiar enough. To the right, there was a large workbench, with sets of custom-built shelving above it. They contained a wide variety of items, which were unfamiliar. When Deputy Long came to understand that, he began giving me a guided tour of those tools and materials.

He first pointed out the ammunition reloading press, which converted the downward motion of a hand lever to the upward movement of a cylindrical steel plunger. There were about a dozen sets of reloading dies, which could be placed into the press for reloading various types of cartridges. The strongly built shelves above the bench held boxes of loose bullets, little paperboard-encased plastic trays of primers, one-pound plastic jars of gunpowder, and various related items. Everything was well marked and well organized.

Shawn took an odd, light green plastic hammer from two pegs above the workbench. Except for its color, it was as transparent as window glass. He seemed to think it was a toy.

For all these supplies, there doesn’t seem to be much ammunition here, I said, looking at two small plastic boxes on the workbench. With a closer look, I saw one held fifty loaded cartridges and the other had fifty empty brass cases. Paper labels on the lids identified them as .243 Winchester and their quantities as fifty. When I opened one, I saw another type of label on the underside of its lid with more specific information. In fact, the label was a preprinted form, with carefully penciled-in data for the type of bullet, powder, primer, and such.

Mr. Humphries stored ammunition in the gray cabinet, the deputy said, pointing to a six-foot high, drab steel cabinet at the far end of the shed. Unless it was something he was using or working on. Most of it’s still in there. We took only the .308 Winchester ammunition and his .308 bolt-action rifle with the search warrant, since only those seemed applicable to the shooting.

The rifle was in the safe there? I asked, nodding to the hulking dark green safe beside the ammunition cabinet. It was about the same size, but undoubtedly much heavier.

Yes, I took it out myself, wearing the gloves we use for handling evidence. I even photographed it first, because there was a light coat of dust on it.

So you were thinking it hadn’t been used lately?

Of course it hadn’t, Shawn said.

Why do you say that? I asked.

Plenty of reasons, Shawn replied, still playing with the plastic hammer. The uniform coatin’ of dust typical with long-term storage, the lack of any fresh-burned powder smell, the lack of recently used cleanin’ solvents, and so on. But more’n anything else, the arrangement of oil traces in the rifle showed that it had been in the vertical storage position for at least several weeks.

Shawn examined evidence in a murder case? I asked Deputy Long. And he was in here while a search warrant was being executed?

Yes, the deputy said with embarrassment. But he didn’t handle the rifle. I held it, removed the magazine, and made sure the rifle was clear while he watched.

And smelled, apparently, I said. In fact, this situation stinks to high heaven! What if this comes out in court?

It won’t, Shawn said. It’s not the murder weapon.

That’s quite a pronouncement from someone amusing himself with a toy hammer, I said, losing my patience. You seem to have a flippant attitude about this case, given your involvement!

I saw everythin’ I needed to see the first time I was here, Shawn said, banging the plastic hammer on the right edge of the workbench, like a judge using his gavel. And I believe I’m behavin’ myself fairly well, this bein’ a complete waste of time! Pointing to the place he’d whacked the workbench, he said, You see the mark I made on the workbench, Deputy?

Please get serious about this, Shawn, the deputy said. The more you piss him off, the more he’ll get the sheriff wound up.

I took a moment to calm myself, realizing my growing urge to shout at Shawn was interfering with my concentration. Finally, I said, Do you agree with his opinion about the rifle, Deputy?

Yes, he said. But there’s more to it. I’ve seen the images from the ballistics lab. The rifling in the rifle’s barrel was very similar to the murder weapon, but there wasn’t an exact match. The murder weapon had to be similar, if not the very same make and model.

Tell him about the ammo, Shawn said. It’s more interestin’.

The deputy sighed, clearly exasperated from having even less control over the situation than I had. There was one cartridge missing from the .308 ammunition that was taken into evidence. A box had forty-nine complete cartridges, with an empty slot at the front of the box.

If he was reloading the cases, the stuff is used and reused, I said. How do you know one was missing? A moment of calmness was also a moment of clarity as I regarded Shawn. And seriously, what’s with the hammer?

It’s just somethin’ used to fix mistakes, Shawn said, hanging it where it came from. It leaves interestin’ marks though. Back to the ammo quantities. One, it’s common to have a box of fifty cartridges turn into forty-nine, forty-eight, and so on. Some fired cases you just don’t find in the grass, under leaves or whatever. Some get cracks in ’em; some get bent up too much to resize. But every ammo box in that cabinet was full to capacity, except for that one. Two, every box had a label on top—

Which indicated its quantity, I said. Yes, I noticed that on these two boxes. If he was doing that with all of them, it’s as good as an inventory count.

That’s what we thought, Deputy Long said. "Also, the bullet recovered from the crime scene is