Criminal Justice; or, Pigeons in the Rafters

In April of 1951, in what had once been a warehouse on the outskirts of a tiny town in Garfield County, Washington, an innocent man was hanged for no other reason than that a hanging was needed. The condemned’s name was not recorded in any police report or court record. The local newspaper carried no notice of the execution. Aside from the seven men in attendance, including the doomed, no one knew when or where it occurred. The townspeople were informed of the other side of the drop, which immediately cleared the pall that a murder had cast upon the town. Amid the relief, no one asked for details, and none were offered; residents needed only to know that a criminal, inarguably the worst in local history, had been captured and executed. With that, ordinary life could resume because the local authorities said so. 

Old Merle Barge had been shot in his bed. The grizzly scene was discovered by Milo Peyton, a postal carrier and self-appointed town crier; a box full of uncollected mail had triggered his suspicion. It was the second time that year Milo had discovered a corpse, the first being when Hattie Porter, the oldest woman in the state of Washington, was found wrapped in blankets and slumped over in a chair at the mouth of her fireplace, claimed by the coldest winter of her century. 

Despite his prior experience, Milo had to summon the courage to confront what remained of Merle Barge. He paced the grassless yard for a full ten minutes before approaching the front door. When knocking and calling out failed to reveal the old man, he opened the unlocked door and entered the house, where his find was far worse than his fear. Shaded windows kept a sickeningly odorous bedroom dimly lit, but there was no mistaking the splatter of blood on the wall behind the lifeless man who was neatly tucked into his bedding. Milo clamored out of the house through the acrid stench of decay and sped off to alert the sheriff. Later, news of the discovery was delivered to the residents along with their mail. 

It was a gruesome tragedy; however, its victim did not linger in the public interest for long. Merle Barge was a cruel, black cloud-toting miser whose venom never ran dry. Upon hearing of his death, the sighs of relief far outnumbered the tears; more concerning to the townsfolk was the possibility of a killer at large, one who was surely an outsider. They knew each other well, and the only one remotely capable of killing a neighbor, they believed, was the victim.

Edmund Kragg was a caricature of a backwoods country sheriff. He was not especially good at his job, but nothing serious ever happened in such a remote patch of the county, so it was a good fit. Occasionally, a mild ranch dispute required mediation, or a drunkard needed to be removed from a bar—nothing any other man in town couldn’t handle. Nonetheless, the crass and slovenly sheriff was an expert at selling exaggeration to mask his incompetence. So skilled was he with lies that his authority was respected without question. It was a long-held position he could do blindfolded between midday naps, and though it wasn’t especially fulfilling, he enjoyed the power it gave him. Kragg had no intention of losing his position over a dead Merle Barge, but for the first time, a tall tale wouldn’t satisfy the residents. Unfortunately, neither he nor his young and dutiful Deputy Lack knew anything about investigating a crime scene.

“Now, Dep, you don’t have to go in if you don’t want,” Kragg told his anxious junior as they drove to the Barge house. “These things can be pretty gory; even if they’re not, it’s still death staring at you. Takes a strong man to stare right back.”

“I’m okay, Sheriff,” Lack assured him, excited for his first murder case. “I bet you’ve seen some pretty bad scenes in your time. Anything still keeps you up at night?”

Kragg sifted through his mind for a quick and credible story but was distracted by what awaited his arrival. 

“Tell you what, as soon as you see one of these, you’ll never want to talk about it. There’s a name for that somewhere. You couldn’t pay me enough to recollect those old cases, Dep. No, sir, not for all the tea in China. A word of advice. You’ll do well to treat it like that nasty son of a bitch was a total stranger. An unbiased investigation is a successful one. When all this is put to rest, I doubt anyone will ever want to speak his name again.”  

Outside the house, they were met by the Millmore brothers, who had arrived just moments earlier. Their mortuary had been empty for some time, so when the sheriff called, they eagerly set out to collect the body. 

“You boys don’t miss a beat. Well, c’mon, let’s get to it.”

“Sheriff, maybe they should wait out here while we look around,” Lack suggested. 

“Well, naturally, son. I was just about to tell them to wait at the door. Take a breath, Dep. One thing at a time.”

The house was an indistinct, single-floor dwelling with dingy white siding and a crumbling concrete stoop. Inside, the rooms were cluttered with books and old newspapers. There was no glaring sign of a break-in; the front and back doors, like all others in town, were never locked. In the bedroom, the dark splatter on the wall commanded attention, directing the eye downward to the body and the bloody sponge of bedding beneath it, a sight that caused the queasy sheriff to run out and share his breakfast with the yard. True to form, Kragg played the stoic for his deputy, declaring himself famously steel-stomached; it was a nasty bug going around that prevented him from holding his meal. He ordered the body removed almost immediately and watched as Lack, without a moment’s hesitation, helped to load the dead man onto a stretcher—sheets and pillow included. With one brother at each end and a deputy sheriff over-directing their movements, Barge was taken to the hearse while Kragg, slowly and quietly, followed and watched from the yard as the body was driven away. 

“Let’s go, Dep. I’ve got all I need,” he said, feigning control. The investigation was over before it began. The only conclusion the slothful sheriff reached was that, with his reelection approaching, a swiftly captured suspect would not only quell the public panic but also guarantee another term in the job that otherwise required nothing of him. 

In the community, neighborly trust was discarded in favor of bolted doors. Few were seen on the street, and businesses shortened their hours to close before dusk. The sheriff’s office was inundated with drop-ins and calls from worry-worn citizens demanding updates. After several days, Kragg quickly grew tired of being reminded that he was expected to work. 

“Come on, Dep, let’s go get our man.”

“Sheriff, did you find something?”

“Son, I’ve been working this case nonstop, which you’ll find is the only way to get to the bottom of these things. Last night, I tracked down a couple of the county ne’er-do-wells and got us a solid lead. Keep it quiet for now. Not a word.”

“Damn, Sheriff, I knew you’d figure it out, but not this fast.” 

In the middle of an undeveloped mile west of the town and east of the Snake River stood the home of Abel Jackson. With no growth to conceal it from passing drivers, the eyesore property consisted of a dilapidated trailer and a leaning lean-to. The man inside, just 22, had been driven to a reclusive life by a community that had no use for him. Slow, illiterate, and burdened by a tormenting stutter, Jackson was dismissed at every stage of his life; no one saw purpose or potential in him, not least himself. As he grew, so too did his record of teenage troublemaking—vandalism, petty theft, and the like. By the time he reached adulthood, he had become the town’s all-purpose scapegoat, a practice that retreating to a solitary life did little to halt. From toppled trees to flat tires, missing pets to obscene telephone calls, Jackson was not only blamed but, on more than one occasion, was given a night’s stay at the sheriff’s station, guilty or not. The young man was a convenient and frequent prop in Kragg’s look-busy show. 

Deputy Lack waited in the car as instructed while the sheriff apprehended his suspect. In short order, Jackson, spouting an unintelligible mess of stutters, was led out in cuffs, taken to the station, and deposited into a familiar cell; Kragg set about alleviating the community’s fears with the news of his job well done. When there’s something to deliver, he thought, find a postman. 

“Milo? Sheriff Kragg. Calling to let you know we have a confession on the Barge murder. Abel Jackson. Nope. No surprise there. I’ve got a county judge stopping in later to take care of the legal necessaries, but for murdering a sleeping man, I suspect he’ll be given the drop. Far as I can see, the case is closed. I wanted you to hear it from me as a courtesy since you were the one who made the discovery.” 

Word spread rapidly, of course, and any threat of another gruesome murder had been lifted, which was all that was needed to restore normalcy.

The following evening, a group of men was summoned to the station. Kragg’s not-quite friends, but nowhere-near enemies, occasionally gathered for backroom deals and favor trading. The town’s sole minister, doctor, and bank president, whether in their official roles or not, always stepped up when called. Budgetary issues were solved or covered up, resources deployed, and even the health and morality of the population were debated into action.

“Gents, the county judge came to see me late last night. Good man. Abel Jackson gave his confession and waived all his trial and process rights. The expected sentence was handed down. But things are a little backed up in Pomeroy, he said. As a favor, we’ve been asked to wrap it up here. Not an unusual or unreasonable ask since no one outside of town really cares what goes on here. So it seems I haven’t earned my paycheck just yet.”

The men took a moment and mumbled to each other, nodding and thoroughly enjoying the opportunity to wield their assumed power.  

“You all have a role to play, of course,” Kragg continued. “I thank you in advance for the help. We’ll need to do it quietly and at a time when no one would know. No one wants a spectacle.”

Without objection, the planning began. Through cigar smoke, shots of whiskey, and the occasional dirty joke, the fate of a man who had neither the understanding of his situation nor anyone to speak on his behalf was decided. 

 When the stuttering and incoherent Abel Jackson was brought to the old warehouse outside of town, it was just after one in the morning.  Kragg assured his partners in justice that the task wouldn’t take long. 

"This is your first one of these, Dep, but don’t bet on it being the last." Sheriff Kragg looked at his subordinate, not yet 20, who could barely fill his uniform shirt. "Any questions?"

"No, sir. Well, maybe one." He motioned to a dark corner where a young man stood in the shadows. "Who’s that?"

“Ugh. Dougie. My damn nephew from over Franklin County. He’s only 16, on a school break; my sister dumped him on me for a week ‘cause she needed some peace. Wants to follow in his uncle’s footsteps one day, ‘cept he don’t have the sense God gave a goose. Thought if I let him watch, maybe it’ll scare him into another vocation.”

The warehouse had been appropriated by the town more than a decade earlier after its owner fell into bankruptcy, a financial decline so crippling that the man hanged himself within it, inspiring the structure's new purpose. It hadn’t been needed for criminal sentences since there was never a crime to warrant it. Nonetheless, it saw several hangings that were widely known to have occurred. Like an heirloom, the structure was passed from sheriff to sheriff for their silent discretionary use. Kragg had never exercised his inherited privilege but was eager to do so, if for no other reason than a desire to add an unfabricated action to his credentials.  

The musty space served no purpose but death. Without a few upgrades, a structural inspection would likely conclude its collapse was imminent. Inside, an inexpertly fashioned gallows utilized one of the warehouse's beams, to which a rope was attached above the drop door of a creaky platform on eight-foot stilts, all generously decorated over time by the birds that perched above. 

Abel Jackson was a scrawny man with unkempt black hair and thick stubble that seemed to reappear the instant he shaved. Trembling uncontrollably, he fainted as soon as the noose came into view. His bound hands were released and re-tied behind his back before the deputy and doctor dragged his limp body up the steps and dumped him onto the creaky platform. For a moment, the men stood expecting consciousness to return to the heap of a man at their feet, but once the impatient sheriff shrugged and nodded, Jackson was hoisted upward and held above the drop door, where the noose was fitted and a burlap sack was placed over his head. 

“Any last words?” Kragg asked. “He ain’t coming to, boys. If you got a prayer, Father, have at it, but I doubt he’d hear it.” 

A yawning minister waved the invitation away and withdrew a flask from his pocket. With that, a signal was given, the door released, and the unconscious man dropped. 

The deed should have been completed in that one swift action, but as the rope was pulled taut by the body’s weight, a dull creak was heard, and its entire length followed the prisoner down to the warehouse floor.

"Well, shit," the sheriff spat. "Bastard cracked that beam. Must be rotted through. Goddamndest thing I ever saw."  

The huddle on the platform stood gazing up at the broken beam, trading observations until a weak wheeze caused them to turn their heads downward in slow unison. There, framed in the open drop door, was a doubled-over Abel Jackson, dry heaving within the burlap hood, with the limp rope trailing down his back like a long braid of hair. The men urgently descended the steps and surrounded the very alive man.

"Mickey, go on and check him out," the sheriff ordered. 

The doctor knelt by Jackson’s head and removed the hood. Everyone fell silent as he used his stethoscope to assess the prisoner's condition.  

"Well, Sheriff, the heart rate is wild, but it’s coming down. The breathing is fairly labored. It looks like he dislocated his shoulder when he hit the floor. Oh, and, uh, his crotch is wet."

"I might have guessed he’d piss hisself. They do that sometimes, you know." Kragg shook his head, and a closed-mouth belch caused his cheeks to puff out, followed by a slow release. "Well, gents, we're gonna have to go again."

"I need a minute to reset the shoulder," Mickey said.

“Why? He won’t need it."

An astonished Deputy Lack, who usually deferred to his superior, asserted himself the best way he knew, speaking slowly in soft, carefully chosen words. 

"Sherriff Kragg, hadn't we better-.”

“Speak up, son,” Kragg barked. 

“Hadn’t we better consult the law about the proper procedure for this sort of thing?"

"Nonsense, boy. You’re lookin’ at the law. Job's gotta get done." He scanned the wide-eyed men, none of whom volunteered their thoughts. "You look like you got something to say, too, Lyle. Let’s have it."

“Well, Sheriff, it’s as unusual a situation as I’ve ever heard, without a doubt," the banker-cum-executioner began. "Personally, I find it, well, spooky." He leaned in and spoke in a near mumble. “What I mean is, if a man survives his execution, could that be a sign?”

Kragg adjusted his pants at the waist, the site of an ongoing battle between a mass of belly fat and his belt. “Of what?”

"Well, now, some might say the good Lord thinks this man shouldn’t be put to death. Like he intended him to keep his life." Lyle removed his wire-rimmed glasses and examined them for smudges, which he wiped away with a handkerchief. "Now, I've never been too well-versed in the Almighty. But we could be tempting hellfire."

Encircled by five men debating a second attempt on his life, Jackson began weeping gently onto the warehouse floor. The voices above him expressed no concern for their audience.

"Father, you're the authority in that department. What can you tell us?"

The elderly man of the cloth wasn't a priest but had long since given up explaining to the sheriff that he was using the wrong title. He lit a cigarette, held it between two fingers, and scratched his head with the remaining digits of the same hand. 

"Well, Sheriff, we can't know what goes on inside the mind of the Lord, but it seems to me if this man was meant to live…,” he paused for another drag, “…he wouldn't have led him here to begin with. String him up."

Finally, a decision. And a new problem.

“Sheriff, that beam is split. We’ll need a new location until it’s replaced. This whole damn scaffold will have to be taken down and rebuilt under a stgronger beam.”

“Yeah, I hear you. Christ, this place is older than God's dog. I guess we're all lucky nothing came crashing down on us."

Jackson listened as the men laughed and expressed relief at their survival.

"Well, Lyle, it’s your domain,” the sheriff continued. "I need it done tonight. Time to improvise." 

Heavy rain began to fall, pelting the structure's tin roof and filling the hollow beneath with a cacophonous roar. Since no one wanted to get wet, it was immediately decided that a tree was out of the question. Lyle roamed through the space until he discovered a trustworthy beam and began installing the noose, repeatedly hurling its rope up and over the wood until it was secure. The prisoner was then led to the new spot of his execution. 

“Nicely done, Lyle,” Kragg observed. “This will work just fine, though a shorter drop means a longer dance. Dep, grab a chair or something. ”

In no time, Jackson was positioned atop a wooden crate. 

"Have you any final words, son?" the minister asked.

Still struggling to breathe and with his arm dangling awkwardly, Jackson looked Kragg in the eye and searched for some sign of humanity. Over the years, the sheriff had made unilateral judgments and imposed sentences against him that were often baseless. This time, he had been taken into custody without having any rights read, a phone call, a lawyer, or a trial. He didn’t even understand what he was being accused of doing. But he was an easy scapegoat—the easiest—unable to defend himself. Jackson struggled to focus his gaze, staring at the sheriff and trying to decipher what was in the eyes of a man who would do this, a man with the arrogance to act as police, judge, and jury. However, the sheriff’s eyes revealed no emotion. His face displayed neither anger nor savagery, nothing akin to evil. Instead, he saw only irritation, impatience, and inconvenience.  

"The man asked for your last living words," Kragg pushed. “Normally, this is when you beg for forgiveness or cry out for your mama. Do you need to do any of that?”

“N-n-n no,” Jackson said breathlessly. “D-d-d-d -do you?” 

All fell silent; even the rain had stopped. The sheriff spat as the minister offered a lazy recitation of a truncated twenty-third psalm before requesting mercy on the soul of the condemned. 

The executioner placed his boot on the crate where Jackson stood, still bound but without the hood he was afforded on the first attempt. After adjusting himself and spitting a second time, the sheriff nodded. With a kick, the support was gone. Jackson slipped out of the loose noose and was down, writhing in pain, having fallen to the ground on his dislocated arm.

“Goddamnit!” Sheriff Kragg shouted. “Slippery bastard.” 

Another debate about the Almighty's intent began to erupt but was cut short.

“We’re not going through all that again. I’ve about had it,” the sheriff said. “Gents, I know this is a pain in the neck, but get him up there again and make sure it’s on good and tight. Come on. Third time’s a charm.”

As forewarned, the drop was far less dramatic than the one they would have been treated to had a rotting beam not split, but it was enough to rouse the birds nesting in the eaves, sending them to all corners of the warehouse. Beneath creaking wood, an innocent man wriggled like a newly hooked fish. The beam did not break, but neither did the neck, so the job was left to suffocation. 

Jackson couldn't feel himself kick and convulse. Instead, a squeezing sensation enveloped him, and it seemed as though he was suspended in thick, unbreathable darkness, with the surrounding stillness a terrifying counterpoint to his desperate search for relief. Unconsciousness would take several minutes to arrive, and as he struggled for even a wasp’s breath in death’s waiting room, his senses began to fade until he could only hear the men who stood watching.

“Is that it?” 

“Nope. It may be a little while. Not uncommon for a shorter fall.” 

“We’re not gonna have to do this again, are we?” 

“Wait and see what he does. Should be out soon.” 

“I hope so; never did get my supper tonight.” 

“Well, I need to get a few winks; Coach said he'd put Bobby in tomorrow, and I want to be there.” 

“Christ, die already, you stupid son of a bitch.” 

“At least the rain stopped.” 

“More on the way though.”

“Wait.” 

“Is that it? Anything left? Can we all go—.”

22-year-old Abel Jackson heard no more. Nearly two hours had passed from the time he was escorted from the police car to the moment his weight merged with gravity and hemp to end his life. His limp body lay still, suspended over a dirt floor not even a foot below the tips of his toes. For a moment, the men examined their work in solemn silence. Kragg finally broke the stillness with a deep breath and adjusted his pants.

"Alright, Lyle. Bring him down. Mickey, do what you do.”

Jackson’s limp body was lowered to the floor, and the doctor searched for a pulse.

"Yessiree, dead as a dodo.”

Everyone, alive and otherwise, left the warehouse, stepping into the black night, still heavy with moisture.  

"Be sure you bury him quick and quiet,” the sheriff said as the body was hoisted and dropped onto the bed of a pickup truck. Kragg walked over to his speechless nephew. "I want you to drive the Father home, Dougie. He hit the sauce a little tonight. Make sure he gets inside, give him his keys, then walk back to my place. And remember, tonight is just between us. I don't need to be in trouble with your mama.”

The execution convoy departed the warehouse, the body’s transport leading the way. Soon, pairs of headlights in the dark peeled off in different directions—the pickup truck to an already-prepared grave, a drunk minister chauffeured home by a teenager, and a sheriff’s patrol car to the end of its duty.

Kragg could tell his deputy was uneasy about the evening’s events. The occasional click of the turn-signal blinker reminded them to stay alert, but no words were uttered until the car pulled into Lack’s driveway.

“Sheriff, why did he ask if you wanted forgiveness?”

“Now, son, sometimes they get angry and start spouting all kinds of things. Can you blame them? Best not to think about it," Kragg advised. “We’re all done. Here you are. Go on in, have a swift drink, and I'll see you tomorrow."

The young officer nodded and went inside. 

Kragg returned to the station he had closed for the hanging, confident that no one would need anything at that hour. Locking the door behind him, he placed a ring-bell-for-assistance sign in the window and retreated to his office. There, he sank into his squeaky desk chair, removed an unlabeled bottle from a drawer, and filled a chipped shot glass, sticky from countless uses. Two consecutive belts warmed him from the chill of the night and the business of death. 

All Kragg wanted to do the following morning was tend to his hunger, but the telephone wouldn’t allow it. Congratulatory calls. Assurances of votes to renew his term. Then, the attorney looking into Merle Barge’s estate called. 

“Glad I caught you, Sheriff. I’ve confirmed our suspicions. Barge had no one. Not a soul in the world. There’s a bank account with next to nothing in it, but just the one, as far as I can tell. I want to go over to the house and look around to see if he kept any records there, if that’s alright.”

“Sure, Sal. Let’s say 11. I’ll let you in and even give you a hand to see what’s in there. The bank’ll want to reclaim the house, but they’ll give us all the time we need on my say-so.” 

“Oh, he owned it outright, Sheriff. That much is clear.”

“Well, there you go. All the time you want. Maybe you’ll find a will.” Kragg hung up, changed his shirt, and splashed water on his face before heading to the corner coffee shop. He felt groggy and somewhat hungover, which he didn’t understand; usually, it took more than a couple of shots to throw him off his track. He gulped down two cups of coffee and was halfway through his eggs and sausage when a small stack of mail arrived.  

“Morning, Sheriff.”

“What’s all this, Milo?”

“I saw you in here and thought I’d just give you your mail in person. Some of Saturday’s mail is in there, too. I guess I didn’t get everything out of the sorting room, so it was still waiting for delivery when I got in this morning. Sorry about that. Hope it’s nothing too important.”

“You’re a good man, Milo, but sometimes you’re just four cents short of a nickel. Come on, now. Folks need their mail on time, ‘specially a man in my position. We ain’t got but so many people here. Do your job, man.”

“I hear you. Just been a little distracted with everything going on lately. Speaking of, I better get to it.” Milo turned and left the café, stopping to chat with everyone he encountered. 

There were notices from the state—several be-on-the-lookout mugshot flyers and a railroad work notice. Kragg signaled for another coffee refill before opening an envelope with no return address.

    Sheriff,
    In order to expedite my removal, I’m sending this notification that I have taken my own life.  My reasons are none of yours.
    Do what you will with my remains and belongings. I won’t care since I’ll be dead.
    In departure,
    Merle Barge

Kragg’s stomach dropped, and his heart began to palpitate. The cook emerged from the kitchen and approached, wiping his hands on a towel. Kragg stuffed the letter into his left breast pocket and returned to his coffee. After a handshake, he learned his breakfast was on the house. Taking deep breaths, he headed to his car, having promised himself at the Barge house. Along the way, he thought about what he would find—what he would have to find.  

Sal had not arrived yet, so Kragg went directly to the bedroom and studied the blood splatter on the wall. He stood in thought for a moment, forced to become the investigator he should have been on the day the body was discovered. The blood had run down the wall until the mattress absorbed it—that’s what he assumed. But now, without its bedding, which had been removed with the body, a small gap between the bed and the wall was revealed, practically unnoticeable even in a well-lit room. Kragg grasped the wrought-iron footboard and slowly widened the gap. There it was.

He could see it all in his mind. Barge took to his bed, positioned the pistol, and left the world. The kickback from the shot sent his hand to the edge of the bed; the gun slid through and fell to the floor. He stood still for a while and stared at it, thinking not about what resulted from his inability to investigate properly or the sheer terror Abel Jackson must have felt while being tortured for no reason. Instead, Kragg was pleased with what he saw as his fine investigative work. He was not shaken, and it was not in him to carry an ounce of contrition. The discovery was shrugged off entirely, as was the miserable old man, the wrongly executed, and every crime for which he would never face justice.   

When Sal arrived, Kragg told him he could take as long as he wanted to search through Barge’s papers. 

“I’m needed back at the station. Just close the door behind you when you leave. And if you value your sleep, I’d avoid the bedroom altogether. There’s no papers or anything in there anyway. I checked.”

Kragg gave no thought to what he would do next; he didn’t need to. He turned off the trafficless stretch of road that led back into town, pulled over, opened the door, and took Merle Barge’s letter from his pocket. When the dashboard cigarette lighter popped into its ready position, the letter was ignited. Kragg watched as it burned into a sheet of ash, then released it to float away on the wind before driving out of his way to drop the pistol into an abandoned well. 

In less than a week, his job was secured for the foreseeable future. The Barge case was closed without a record. The citizens’ trust was quickly restored. A cantankerous old man, who never offered a kind word to another soul, had killed himself, while an innocent outcast was put to death. What a shame, Kragg thought, that no one will ever know.