Killer In Town

The first name on Mary Ellen’s list of suspects was Lester Hossford, whose name had appeared on several researchers’ lists. He had worked for Bates Mining Supply until 1933 but had been laid off along with half of the work force of the company. Unemployed since that time, he had lost his house due to foreclosure by Tom Dees’s bank. He had no criminal record, but owed a lot of debts around town. “Any idea where Lester Hossford lives?” Marcus asked. “He’s not in the phone book, and his last known address is the house that he lost.” “Let’s ask some of his creditors if they have a more recent address.” Mary Ellen checked by phone and found that one grocery store that once gave credit but no longer did had a note on their card for Hossford that said simply “moved to shanty town.” “OK, let’s go out there and nose around,” Marcus said. Many towns in the Great Depression had shanty towns. It was the last place of refuge for individuals and even families who were completely down and out. Often the shanties were on public land near the city dump, the reason being that people could find materials to build make-shift shacks and sometimes useful items in the dump, items that more fortunate citizens had thrown away. About eight families lived in Franklin’s shanty town. All were squatters on city property, but no one had the heart to drive them off. Marcus drove up to the miserable collection of tar-paper shacks and lean-tos. There was no running water, and two crude outhouses served everyone. Smoke curled out of several stove pipes indicating there were cook stoves inside. “I didn’t know this was here,” Mary Ellen whispered. “It’s awful!” “It’s the way things are. They have to live somewhere,” he said. They approached the nearest shack and found a little girl in a tattered dress standing in the open door. She was barefooted and dirty. Her stringy blond hair hung straight down, even over her face. “Is your name Hossford?” Marcus asked. Without a word, she pointed to another shack. They went to the shack and knocked on what appeared to be a door made from the battered drawer facings of a desk. A man answered the knock and also answered to the name of Lester Hossford. “I’m Sheriff Nixon and this is Detective Selvedge. We need to talk with you.” “I ain’t got no money, Sheriff. I can’t pay any of them bills I owe. I been out of work for two years.” “It’s not about that. Is there some place we can talk?” “We got no chairs to set on inside. But there’s some crates over there where folks set and talk sometimes.” He pointed to a collection of furniture crates arranged in a circle. “That’ll do fine.” They walked to the crates and took seats. The afternoon sun was warm and the odors from the city dump nearby were foul, but a gentle breeze carried most of it away. Mary Ellen got out a pad and pen to take notes. She glanced at Hossford but tried not to stare. He looked almost as ragged and dirty as the little girl. He was about 40 years old, cheeks hollow and eyes dull. He was very thin; Mary Ellen thought he might have been much heavier at one time. “You worked at Bates Mining Supply for a number of years, didn’t you?” Marcus began. “That’s right. Eight years. It was a good job.” “What did you do?” “I filled orders for supplies.” “Did that include explosives?” “Sure, several kinds. The stuff they use in mining.” “Did you ever have any experience actually using explosives?” Mary Ellen asked. “Who, me? I hate the stuff. I ain’t ever blown up anything.” “OK. Now tell us why you left Bates Mining Supply?” “Wasn’t my idea. They laid a bunch of us off. Said it was because of the Depression. Wasn’t enough business to keep us on.” “How did you get along with Mr. Bates?” Mary Ellen asked. “The boss? He was always after us to get more done, get the orders out faster, take shorter breaks. I guess it wasn’t his fault the business fell off the way it did, but he sure as hell could have picked someone else to fire instead of me. I got a family.” “Do you hold it against Mr. Bates that the company let you go?” “Yeah, I reckon I do—some. But I didn’t have nothin’ to do with shooting him. What would that get me?” Marcus asked, “Do you own a rifle, Hossford?” “Used to. I sold it months ago, like everything else.” “Did you know Tom Dees?” “No.” “Did you borrow money from his bank?” “All I could.” “Did you pay it back?” Hossford grimaced cynically. “What do you think?” “Did you?” “No. Not all of it.” “Did you have a mortgage with Dees’s bank?” “You ought to know, Sheriff. One of your deputies come to my house with a court order and said we had to get out.” “Did you resent that?” “You bet your ass, I did. Look, Sheriff, I didn’t shoot that banker or any of them other birds. I got no rifle and no explosives. I got nothing. The only way I can get into town is to walk. I only do that when we need to buy groceries. But since I’m out of money, I ain’t done that much lately. The fact is I ain’t left this place in more than a week. Lots of people here, including my wife, can tell you that. If I was going to do something illegal about the mess I’m in, I wouldn’t go around killing people. I’d go break into a grocery store and take what I need for my family.” Marcus looked at him evenly. “OK, Hossford. I believe you. Do you have any more questions, Mary Ellen?” “No, I don’t.” She capped her pen and closed her notebook. Then she looked up, her blue eyes glistening. “I hope things get better for you, Mr. Hossford.” Hossford stared at the ground and said softly, “Thanks, Miss.” He stood, thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked away toward his shack. A small whirlwind spun past him, kicking up loose dust, but he didn’t notice.