Murder By Hand
He Tried to Kill a Fellow Jail Inmate. Soon He Would Realize He Should Have Finished The Job.
His job was to wash the cars. The patrol cars. Including the sheriff’s personal car, a black Lincoln.
This was his job as a trusty in the county jail.
His sentence for grand larceny was 18 months.
At first, he was led to the garage with his hands cuffed and his legs in chains. Gradually, as the months rolled on, he was only handcuffed. Finally, somewhere around month 14 he was simply released from his cell and ordered to go the car garage and wash the patrol cars.
That, in legal jail terms, is what a trusty is – a trusted inmate.
The sheriff’s garage held seven squad cars. The last bay had a floor drain, garden hose, wash bucket, soap, sponge, and drying towels. The trusty’s duty was to wash squad cars – 13 in all. Plus the sheriff’s Lincoln. He was allowed to go to the parking lot and bring one patrol car in for cleaning and park a clean one back in the lot.
Clifford Gates was a burly man, with a big stomach, and hair growing at the nape of his neck, sticking out of his prison shirt. His hands were large, like he worked the soil, or handled machine tools. In fact, he moved household furniture cross-country before he got himself in trouble with the law.
On the wall in the car wash stall was a calendar, a mechanic’s calendar, with vintage and classic cars by the month. Carefully, each day Clifford Gates checked off the day he was in the car wash stall. The date August 30 was circled in red – that was the last day he would be washing patrol cars, for the very next day he was to be released to freedom.
Harvey Miller had other ideas. Harvey Miller was in jail for aggravated assault. His time was in a holding pattern until he would be tried in court for his alleged crime. He was not honored with the trust of a trusty. In fact, he wore ankle chains at all times. His duty was in the food service facility. Not in the kitchen, where sharp knives were chained to the tables, but out in the dining area where he cleaned the long tables and seats, sanitized the counters, swept and mopped the floor, washed the windows, and dusted.
So it was the Harvey Miller had his eye out for the simple Clifford Gates. Clifford, he reasoned, was his ticket to elsewhere. Anywhere. Just away from jail and the courts.
Clifford Gates was grateful to be on trusty status and washed the patrol cars with care, shining them on the outside, cleaning out the inside, so when a sheriff’s deputy got into the car, he or she were impressed. Good comments worked their way back to the sheriff, and that is how Clifford was allowed to clean the sheriff’s car.
It was a black Lincoln with a black interior. Not top of the line, but well equipped. Clifford noticed that the rear seats were seldom used and the floor mats seldom dirty. He took extra care to clean the brake dust off the aluminum alloy wheels, rubbing the spokes with a soft cloth after he washed them. Then he spread a compound on the tires that blackened the rubber and gave it a sheen. The sheriff showed his appreciation when he came into the garage and called Clifford by his first name. He was the only inmate the sheriff called by his or her first name.
Harvey Miller was never addressed by his first name, not even by the deputies, the jailers, or the food service director. It always seemed more appropriate to say to him, "Hey," or "Inmate," or just "You."
One Friday the jail was unusually quiet. A scuffle the night before had sent two jailers to the hospital. That left the dispatcher in the office watching the cells via her video monitors until a replacement jailer would arrive.
Harvey Miller woke up happy that Friday. It was to be his Friday.
Somehow he just knew it. The food service director had Harvey wiping down the legs of the tables in the dining room. While he was doing that he saw Clifford Gates walking down the hallway to the car garage to do his daily car cleaning duties. Harvey Miller slipped in behind him, walking haltingly with his feet in chains.
"Hey, Harvey," Clifford said, "What are you doing? Following me?"
"Just keep walking."
Clifford felt a sharp object press against the small area of his back where his kidneys are.
When they entered the garage Harvey Miller pressed the sharp object harder against Clifford’s back, pushing him out the door into the parking lot. There were nine patrol cars and the sheriff’s Lincoln.
"Harvey!" Clifford said. "What do you have me doing?"
Harvey pushed Clifford to the driver’s door of the black Lincoln and forced him inside with the sharp object. Harvey climbed into the back seat and ordered Clifford to drive. "Get! Get outa here!"
Clifford moaned in disapproval but did as he was commanded.
The sheriff’s black Lincoln pulled out into traffic without incident, and headed west out of town.
Clifford was almost mute. Harvey poked the sharp object at the back of Clifford’s shoulder blade.
"Keep driving, Clifford old boy. Drive till I tell you to stop."
Outside the city limits Harvey ordered Clifford to pull into the parking lot behind a vacant retail store. There he rummaged through trash till he found a piece of cardboard, and he jammed it under the rear bumper so it covered the license plate. He acted desperate.
"I need a rock, or something heavy to break these chains. Find me something. Look! C’mon."
Clifford Gates did as he was told. Behind a dumpster Clifford found a heavy iron bar and Harvey pounded the chain with it until one link broke and he was able to move his feet…and drive a car.
"Clifford, old boy, I won’t be needing you anymore." With that Harvey slammed the sharp object into Clifford’s chest. There was a "thump" sound. Clifford fell backwards and landed on his back with this strange sharp object sticking out of his heart. He was grabbing at the object in pain, trying to pull it out, crying like a baby crying for its mother.
Harvey drove off in the sheriff’s Lincoln. It was not marked as a police car.
Prisoners have a lot of time. And they come up with innovative but deadly ideas. Harvey had heard about this from previous prison stays. Take a magazine. Get it wet, Roll it into a sharp point. Continue the process of wetting it and drying it until it is so hard and sharp it will penetrate the human body. Clifford Gates was dying from a magazine stuck in his heart.
Two teenagers riding their bicycles down the alley behind the retail store discovered Clifford Gates dying on the gravel. Their parents called 911.
Clifford Gates survived. When he recovered he was placed back on trusty status by the sheriff.
The sheriff’s Lincoln was found 600 miles away, behind a diner, burning.
Harvey Miller has not been found.
Clifford Gates turned the page on the calendar hanging on the car wash stall. Just seven days and he would be released to freedom. From his stay in the hospital he had lost 45 pounds. His gut was not as large. But he retained the big hands of a furniture mover.
Harvey Miller was out there somewhere.
Clifford Gates was going to find him.
Those big hands were going to get him justice.
This was his job as a trusty in the county jail.
His sentence for grand larceny was 18 months.
At first, he was led to the garage with his hands cuffed and his legs in chains. Gradually, as the months rolled on, he was only handcuffed. Finally, somewhere around month 14 he was simply released from his cell and ordered to go the car garage and wash the patrol cars.
That, in legal jail terms, is what a trusty is – a trusted inmate.
The sheriff’s garage held seven squad cars. The last bay had a floor drain, garden hose, wash bucket, soap, sponge, and drying towels. The trusty’s duty was to wash squad cars – 13 in all. Plus the sheriff’s Lincoln. He was allowed to go to the parking lot and bring one patrol car in for cleaning and park a clean one back in the lot.
Clifford Gates was a burly man, with a big stomach, and hair growing at the nape of his neck, sticking out of his prison shirt. His hands were large, like he worked the soil, or handled machine tools. In fact, he moved household furniture cross-country before he got himself in trouble with the law.
On the wall in the car wash stall was a calendar, a mechanic’s calendar, with vintage and classic cars by the month. Carefully, each day Clifford Gates checked off the day he was in the car wash stall. The date August 30 was circled in red – that was the last day he would be washing patrol cars, for the very next day he was to be released to freedom.
Harvey Miller had other ideas. Harvey Miller was in jail for aggravated assault. His time was in a holding pattern until he would be tried in court for his alleged crime. He was not honored with the trust of a trusty. In fact, he wore ankle chains at all times. His duty was in the food service facility. Not in the kitchen, where sharp knives were chained to the tables, but out in the dining area where he cleaned the long tables and seats, sanitized the counters, swept and mopped the floor, washed the windows, and dusted.
So it was the Harvey Miller had his eye out for the simple Clifford Gates. Clifford, he reasoned, was his ticket to elsewhere. Anywhere. Just away from jail and the courts.
Clifford Gates was grateful to be on trusty status and washed the patrol cars with care, shining them on the outside, cleaning out the inside, so when a sheriff’s deputy got into the car, he or she were impressed. Good comments worked their way back to the sheriff, and that is how Clifford was allowed to clean the sheriff’s car.
It was a black Lincoln with a black interior. Not top of the line, but well equipped. Clifford noticed that the rear seats were seldom used and the floor mats seldom dirty. He took extra care to clean the brake dust off the aluminum alloy wheels, rubbing the spokes with a soft cloth after he washed them. Then he spread a compound on the tires that blackened the rubber and gave it a sheen. The sheriff showed his appreciation when he came into the garage and called Clifford by his first name. He was the only inmate the sheriff called by his or her first name.
Harvey Miller was never addressed by his first name, not even by the deputies, the jailers, or the food service director. It always seemed more appropriate to say to him, "Hey," or "Inmate," or just "You."
One Friday the jail was unusually quiet. A scuffle the night before had sent two jailers to the hospital. That left the dispatcher in the office watching the cells via her video monitors until a replacement jailer would arrive.
Harvey Miller woke up happy that Friday. It was to be his Friday.
Somehow he just knew it. The food service director had Harvey wiping down the legs of the tables in the dining room. While he was doing that he saw Clifford Gates walking down the hallway to the car garage to do his daily car cleaning duties. Harvey Miller slipped in behind him, walking haltingly with his feet in chains.
"Hey, Harvey," Clifford said, "What are you doing? Following me?"
"Just keep walking."
Clifford felt a sharp object press against the small area of his back where his kidneys are.
When they entered the garage Harvey Miller pressed the sharp object harder against Clifford’s back, pushing him out the door into the parking lot. There were nine patrol cars and the sheriff’s Lincoln.
"Harvey!" Clifford said. "What do you have me doing?"
Harvey pushed Clifford to the driver’s door of the black Lincoln and forced him inside with the sharp object. Harvey climbed into the back seat and ordered Clifford to drive. "Get! Get outa here!"
Clifford moaned in disapproval but did as he was commanded.
The sheriff’s black Lincoln pulled out into traffic without incident, and headed west out of town.
Clifford was almost mute. Harvey poked the sharp object at the back of Clifford’s shoulder blade.
"Keep driving, Clifford old boy. Drive till I tell you to stop."
Outside the city limits Harvey ordered Clifford to pull into the parking lot behind a vacant retail store. There he rummaged through trash till he found a piece of cardboard, and he jammed it under the rear bumper so it covered the license plate. He acted desperate.
"I need a rock, or something heavy to break these chains. Find me something. Look! C’mon."
Clifford Gates did as he was told. Behind a dumpster Clifford found a heavy iron bar and Harvey pounded the chain with it until one link broke and he was able to move his feet…and drive a car.
"Clifford, old boy, I won’t be needing you anymore." With that Harvey slammed the sharp object into Clifford’s chest. There was a "thump" sound. Clifford fell backwards and landed on his back with this strange sharp object sticking out of his heart. He was grabbing at the object in pain, trying to pull it out, crying like a baby crying for its mother.
Harvey drove off in the sheriff’s Lincoln. It was not marked as a police car.
Prisoners have a lot of time. And they come up with innovative but deadly ideas. Harvey had heard about this from previous prison stays. Take a magazine. Get it wet, Roll it into a sharp point. Continue the process of wetting it and drying it until it is so hard and sharp it will penetrate the human body. Clifford Gates was dying from a magazine stuck in his heart.
Two teenagers riding their bicycles down the alley behind the retail store discovered Clifford Gates dying on the gravel. Their parents called 911.
Clifford Gates survived. When he recovered he was placed back on trusty status by the sheriff.
The sheriff’s Lincoln was found 600 miles away, behind a diner, burning.
Harvey Miller has not been found.
Clifford Gates turned the page on the calendar hanging on the car wash stall. Just seven days and he would be released to freedom. From his stay in the hospital he had lost 45 pounds. His gut was not as large. But he retained the big hands of a furniture mover.
Harvey Miller was out there somewhere.
Clifford Gates was going to find him.
Those big hands were going to get him justice.
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