Free In Broad Daylight by Harry N. MacLean Page A

small town not far from St. Joe. McCubbin visited the hospital and discovered that the man was Ken McElroy, and that the size of the pellets taken out of his ass were the same size as the pellets from the watchman's gun. He turned up some corroborating proof, and took McElroy in for questioning at Troop H Headquarters in St. Joe. McElroy denied everything.
    Nevertheless, on October 27, 1971, prosecutors in Doniphan County filed an indictment charging McElroy and another man with five counts of burglary and theft. The judge in Troy issued warrants for their arrest, which were sent to the sheriff's department in Andrew County for execution, along with a request for extradition. The warrants were never executed and the case was never prosecuted.
    In the early sixties, a man joined the Missouri State Highway Patrol who would in time earn a reputation as the only cop around who was not afraid to go up against McElroy one on one. Richard Dean Stratton-called Dean by his family and friends, Stratton by Ken McElroy, and "Lean and Mean" by his many admirers-was a tall man with a spare, wiry build, a thin face, and short brown hair. Even as a rookie trooper, Stratton had a certain presence, an air of confidence and self-assurance. As time passed, the legend surrounding him would span almost as many counties as Ken McElroy's, but Stratton never fit the image of the highway cop in dark blue, swarthy face masked in aviator glasses, swaggering with the authority of law and justice. Instead, he was an easygoing man who smiled easily and appeared very relaxed. He talked in a low, mellow voice and chuckled readily. He could have been the basketball coach at the local high school.
    But when Stratton was on the job, his bearing changed slightly: His spine straightened, his moves became efficient and graceful, and his voice grew steady and even. As his concentration centered, his eyes locked in on his subject. A smile lingered on his face, but his eyes became still.
    Born in southwestern Nebraska in 1936, Stratton joined the patrol when he was twenty-six. His first assignment was Maryville, and he broke in under a sergeant who drummed into him the importance of getting out of his patrol car and meeting the people in the small towns. Stratton would park in front of Mom's Cafe in Skidmore and drink coffee with the farmers and seed dealers, and when his turn came, he would pick up the check. He hunted and fished with some of the local boys, tramping through the fields and timber and stream beds with them for pheasant, coon, and deer. He could talk corn prices, weather, and women right along with the rest of them.
    One of the first conversations he had with his sergeant was about Ken Rex McElroy. Even in those days he was a known hog thief and cattle rustler.
    "He's a rogue and a troublemaker," the sergeant told Stratton. "He's a thief and a bully who will use a shotgun-don't ever trust him and don't ever turn your back on him."
    Stratton learned how to deal with McElroy the hard way. One morning around 4 o'clock, Stratton was cruising the blacktops west of Skidmore, keeping track of who was where and what was going on, when McElroy's green pickup went by, riding low in the rear. Stratton pulled him over. The patrolman was struck by McElroy's eyes up close: They were dark and cold and deep, and Stratton felt as if they were looking into the far reaches of his soul.
    McElroy said he was on his way to St. Joe.
    Stratton examined the hogs in the back of the truck-two red and two black, squeezed in tight-and asked McElroy, "Whose hogs are those?" McElroy gave an evasive reply, so Stratton asked him straight out, "Did you steal those hogs, Ken?"
    McElroy's face darkened and his eyes seemed to get blacker, until Stratton felt as if they were piercing his mind.
    "Goddamn it," McElroy said, "you're just like everyone else around here-you think I steal hogs for a living!"
    As McElroy started to reach behind him, Stratton realized the deal was going bad.