The Mystery of a
Human Skull

The Discovery of a Human Skull Near Asker, Alberta. Was the Opening Cue
for a Manhunt That Took Policemen Through Montana, Wyoming and Wash-
ington—A Gripping Narrative of Law Enforcement in the Canadian West.

“MY GOD!” Searching the aspen groves
for turkey nests, Fred Bullock’s heart
skipped a beat and he felt the blood drain
swiftly from his blanched face. Where
the birds had been scratching they'd
dislodged a chunk of turf. And there,
beside the trail, less than a gun-shot from
the Alberta settlement of Asker, near
Ponoka, a grisly human head with sandy
hair stared from the sod with lack-lustre
eyes. With a sickening gasp Fred swung
on his heels and bolted.

That same June evening Const. H.
A. Hetherington, in charge of the Police
Detachment at Wetaskiwin, turned to
Const. Firth. “I wish to the devil some-
thing would turn up. I’m fed up with
playing nursemaid to a team of horses,
and straightening out the quarrels of a
bunch of bushed sod-busters.”

There was a swift tattoo of running
feet, the door burst open and before him
stood an agitated settler in jean over-
alls and black sombrero. “I’m Jack Phil-
lipps,” he panted. “I’ve just ridden in
thirty miles from Asker. They found the
head of a dead man back of my place
this morning. Figured I’d better ride
over pronto and let you know. I don’t
want to get mixed up in no murder.”

Hetherington was upon his feet. “Take
a seat,’ he told him, “‘and let’s have this
story straight.”

In a swift, excited outpouring Phil-
lipps told of Fred Bullock’s discovery of
the gruesome human head as he searched
for turkeys’ nests that morning. “It
looks,” he suggested, “like the turkeys
scratched it up. The body must be some-
where around.”

“Anyone recognize the features?”
Hetherington reached for his Stetson
and buckled on his sidearms.

“No!” Phillipps assured him, “nobody
knows him. And, there’s nobody missing
around our way. Gee!’ He shuddered.
“That face sure looked awful.”

“You didn’t alter anything or dig for
the body?”

“We didn’t touch anything. We fig-
ured it was a job for the police.”

“Nothing else around?” The Constable
eyed him sharply.

SEVENTEENTH EDITION

“Nothing.” Phillipps hastened to
reply. “That is... nothing but a black
cap all covered with grease that Jimmy,
Fred’s brother, picked up a week ago.
He’s wearing it right now.”

Sak, Sak

As the first exploratory shafts of dawn
lightened the lush June prairie, Hether-
ington stood beside the spot where the
grisly head had been discovered. Six
feet long, and three feet wide, a shallow
grave had been dug nearby to receive a
body. It had been neatly and carefully
excavated with a sharp-bladed spade
eight inches in width that had bitten
through roots, the sods of turf having
been nicely and almost reverently fitted
together.

“No turkeys dislodged that turf,” ex-
claimed Hetherington bluntly. “Look at
these claw marks and these grey hairs.
Coyotes have been trying to get at the
body.”

As spades bit into the soft earth they
exposed a headless body, still in a good
state of preservation, clad in jean over-
alls, heavy boots and a dark tweed coat.
The overalls bore a Kansas City tag. The
coat bore the label of a Kalamazoo cloth-
ier and gave up a Kalamazoo Fair badge
dated October 12th; a .38 Smith and
Wesson cartridge; a piece of quartz; a
pipe, and a peculiar metal instrument
Hetherington couldn’t identify.

“Well,” he surveyed Const. Firth grim-
ly, “all we know is... he’s probably come
up from the States within the last three
months, resided in Kalamazoo, attended
a fair there—probably last October—and
was buried here sometime in April.”

“Tn April?” Firth’s face bore a puzzled
frown.

“Look at that shallow grave,” Hether-
ington pointed, “and the way that sharp
spade bit right through the roots. If the
ground wasn’t frozen he'd have dug
deeper with a spade like that. And, the
body couldn’t have been buried last sum-
mer or it wouldn’t be in such good shape.
I’d say the grave was dug early this
spring.”

*

By
-PHILIP H. GODSELL

*

“You're right, Constable,” interjected
Phillipps. “I tried to sink fence posts
around the end of April but when I got
down a foot or so I quit. The frost was
still in the ground.”

The inquest that followed the removal
of the body revealed the victim to have
been a sturdy man with strong square
face and lower jaw. All efforts to remove
the earth ingrained in the skin of the
face resisted the Constable’s efforts, while
no one could identify the body. Closer
examination showed strong white teeth
of a presumably young man, with no
dental work to provide a clue. The hair
atop the head was a reddish-brown, a
patch having come away from the scalp.

“No trace of decomposition,’ muttered
the coroner, “though,” he pointed to a
swelling where the belt had encircled the
waist, “decay wasn’t far off.”

Noting that the body would have tip-
ped the scales at around one hundred and
seventy pounds, Hetherington called for
a tape measure. Since no tape measure
was forthcoming he used a piece of string.
Five feet, ten-and-a-half, he jotted in his
notebook; overalls—thirty-six waist and
thirty-two leg. From buckle to used belt
hole—waist measurement three inches
less than that of overalls.

“H’m!” The coroner was minutely
examining a suspicious blood clot behind
the left ear. Probing deeper he turned a
grim face to the Constable. “Looks like
murder. This man’s been shot twice be-
hind the ear.”

“Maybe,” suggested a juryman, loath
to believe that murder had been com-
mitted in their midst, “it was suicide.”

“Suicides don’t bury themselves,”
growled Hetherington dryly. “The
coroner's right. We've got a murder on
our hands.”

* OK  €

A check-up of excited neighbours failed
to produce a single likely clue as to the
identity of the killer. The Bullocks,
whose back fence abutted on the copse
where the headless body had been found,
alone were able to furnish any inform-
ation. Fred told of discovering the head

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