The Susan Smith
case was one of the most publicized murder cases in the history of South
Carolina. After weeks of investigation by Sheriff Howard Wells, his
staff, and state and federal authorities, the case was solved and Susan
Smith was charged with the murder by drowning of her two young sons.
Due to the
continued demand for information, and for historical accuracy surrounding
the case, we have listed links to several sources of information
pertaining to the case and subsequent trial.
Stage Set for Suicide
By George Baker
Sheriff Rochelle Boyle |
The following
true story was written about the events concerning the death of Victor
Bishop which was ruled a suicide by a coroner's jury way back in 1941.
Rochelle Boyle, a Highway Patrolman at the time became Sheriff of Union
County in 1944 and reopened the case in 1946 . As a result of his
investigation, three persons including the deceased man's wife were
sentenced to life in prison for murder. This story was printed in
Startling Detective Magazine, date unknown.
Rochelle Boyle
stopped dead in his tracks and listened. A moment before, he had been
sauntering along Union Road, drinking in the calm Carolina beauty of the
spring evening of May 27, 1941. Mingled fragrances of honey
suckle, flowering dogwood and yellow jasmine flooded the moon-bright
night with wild perfume. And a choir of crickets provided background
music. Suddenly the cricket fiddles hushed, A moment later, a single
drawn out shriek split the quiet, then faded away to whimpering sobs.
After a first
stunned minute, Boyle whirled toward the sound from the Bishop
farmhouse., less than 50 yards up a gravel side road, He sped toward
the house. As he neared it, he was joined by other figures hurrying
from neighboring homes toward the scene of the trouble.
And trouble it
was at the Bishop place. Sprawled on the stairs with his head shattered
, lay the body of Victor Bishop.
On the steps
above him, a shotgun and a forked stick were mute testimony to the
manner of death. The stick had been cut to just the right shape and
size for a man holding a gun, muzzle to his head and butt wedged against
a chair riser, to push back the trigger.
The dead man's
wife had made the discovery. Returning with her two children after
dinner at the home of a friend, Mrs. Catherine Bishop had been nettled
because her husband had failed to call for her. She had entered the
house at 9 o'clock and had nearly tripped over the body on the darkened
stairs. It was her shriek of horror that had brought the neighbors
rushing to the house.
Inside, the eyes
of most onlookers were irresistibly drawn to the corpse. After a
perfunctory glance however, young Boyle looked elsewhere. He had
schooled himself to notice small, seemingly trivial details. Now he
inspected the forked stick lying beside the gun.
It had been
shaped by a master whittler. If Victor Bishop had cut the stick
especially for the grim task, he had taken unusual pains. The ends has
been trimmed and rounded off with careful workmanship.
Boyle's
examination of the stick was interrupted by the arrival of Sheriff Jim
Fawcett. He had driven down with the Coroner, Ned Connor, from the
county seat at Union, S.C. 12 miles to the Northeast. The officers
ushered the crowd of spectators out of the house.
As Boyle walked
toward the door, he caught his first glimpse of the hysterical wife.
Catherine Bishop was seated in the kitchen with two sympathetic
friends. The children had been taken in charge by a kindly neighbor.
However, Mrs. Bishop herself looked childlike in her grief. Her short
plump figure rocked from side to side with fierce sobs.
While the widow
wept brokenly in the kitchen, the county officials set to work on the
stairs. After a brief, yet searching inspection of the body and weapon,
The Sheriff and the Coroner exchanged glances.
" Suicide "
Connor said. " Doesn't look like anything else," said Fawcett. " But
why would he do it ?." the Coroner wondered aloud. There're no note, and
no motive I can think of. Bishop's been doing well lately in his
carpenter-contracting business. He and his family have always seemed
happy together. Why...?
The Sheriff
shrugged. " I don't know why, but who, what, when, and how seen obvious.
Indeed they did.
The position of the body, the victim's own shotgun, the forked stick--
they all reinforced the one conclusion. A routine check of the
instruments of death disclosed no fingerprints other than those of the
deceased. A Coroner's jury made the verdict of suicide official....
For several
weeks, conjecture as to why Victor Bishop would have taken his own life
was a prime topic of conversation in corner stores and over the dinner
tables of the Pea Ridge area. Gradually, however, newer events, such
as the burning of Hodge Benson's barn, pushed it from the forefront of
folks' minds. As a result, Mrs. Bishop's moving to her mother's home
in Woodruff, in neighboring Spartanburg county, caused less comment
than Hobart Green, here-to-fore a teetotaler, was fast becoming the
town's leading drunkard.
But Victor
Bishop's suicide wasn't completely forgotten. The tantalizing question
of " Why did he do it ? ' remained unanswered in the mind of Rochelle
Boyle.
In 1944, when
old Sheriff Jim Fawcett died, the cool, efficient Boyle, now an ex G I
was elected to succeed him. At odd moments on his new job, Sheriff
Boyle still pondered the question, " Why should a happy man commit
suicide ? " But these moments were rare, for the varied assortment of
day-to-day happenings kept the Sheriff busy.
For one thing,
the mild-looking carpenter, Hobart Green had become a regular visitor
to the county jail after periodic bouts with the bottle. Finally one
day in the spring of 1946, Green's wife appeared at the Sheriff's
Office.
" I sure hate to
do this, Sheriff," Mrs.Green led off. "But you'd better come and take
my husband to your lockup." Boyle looked at her in surprise.
"I know I've
always tried to protect Hobart when he went off on his drunks," she
explained. "but this time he's worst than ever ! Been drinking for two
days now and this morning he threatened to hit one of the children.
That was too much for me. I'm afraid to turn around now for fear he
will do harm to one of the little ones."
"Where is he now
?" the Sheriff asked.
"Asleep in the
barn. But when he wakes up, I expect he'll come roaring back in the
house, That's why I ran down here to fetch you."
Boyle reached out
a lean arm for his hat and soon was driving with Mrs.Green toward the
farm. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into the driveway and turned
around before the barn.
Mrs.Green
breathed a sigh of relief. "He's still snoozing," she said pointing at
an inert figure inside the wide barn doorway. The Sheriff nodded, "you
get back to the house," he said kindly. "I'll deal with Hobart" Swinging
out of the car, Boyle strode toward the barn. With one powerful tug, he
hauled the groggy man to his feet. For a moment, Green wobbled around
uncertainly. Then he peered at Boyle through red-rimmed eyes. " Who do
you think you are mister, butting in on a man's home? " he snarled. "
Why you remember me.," Boyle said, soothingly. " Your old friend, the
Sheriff.." "I've got a comfortable bed for you to sleep in instead of
this old barn.." Unexpectedly, Green broke into a wheezing laugh." The
Sheriff ! ha ha ! some Sheriff ! even I know more about going-ons around
here than he does. reckon he'd like to hear about....."
The reeling
carpenter broke off abruptly. Woozily , he tried to straighten up. "
Shhhh !" he cautioned himself. Then he lapsed into silence.
Boyle's eyes
narrowed. This wasn't the first time he'd heard Green mention "strange
goings on." in his drunken maunderings. But one look at his prisoner
showed that he couldn't be coaxed into further utterances-at least, not
just then. Skillfully, the Sheriff maneuvered Green to his car. Once in
the seat, the carpenter dropped his head on the Sheriff's shoulder and
snored lustily all the way back to town.
Arriving at the
county jail, Boyle deposited his charge on a narrow iron cot. Then as
Green noisily thrashed around before dropping off into a deep slumber,
the Sheriff stood outside the cell door listening. A few broken
phrases, though were all he could make out. " Sheriff doesn't know
much...." The tipsy prisoner chuckled 'Sam could teach him. Sam...."
The words faded into a drowsy murmur and then gave way to strenuous
breathing. Deep in thought, Boyle went back to his office. The
tippler's vague phrases had stirred new doubts in the Sheriff's mind.
True, Green's mumbled words might have been only drunken braggadocio,
but then again, they might mean something serious. The Sheriff decided
to wait until the following morning before trying a simple scheme to
learn more. The sun was hardly in the horizon when he slammed open the
door to Green's cell. Roughly he shook the prisoner. Still groggy,
Green cocked a questioning eyebrow, " What's up" he asked in surprise.
" You're up!" Boyle retorted. " You're up for questioning and in two
seconds you had better be up on your feet! " The Sheriff's ominous tone
knocked the last vestiges of sleep from Green's eyes. Quickly he
scrambled to his feet and peered at the Sheriff with troubled eyes.
"Did I get too
high last night?" he asked with obvious concern. " Put your shoes on!"
Boyle ordered. " We'll discuss it in my office." The two men silently
filed into the front half of the building. Hardly had they entered the
Sheriff's Office, when Green dropped into a chair. Boyle remained on his
feet. "What did I do?" the now penitent carpenter asked meekly. " You
didn't do much - didn't have a chance," the Sheriff told him. " But you
did say enough to land you belt-high in trouble." Green's face whitened,
He licked his lips nervously, " I said something about Bish-" Bishop,
Victor Bishop ! The man who had committed suicide five years ago ! Boyle
remembered clearly the expertly whittled stick that had been found near
the body. He leaned forward, eager to hear more. But his anxious
demeanor flashed a warning to the speaker. Green stopped abruptly and
clamped his mouth shut. He glared at the Sheriff suspiciously. " Go on
," Boyle urged. " What about Bishop? Victor Bishop do you mean." " I
don't mean anything," the carpenter growled. " And I didn't mean
anything last night, either. You're trying to trap me into saying
something, but you're wasting your time. I don't have any information
you would be interested in. " the Sheriff tried other approaches, but
Green met his every ruse with a cunning rejoinder. After hours of vain
effort, Boyle gave up. Hauling Green before the county court on charges
of disturbing the peace, he readily agreed to the prisoner's release on
probation. Leaving the court, Boyle crossed the street to the local
headquarters of the governor's constabulary. Legare Ansell, head of the
county detachment greeted the Sheriff with a friendly respect. " Come on
in!" he called. " What's on your mind? " Boyle settled his big frame
into a chair. " I need a little help from your remembering machine," he
said tapping the side of his head. " Glad to help if I can." the state
officer assured him. Briefly the Sheriff outlined the story of Green's
drunken ravings, " Maybe there's nothing in the man's talk."he said. "
On the other hand, if Victor Bishop didn't take his own life, it was a
stage set for suicide." " A case of a perfect crime," Ansell mused. "But
maybe not so perfect, if you've got a start on it." " Well I'm not so
sure.," Boyle said. " That's what I wanted to ask you about. You
conducted the state investigation of the case. Now I'd like to know if
Green's mumbling makes any sense to you. I heard him murmur something
about someone named "Sam" putting one over on the Sheriff , Also, I
surprised him into a mention of Bishop's name. Does that add up to
anything? "
Thoughtfully,
Ansell leaned back in his chair. " Sam..." he pondered. Suddenly he
jerked forward. " I think I've got it!" he exclaimed. The Sheriff waited
quietly "Sam Cait!" the constabulary officer declared triumphantly. " He
must be the "Sam" your man meant ! Green used to live on the next farm
to him, so he might know a great deal about him. What's more Cait had
an argument with Victor Bishop a few months before the tragedy. Seems
Bishop built a barn for him and Cait claimed he'd been stung on the
costs. He did a lot of hollering about it at the time, but nothing else
so far as anyone ever knew."
Boyle rose to his
feet. " Where's Cait now ?" Ansell shrugged. " He moved over near
Spartanburg, soon after Bishop's death." " Reckon I'll pay Sam Cait a
visit," the Sheriff said quietly. He started for the door. " Mind if I
come along?" Ansell asked. A few minutes later the two officers were
riding along the highway. In a half an hour they pulled up before
Cait's farm.
As they got out
of the car in Cait's yard, the farmhouse door opened. A short squat
man stood framed at the doorway. He peered at the men intently as they
strode to the house.
"Sam Cait" Boyle
asked, mounting the front steps. The man nodded. "Something I can do
for you?" " You might answer a few questions," the Sheriff said,
letting his jacket fall open.
Cait's eyes
narrowed at the sight of the silver badge, but he swung the door wide
and ushered the officers in. No sooner had Boyle crossed the threshold
when he stopped stock still. His keen eyes were fastened on a
skillfully whittled wood whistle on the mantle above the fireplace. The
fine knife strokes....the careful workmanship....the pattern....all
reminded him vividly of the carved ends of that forked stick, found so
long ago near the lifeless body of Victor Bishop.
Wrenching his
glance from the unusual example of whittler's skill, Boyle noticeded
both Cait and Ansell staring at him. He turned away casually and
gestured over his shoulder toward the mantle. " Interesting looking
whistle you have there," he observed easily.
"That whistle ?"
Cait asked in surprise. "It's my boy's." " You must be pretty clever
with your hands to whittle out a piece like that." the Sheriff said.
" I didn't make
it," Cait protested. " My former hired hand John Vebski , carved that.
He had a knack with a knife."
Ansell was
impatient to get down to the reason of their call, but he approached the
subject obliquely. " We've been checking back on some old records," he
led off. " Seems you left Union soon after Victor Bishop died."
Cait frowned.
"Sure, I had already bought this place before it happened. I don't see
why Bishop's death should have made me change my plans."
"Not at all," the
constabulary officer conceded. " But perhaps Bishop's death could have
figured in those plans. Hobart Green's been talking ! " The farmer
didn't turn a hair. "Green ? What's he been talking about ?" he asked in
a puzzled voice.
The suspect's
manner-of-fact manner threw Answell for a lose. He turned to Boyle to
follow up on the probing. Instead of posing a new question, however,
the Sheriff did something totally unexpected. He signaled the state
officer he was ready to leave.
As they climbed
back in the car, Ansell threw a quizzical glance at the Sheriff. "Cait
doesn't act suspicious," Boyle replied to the unspoken question. "
Rather than waste time here, I'd like to find John Vebski."
Rapidly he
explained the similarity of the whittling on the whistle in Cait's
parlor to the work on the stick that had supposedly been used in the
Bishop suicide. Ansell pinched his chin reflectively " Mmmmm. I
remember that fellow," Ansell said. " Sort of moody, quiet, and
hardworking as long as nobody interfered with him. But what a temper."
"Wonder where we
can find him now," Boyle mused. "He drifted away about the time Cait
moved out. But Cait might know his whereabouts. Vebski was mighty
loyal to him and they probably keep in touch with each other." "Here we
go back then," said the Sheriff. The tires squealed as he u-turned
sharply. A few minutes later they were back at Cait's farm.
The farmer was
still bewildered over their previous visit when they piled out of the
car again. However in response to Boyle's question he quickly supplied
Vebski's address. Then as officers roared away the second time, Cait was
left staring after them in complete astonishment.
On their way back
to Union, they mapped their next step. Cait had told them Vebski worked
in a cotton warehouse in Charleston. Early the next day, Ansell and
Boyle boarded a coast-bound express. Rolling into Charleston at noon,
they took a taxi to the warehouse where Vebski worked. A few minutes
later, they were entering the vast building piled high with pyramided
cotton bales and criss-crossed overhead with girders that served as
catwalks for the agile handlers.
They stopped the
first man they passed and asked for Vebski. "Vebski," he replied. "Not
in this department. I never heard of him. Better try the shipping
section-all the way in the rear."
It took five
minutes to reach the other end of the warehouse. There they approached a
thin man jotting down figures in a large ledger which he carried over
his arm. "We're looking for John Vebski," the Sheriff told him. The
man starred at him suspiciously " Why ?" he demanded. Boyle eased back
the front of his jacket so that his badge glinted in the semi-gloom.
"We'd like to ask him a few questions," he said. Glancing up where the
men were working sure-footedly on the narrow girders the man with the
ledger called " Hey there Vebski, you're wanted down here."
High above them a
long armed, broad shouldered figure looked down sharply at the trio.
Then he finished helping to swing a 500 lb cotton bale into place at
top of a pyramid and clambered down an up-right post to the floor.
"We have some
questions to ask you about Victor Bishop," Boyle said bluntly, hoping to
take the man by surprise. "Victor Bishop," repeated the worker
questioningly.. "Oh you mean the fellow who had a argument with Sam Cait
about the barn and later committed suicide. What about him ?" "That's
what we've come to ask you," Boyle rejoined. " You see, an unusual
stick was found near Bishop's body. Supposedly it was cut by him to be
used in the suicide attempt. But the ends were whittled very carefully.
A man intending to end his life would never waste time like that.
"What's that got
to do with me ?" the warehouseman asked.
"Maybe a awful
lot; maybe nothing," the Sheriff said with a shrug. "But we've seen some
of your whittling work. It's good-and it's distinctive. And that stick
found by Bishop's body was whittled in exactly the same way !"
Vebski snorted,
"So you're a whittling specialist-like these handwriting experts," he
sneered. "Well, I'm not the only one who whittles that way. Sam Johnson
taught me the trick. He must have learned it from someone. And he
probably taught it to lots of others."
"We'll look into
that," the Sheriff said. "Meantime you'd better get your hat. You're
returning to Union with us."
Back in his
office the next day, Boyle questioned Vebski at length. The husky
worker, however, denied any connection with Bishop's death. He insisted
too, that his whittling wasn't so distinctive as the Sheriff supposed.
"I told you yesterday," he declared "Sam Johnson, who taught me the
trick of carving like that, probably taught plenty of other fellows.
Failing to break
his story, Boyle once more strode across the street to Ansell's office.
" Who's that fellow Johnson, Vebski talks about ?" he asked.
Ansell thought
for a moment. "Reckon he must be the fellow who deserted his wife, three
or four years back," Ansell said. "Quiet little man, never in any
trouble, but suddenly disappeared."
"I need him to
check Vebski's story," the Sheriff said. "If he did teach other men
around here this trick whittling, I'll have to line up the whole list
and try them all !"
Using Ansell's
phone, Boyle put through a call to Lt. Joe Townsend, head of the bureau
of identification of the State Highway Dept. at Columbia. Briefly he
stated his problem: to track down a man about whom he knew nothing more
than his name.
"We'll locate him
for you," Townsend promised.
The Lieutenant
was good as his word. Four days later he called to tell Boyle that his
men had traced Johnson to a farm in Anderson County near the Georgia
line....owned by a woman named Catherine Bishop.
"Catherine
Bishop!" Boyle repeated in astonishment. "Things are certainly beginning
to add up !" Then after arranging to meet Townsend in the town of
Anderson the next day, he hung up.
On the bright
sunny morning of May 4, 1946, five years to the month after Victor
Bishop had died, the two officers drove to Mrs.Bishop's new farm. A man
met them at the gate. His manner and dress were not those of a hired
hand. They were more like the owner of the place-or equal partner, at
least.
"You Sam Johnson
?" Boyle asked. "Yes and who are you ?"
Showing his
Sheriff's badge, Boyle replied " I'm checking some details in the
suicide of Victor Bishop five years ago." Johnson's face remained
impassive, but Boyle thought the detected a flicker of startled fright
in the man's eyes.
Entering the
house, the officers were met by Mrs. Bishop. Without a further
explanation, Boyle and Townsend drove them to the Union County Jail.
Making no effort
to question them, Boyle drove off, bound for Hobart Green's farm. A half
hour later he had the drink-addicted carpenter in tow.
Enroute back to
town, Boyle maintained a tight-lipped silence in the face of Green's
nervous questions. Parking the little carpenter on a narrow straight
backed chair in his office, Boyle stretched himself out in upholstered
ease. " Okay," he drawled finally, " Let's hear your story." Green
winced, "What story ?" he asked wonderingly.
"That's right, I
almost forgot to tell you," Boyle said. "Your old pal is sitting out
back this minute-in a cell. Remember Sam ?" Catherine Bishop is back
there too." "Sam's been arrested ? Mrs. Bishop too ? " Green's eyes were
round with amazement. " You know all about it then ?"
Boyle nodded
grimly. "You haven't much longer if you want to talk !"
"Wait a minute!"
the frightened carpenter whined. "I didn't have a thing to do with it. I
don't know what those two have been telling you, but they really did it
all. I only drove Sam out in my car."
"Better start at
the beginning," the Sheriff advised.
Green gulped,
" Well in started back in the spring of 1941," he led off. "when Sam and
I were working together on a carpentering job here in town. Sam met Mrs.
Bishop then and fell for her hard. Evidently she felt the same way about
him, because they had gotten together on a plan to get rid of her
husband. You see there was a $ 1000.00 insurance policy on Victor
Bishop'
The little
carpenter paused and sighed deeply. "Anyhow, they fixed it up between
them. Then on May 9, Sam asked me to drive him out to the Bishop place.
He rode on the floor, so no one could notice him going out that way. I
was to drive by the house and see if there were any clothes on the line.
That was the signal that everything was ready. But there were no
clothes hanging out that day.
"Bishop died on
May 27," Boyle prompted.
"That's right.
They didn't try again until two and one half weeks later.," Green went
on. " I drove Sam out again. This time the clothes were hanging on the
line.. I dropped him off, after arranging to come back and pick him up
after dark. He was carrying the forked stick he'd cut as a part of the
suicide stage setting. Mrs. Bishop had cleared herself and the children
out of the way." Green sighed again. " That's what led me to take up
drinking," he concluded.
Green's
confession completed, the Sheriff locked him up. Then he brought the
other two prisoners forward, one at the time.
First Mrs. Bishop
was led in. When Boyle charged her with the murder of her husband, she
broke into tears. "Sam did it !" she sobbed. " I had nothing to do with
the killing part."
Boyle nodded,
sent her back to her cell. Johnson came next. He listened stolidly to
the Sheriff's reconstruction of the crime. Then he bowed his head
submissively. He disputed a few minor points, but on the whole, he
confirmed Green's version of the affair.
The confessions
of all three participants having been obtained, Boyle turned Vebski
loose, with his thanks for setting him on the right trail.
Two weeks later,
the suicide-staging trio was indicted. Sam Johnson charged with murder
in the first degree and Green and Mrs. Bishop charged with being an
accessory both before and after the fact. The notched stick, dusty
after so many years in storage in the coroner's office was a key piece
of evidence in the trial.
Tried together a
few weeks later, the three were found guilty, with a recommendation of
mercy. They were sentenced by Superior Court Judge Thomas S. Sease to
life terms at the state penitentiary in Columbia.
( The names
Sam Cait and John Vebski are fictitious to protect the identity of
persons innocently involved in the investigation )- The Editor
Union
County
