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Number 348620 was known as a model prisoner. He started no fights and did the jobs he was assigned to. The guards at the New York State Penitentiary came to look upon him as a trustee, which he was not. Not even a harsh word came from his lips, and this was one prisoner that the guards figured had indeed been framed.
James Welliver, aka #348620, had been sent up for embezzlement and accessory to murder. Once inside he never protested his plight; never joined in the food strikes and other upsets of the other prisoners. And he never spoke about the crimes he was accused of. When asked, he would just reply, "What's done is done. It's the future that matters."
At first he worked in the prison library. He was good at whatever task he took on and gained more favorable attention from the guards in that manner. One guard in particular, Steve Thornton, took special interest in
Welliver.
"James, for a person that looks like a bookworm you spend a lot of time reading about antique machinery."
"It used to be my hobby," replied Welliver. "I used to rebuild trucks and tractors and show them in the antique vehicle shows in PA."
"I'll be darned. I never would have guessed it. I'll bet you did a lot of interesting things before you showed up here."
"Yeah, I did." The manner in which he said this made it plain that this conversation was over.
A few days later Thornton had news. He hunted up Welliver in the library.
"Hey, James, the outdoor crew needs a man that can tinker on old tractors. I thought of you. Are you interested?"
"Yes, I guess so. What age are these tractors?"
"I don't know, but the big John Deere starts by yanking the flywheel by hand."
A smile came to Welliver's face. "Yes, I can work on that. When do I start?"
The next morning he was introduced to Brag Morgan, head warden of the grounds service. "Come with me, Welliver, and I'll put you right to work. The old JD hasn't been starting right. I think the compression is low."
Morgan took him to a garage that was filled with good, albeit old, tools.
"Now Welliver, I'll tell you just once. Every tool has its spot on the walls, and as you can see each one is outlined with a marker. I look every evening and if one is missing I'll know where to look. Enough said?"
"Yes Sir." And that was that.
The JD had a head gasket started, and James took his time in taking the head off. Heck, there were a lot of new scenery to look at, and time was the one commodity he had plenty of. There were fields and gardens, and best of all, these fields were often filled with deer. Now, anyone that has traveled Interstate 80 through New York has seen the deer herds at the prison. They are not always out feeding, but if you pass by at late afternoon you're sure to see twenty or thirty head out grazing.
And why did this fact elate our Mr. Welliver? Simply because the guards took an interest in deer heads and picked up the shed antlers as well as the best racks from the road killed deer. There were even a dozen tanned hides, for one of the guards was near retirement and was studying taxidermy for a future business. Upon seeing this trove in one place James immediately began to fashion himself a suit. A suit which turned him into a fine eight point buck, at least from a distance.
He made one phone call that night, and in the morning, as soon as he was alone in the garage, he made his escape.
Finding a low spot the deer had worn down he crawled under the fence and headed in the direction of a side road where his accomplices were to pick him up. With his share of the loot he was heading for Grand Cayman with the intention of disappearing for good.
The first shot kicked up leaves directly under him.
"What the hell? It can't be the guards all ready." When the second shot cut the bark from a tree the truth hit him. It was deer season! He should have thought of that and waited.
He never got the chance, for the next slug caught him in the back of the head, and he died without a twitch.
The hunter walked up and looked. Prison stripes shown through the open neck of the hide. The other hunter came to his side and said simply, "Let's go home."
As they walked away the first hunter asked, "Do you think they'll find his body?"
"Do you really care?"
"Well he was my father. I just couldn't afford to split the money."
©2002 StoriesByEmail.com
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