"Bradley Denton - The Calvin Coolidge Home for Dead Comedians" - читать интересную книгу автора (Denton Bradley)

On Friday, July 10, 1981, a forty-seven-year-old coon-dog breeder named Ken Rex McElroy climbed
into his pickup truck in front of the D & G Tavern in Skidmore, on Missouri Highway 113. His wife, half
his age, sat beside him.

More than thirty people, the moral heart of the community, stood nearby. They had all been part of a
meeting at the American Legion hall that morning. The topic had been What to Do About McElroy.

McElroy, five foot eight, 260 pounds.

McElroy, said to have cut off one of his wife's breasts.

McElroy, thief, arsonist, and rapist.

McElroy, convicted of second-degree assault for shooting the grocer.

McElroy, free on bond, with twenty-five days to file a motion for a new trial.

But the new trial had been held.

As McElroy sat in his pickup, a .30-30 steel-jacketed bullet shattered the rear window and caught him
under his right ear. Then a .22 magnum slug took off the back of his skull. More bullets followed, but
they weren't needed. Somebody pulled McElroy's wife from the truck and took her into the bank. She
was unhurt. Outside, the truck's engine raced. McElroy's foot was jammed down on the accelerator.

No killer was ever named. No one was arrested.

Justice.

I thought about Skidmore every day for the next six years, drawn there by an urge that was like an
instinct. The parallel between McElroy and the man I wanted to kill was inescapable. Their methods of
abuse differed, but they were of the same mold and spirit.

Nevertheless, when discussing McElroy's execution, as everyone in my part of the country did for a
while, I expressed the horror of vigilantism that I believed was proper. This was a result of my upbringing
and training.

I had always been a good boy.



Let me tell you what that means.

I have never been in a fight. As a child I was often beaten up, but that isn't the same thing. It is, in fact,
the furthest thing from it. I took the blows, believing what my parents and church had taught me. When
my lips bled and eyes swelled, I told myself that I would, as Jesus might say, inherit the earth.

I also told myself that I would behave no differently if I were stocky and tough instead of skinny and
weak. My size had nothing to do with my values. Violence was wrong. Violence solved nothing. I knew
this because I watched the TV news. I grew up during the war that was scored by body counts. I swore