thing during those agonizingly long hours until dawn: “He’s gone. He’s gone, and he’ll never be back.”
Near dawn, the Fords began to call their children to tell them what had happened. Their son Ronnie lived not far away and he soon arrived at the house.
Brenda Monroe later would recall that he came in and went straight to the bedroom where Larry had been shot. She followed.
Ronnie was filled with questions. Where was the gun? The police had taken it, Brenda said. What about pajamas? Larry was still wearing them. Where were the sheets? The neighbors had taken them to wash. Were there holes in the sheets? None. Was there much blood? Some, not much. Was there blood on the mattress? A little, and the mattress had been turned over. Ronnie raised the mattress to look at it. Why had the bed been made?
Soon Ronnie went downstairs and sat at the kitchen table talking with his parents. Doris called Barbara to come into the kitchen, but Brenda couldn’t hear what was said.
An air of suspicion and accusation suddenly had invaded the house, Brenda thought, but Barbara wasn’t sensing it. “I thought that something was going on and Barbara was not catching on,” she recalled later. But she didn’t bring it up to Barbara; she didn’t think it her business.
Before leaving the house that morning to attend to her own family’s needs, Brenda recommended Cumby Mortuary in Archdale, and two representatives of the funeral home came to the house Wednesday morning to talk with family members.
Barbara wanted to have the funeral the following day. “Bryan and I have decided that we don’t want Larry open,” she said.
Larry’s mother was quick to object. “Barbara, Larry’s not deformed. We want to see him. People will want to see.” She also thought that the funeral should be put off until Friday, at least, so that people with great distances to travel could arrange to come. Barbara insisted on having the funeral the following day, but finally relented on allowing the coffin to be open.
Both families had to go to the funeral home to help Barbara pick out a casket and to take the clothes Larry would be buried in—Barbara had allowed Bryan to choose the clothing and he had picked out a three-piece white leisure suit with a bright multicolored sport shirt. Doris and Henry Ford rode to the funeral home in the same car with Barbara’s parents. The two families had had very little to do with each other during the ten years that their children had been married, having visited only once.
On the way to the funeral home, Barbara’s mother said the only words that the Fords would recall her speaking to them in the days immediately following Larry’s death.
“Our family is closer than yours,” she observed.
The Fords did not respond.
“I thought, How cruel,” Doris recalled later.
John Buheller, a dapper detective who favored expensive suits, had been getting ready to go to work at the Randolph County Sheriff’s Department in Asheboro early that Wednesday morning when he got a call from Sheriff Carl Moore.
“John, we had a shooting last night,” the sheriff told him. “The body’s at the morgue. You’d better get over there.”
“Good way to start an investigation,” Buheller muttered after hanging up.
Standard procedure required that a detective be called to any shooting, but that hadn’t happened, and Buheller was angry about it. The sheriff’s department was rife with friction between patrol deputies and the three-man detective squad that Buheller headed, and he was especially ticked off when he discovered the name of the deputy who had investigated the shooting.
“There was no love lost between me and Larry Allen,” Buheller said years later. “Larry Allen was a report-taker. He wasn’t an investigator at all. An investigator should have been called to the crime scene before anything was moved, especially the body.”
He suspected that Allen had deliberately failed to call him. That wasn’t
Near dawn, the Fords began to call their children to tell them what had happened. Their son Ronnie lived not far away and he soon arrived at the house.
Brenda Monroe later would recall that he came in and went straight to the bedroom where Larry had been shot. She followed.
Ronnie was filled with questions. Where was the gun? The police had taken it, Brenda said. What about pajamas? Larry was still wearing them. Where were the sheets? The neighbors had taken them to wash. Were there holes in the sheets? None. Was there much blood? Some, not much. Was there blood on the mattress? A little, and the mattress had been turned over. Ronnie raised the mattress to look at it. Why had the bed been made?
Soon Ronnie went downstairs and sat at the kitchen table talking with his parents. Doris called Barbara to come into the kitchen, but Brenda couldn’t hear what was said.
An air of suspicion and accusation suddenly had invaded the house, Brenda thought, but Barbara wasn’t sensing it. “I thought that something was going on and Barbara was not catching on,” she recalled later. But she didn’t bring it up to Barbara; she didn’t think it her business.
Before leaving the house that morning to attend to her own family’s needs, Brenda recommended Cumby Mortuary in Archdale, and two representatives of the funeral home came to the house Wednesday morning to talk with family members.
Barbara wanted to have the funeral the following day. “Bryan and I have decided that we don’t want Larry open,” she said.
Larry’s mother was quick to object. “Barbara, Larry’s not deformed. We want to see him. People will want to see.” She also thought that the funeral should be put off until Friday, at least, so that people with great distances to travel could arrange to come. Barbara insisted on having the funeral the following day, but finally relented on allowing the coffin to be open.
Both families had to go to the funeral home to help Barbara pick out a casket and to take the clothes Larry would be buried in—Barbara had allowed Bryan to choose the clothing and he had picked out a three-piece white leisure suit with a bright multicolored sport shirt. Doris and Henry Ford rode to the funeral home in the same car with Barbara’s parents. The two families had had very little to do with each other during the ten years that their children had been married, having visited only once.
On the way to the funeral home, Barbara’s mother said the only words that the Fords would recall her speaking to them in the days immediately following Larry’s death.
“Our family is closer than yours,” she observed.
The Fords did not respond.
“I thought, How cruel,” Doris recalled later.
John Buheller, a dapper detective who favored expensive suits, had been getting ready to go to work at the Randolph County Sheriff’s Department in Asheboro early that Wednesday morning when he got a call from Sheriff Carl Moore.
“John, we had a shooting last night,” the sheriff told him. “The body’s at the morgue. You’d better get over there.”
“Good way to start an investigation,” Buheller muttered after hanging up.
Standard procedure required that a detective be called to any shooting, but that hadn’t happened, and Buheller was angry about it. The sheriff’s department was rife with friction between patrol deputies and the three-man detective squad that Buheller headed, and he was especially ticked off when he discovered the name of the deputy who had investigated the shooting.
“There was no love lost between me and Larry Allen,” Buheller said years later. “Larry Allen was a report-taker. He wasn’t an investigator at all. An investigator should have been called to the crime scene before anything was moved, especially the body.”
He suspected that Allen had deliberately failed to call him. That wasn’t
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