Sheriff Bell Quotes

saying, I originally left the door unlocked as a matter of convenience. But pretty soon I realized that whenever the doorbell did ring, it was someone I didn’t know. So the bell became a signal that a stranger was at the door. I’ve learned never to answer it myself when that happens, because it’s likely to be a deputy sheriff wanting to serve me with some kind of paper, and of course I don’t need to be home for that.

Consider me your rescuer, not your jailer," he said to Frankie, without looking at her. His gut told him that, on the criminal mastermind scale, this one landed closer to Tinker Bell than Lizzie Borden.

Torbert nodded. You and the sheriff goin to come down and get me off of death row? If we cant get you out we’ll get in there with you. You all dont be makin light of the dead thataway, Bell said. Wendell nodded. Yessir, he said. You’re right. I might be one myself some day.

opened fire on the sheriff's office and jail while the others shot through the bank's front windows until everybody inside was either dead or wounded. They went in then and cleaned out the cash drawers and the vault and...and finished off the wounded." "The vault was open?" Braddock asked. Deputy Bell shrugged and said, "This is a little town. Nothing like this ever happened here. Nobody figured it ever would." Bell paused and swallowed hard. "They didn't have to kill everybody. They could have gone in, held up the place at gunpoint, and gotten the money if that was all they were after. It was like they...they wanted to slaughter innocent people." "This gang...was the leader named Fenner? Clete Fenner?" Bell's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "Mister, I just couldn't tell you. I don't know if anybody heard any of them call the others by name. I've been askin' questions, but it all happened so fast, and like I told you, nobody ever expected anything like this..." Braddock held up a hand to stop Bell before the deputy could force himself to go on. Bell might be fine for serving legal papers or guarding prisoners, but when faced with a real catastrophe, he didn't seem like much of a lawman. But maybe he shouldn't judge people, Braddock told himself. After all, at least Bell had a legal right to wear his badge. "You say the sheriff was killed?" "Yes, sir. When he heard the commotion going on outside, he stepped through the door to find out what it was all about and caught a couple of slugs in the chest right away. He fell in the doorway and I was able to get hold of his shirt and drag him the rest of the way back inside without getting shot myself." Bell shook his head. "Wasn't anything I could do for him, though. He was already gone. All I could do was fort up at one of the windows and try to wing some of that bunch, but I don't know if I did or not. They made it pretty hot for me." "Who else was killed?" "Like I said, the folks in the bank. Mr. McLemore, the president, and Ben Horton,

Paisley Bell was decidedly pretty when she smiled. A nag and a thorn, but pretty, just the same.

Every Wednesday Angela Belle came to town. And every Wednesday Dr. Montgomery "accidentally" ran into her. That Doc sat by the diner window for thirty minutes picking at a piece of pie until she rounded the corner did not go unnoticed. "Never seen a man so whupped," the Sheriff said, rolling a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. "Got him by the short hairs," Willie concurred. Naturally, every man in town thought Doc was getting some. Naturally, every woman in town knew better. "A dog don't dance for a bone he's already chewed," Dot said, sliding Ben Harrington's plate lunch in front of him. "Depends on the bone," the Sheriff said, as they watched Doc run across the street to catch up with Angela. "Depends on the dog," Dot countered, giving Willie a look that made his face burn.

In 1577 there was committed to prison at Oxford a certain Rowland Jencks, a Catholic bookbinder who was accused of speaking evil of ‘that government now settled,’ of profaning God’s Word, abusing the ministers, and staying away from church. Considering the times, he appears to have been a fellow of spirit and conviction. Just before his trial started a number of inmates of the prison at Oxford died in their chains. The trial, at which Jencks was condemned to have his ears cut off, took place in a court usually crowded because of the lively public interest aroused by the Jencks case. Soon after the trial typhus began to appear among those who had been present. MacArthur tells us that Sir Robert Bell, the Lord Chief Baron, and Sir Nicholas Barham both died, as did the sheriff, the undersheriff, and all of the members of the Grand Jury except one or two. The total deaths were over five hundred, of which one hundred were members of the University. The occurrence created considerable excitement, and even Sir Francis Bacon took the trouble to investigate, attributing the disease to the stinks that 'have some similitude with man’s body and so insinuate themselves.’ The theories of the day attributed most of these mysterious infections to vitiated air, a not unnatural assumption under the circumstances. In this particular case papistical evil magic was suspected in the form of winds compounded in Catholic Louvain and secretly let loose at Oxford, diabolicis et papisticis flatibus. Jencks himself, MacArthur says, though deprived of his ears, escaped the infection, settled in Douai, where he obtained employment as a baker in the English College of Seculars, and lived thirty-three years after the disastrous Assizes.

The bell over the door tinkled and Sheriff Grant walked in, followed by the most intimidating hunk of man that Hannah had ever laid eyes on.

Ida Belle and I hurried up the sidewalk to the sheriff’s department, her clutching two tote bags and me a pillow and blanket. Between the state police presence and the closing of the polls at the end of the day, the residents had seen no further reason to stand around in the heat and humidity and had made their way to their homes. The street was littered with paper plates, streamers, election flyers, and soda cans, sprinkled with the occasional illegal beer can.

We drove in Helen’s cruiser down a long two-lane road through flooded gum and willow and cypress trees, the sunlight spangling through the canopy on water that was black in the shade or filmed with a skim of algae that resembled green lace. The road dead-ended on a cusp of oil-streaked beach and a shallow saltwater bay that bled into the Gulf of Mexico. The St. Mary Parish sheriff, two deputies, a crime scene investigator, the coroner, and two paramedics were already at the scene. They were standing in a circle with the blank expressions of people who had just discovered that their vocational training and experience were perhaps of no value.

We drove to the St. Martin Parish Sheriff’s Annex, next to the white-columned courthouse past which twenty thousand Union troops had marched in pursuit of Colonel Mouton’s malnourished Confederate troops in their unending retreat from Shiloh, all the way to the Red River parishes of central Louisiana.

The rope holds his neck, and his naked, fleshless body dangles from the tower as the bells chime on. If she wanted to make a statement that would incite a full-blown panic, she just won that war. Then again, the mastermind probably planned this. They knew this park would be crowded down with people at this time, even though the meeting was impromptu. They know the sheriff. They knew what he would do before he even did it. The castrated corpse sways, crashing against the brick on occasion. And I can’t look away.

He reached the Devil’s River Bridge at sundown and half way across he pulled the cruiser to a halt and turned on the rooflights and got out and shut the door and walked around in front of the vehicle and stood leaning on the aluminum pipe that served for the top guardrail. Watching the sun set into the blue reservoir beyond the railroad bridge to the west. A westbound semi coming around the long curve of the span downshifted when the lights came into view. The driver leaned from the window as he passed. Dont jump, Sheriff. She aint worth it. Then he was gone in a long suck of wind, the diesel engine winding up and the driver double clutching and shifting gears. Bell smiled. Truth of the matter is, he said, she is.