Deputy was Forced to Play a Lethal Game

The following is the story of the brutal murder of an old depu­ty sheriff, reminiscent of the types of killings that were commonplace in the Wild West days of the mid-1800s. History buffs of this time period will recall that it was not at all unusual for a killer to force his victim to dance while firing bullets in rapid succession at his victim's feet, or to force the victim to play quick draw with an empty weapon, the result of the torturous ordeal almost always ending with the brutal, violent death of the victim who, by the way, was more often than not a lawman. Although such a thing is nearly unheard of nowadays it did, in fact, happen to a harmless old self-proclaimed deputy sheriff in Oregon in 1982 proving, once again, that history does have a way of repeating itself.

The story opens on Saturday morning, March 6, 1982 in Granite, Oregon, population 14. Located on an unpaved road 30 miles east of Portland, Granite was once a frontier gold mining com­munity whose dwindling population has nearly turned it into a ghost town. On this particular Saturday morning it was still very cold, the wrath of winter still present in every form and sense of the word. Granite was accessible only by four-wheel drive or snowmobile during this time of year, and was 10 miles from the nearest paved road. It is 14 miles to the nearest town, which is Sumpter, barely a dot on the map itself, and no one would brave the trip unless it was an absolute emergency. No one, that is, ex­cept for one man. His name — Edward A. "Bud" Morrow, now only a memory in the minds of those who knew and loved him because, on Saturday, March 6, 1982, he was brutally murdered, literally shot down in cold blood in his own home.

It wasn't until Saturday afternoon that anyone knew Morrow had been killed. Slim Johnson, who owns a cabin approx­imately two miles from Morrow's, prob­ably hadn't a care in the world as he snow-mobiled towards Morrow's rustic A-frame cabin. Even as he approached the front door, noticing several sets of footprints in the snow, Johnson had no reason to suspect that his longtime friend lay dead on the other side of the cabin door.

After knocking several times and get­ting no response, Johnson thought he'd look in on old Bud, now the acting town marshal, and resident of Granite since he was six. After all, he could be sick and laid up in bed. But when he entered the home, Johnson discovered otherwise.

Morrow was lying on his davenport, shirtless and rigid, dead of an app- parent gunshot wound to the chest.

There were no telephones for miles, and Morrow's police radio was the only source of communication with the out­side world. When he'd determined that Morrow was dead, Johnson set about trying to figure out how to use the radio to call for help. After a few moments, he was able to reach the Grant County sher­iff's office in Canyon City, and he told Sheriff David T. Haynes of his sad dis­covery. Haynes told him to stay put and not to touch anything, adding that it would take a while for help to arrive due to the distance and the fact that the roads were covered with snow. Johnson reluc­tantly agreed to wait.

When Haynes and a group of deputies arrived later, they were indeed shocked by the violent way Morrow had been killed, and were saddened because they had all known and loved Bud for years. With a look of sorrow in his eyes, Haynes asked Johnson how he found Morrow. Johnson replied that he had found him just as he lay there dead on the davenport.

"I reached with my hand and felt his neck," said Johnson. "It was very cold and hard. That's when I radioed you guys." Meanwhile, Haynes and his men made a preliminary search of Mor­row's cabin, being careful not to disturb anything until additional investigators arrived.

"There wasn't a damn reason in the world for anybody to shoot him," said Norm Wade, a mining official from nearby Sumpter who knew Morrow well. Wade said that Morrow was a life­time resident of Granite who started out 20 years before as a self-appointed pro­tector of property; that is, at least, when he wasn't gold-mining. But even when he was mining he tried to look out for others, always lending a helping hand whenever possible.