Sportsman's Daily


TSD’s Investigative Series: Searching for Dorian Boyland

Part Four: Dave Runs Over an Old Man

Hit and Run. As baseball fan’s, the Moriartys are familiar with the long standing offensive strategy. Little did they know, they’d be part of a different kind of hit and run, on a desolate Indiana road.    

FORT WAYNE, IN (Sportsman’s Daily Wire Service) It was dark. Very dark. There was no moon in the sky that night and the nearest street light was miles away.  Dave and Barry Moriarty were approaching their next stop, a Best Western in Ft. Wayne, Indiana. But a wrong turn off the interstate put them on a barren country road.
It looked exactly like UFO country – just like the sort of desolate topography that served as the backdrop for Close Encounters of the Third Kind.  Dave knew they were way off course and just kept driving assuming they’d eventually happen upon civilization other than the occasional farm house that dotted the region.
Barry glanced at his watch. “Its 2:23 in the morning Dad,” he said. “Why don’t we just pull over?”
Dave was in no mood to pull over. With determination fueled by a series of frustrating setbacks, the elder Moriarty kept driving. Barry’s sensible argument was met with a blank stare. Then, when Dave had had about enough of Barry’s buzzing in his ear, he simply turned up the radio – a late night talk show, appropriately about – UFOs.
Then – it happened. As the car rose over a small crest in the road, a lone figure appeared, frozen. He glanced at the oncoming car and made a last second effort to avoid contact. Too late. The old man was too slow.
Dave slammed on his brakes. The impact was sudden and swift. The Moriartys got out of the car and stared down at Walter Rutherford. Rutherford, was motionless. At nearly 2:30 in the morning on a moonless night, help seemed a planet away.
Barry panicked.
“Holy shit!” he screamed. “You just killed a guy, I knew we should have pulled over. You always do this!”
“Shut up,” answered Dave. “I’ve got to think.”  
Dave did think.  His thoughts shifted from trying to find the elusive Dorian Boyland to how he and his son were possibly going to explain running down an old man on a country road in the wee hours of the morning. He stared at his cell phone.
“We’d better call the police,” Barry said. “Call 911.”
Dave ignored his son, tossed his cell phone in the brush, and frantically began a search for something.  
“What are you doing?” Barry said.
Dave began murmuring to himself. He was rationalizing, though his thoughts seemed far from rational. “Not my fault. Dark. No moon. Drunken old man. Farm. Shovel.”
And there it was – as if on cue, a farmer’s shovel.
“C’mon,” Dave demanded. “Help me.”
“What???” came Barry’s answer. “Are you nuts?”
Dave grabbed the shovel and began digging hysterically. “We’ll take turns,” Dave said, a newfound confidence in his voice. “Then we’ll bury his body.”
Barry had no choice but to assist his father, knowing all along their day of reckoning was coming. The two men dug a hole deep enough to drop the old man’s body in.  They dragged the lifeless mass across the street. As they did two headlights appeared in the distance.  They were approaching fast.  
The Moriartys had no choice but to hope whomever was driving would simply pass them by and not notice their sinister actions. They quickly covered Rutherford’s body with their jackets and stood there as if only resting.  The car pulled up and came to a stop.  The tinted window allowed no possible view of who was driving. Slowly, the window opened.
“You fellas need some help?” said the voice.
It was Dorian Boyland.   

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