CHASING SHADOWS IN KENTUCKY

The Pain Of A Sheriff's Slaying Is Compounded By The Charges Against Three
Men In A Case That Uncovers A Darker Side Of A Rural County.

STAB, Ky. -- On humid evenings here, a thin layer of mist often creeps
out at knee level through the pine forests, the oak groves, the
clandestine marijuana fields. From the front door of the
Shopville-Stab Volunteer Fire Department, it's not difficult to
imagine the sniper hiding in the shrouded tree line that damp night.

It's not hard to picture Pulaski County Sheriff Sam Catron, a homemade
cake in each hand, his 86-year-old mother and 350 other people
mingling just yards behind him at the department's annual fish fry.

He was smiling as he ambled to his cruiser, placed one cake on its
roof and dug for his keys. What's difficult is understanding just why
the gunman, who was hunkered down 100 yards away, pulled the trigger
that sent a .25-06 slug through the sheriff's face.

Folks here still have a hard time comprehending that Danny Shelley, a
former prom king and "a good boy from a good family," as one
acquaintance put it, could be arrested in the April 13
assassination.

They were equally stunned when they learned who his alleged
co-conspirators were.

One was running against Catron to become sheriff.

Jeff Morris was right there in the crowd when his rival fell backward
with his cake.

The other was Morris' campaign manager. Kenneth White was supposed to
have been there too, authorities contend, but got cold feet and stayed
home instead.

Shelley and Morris initially confessed, according to testimony by an
investigator at a preliminary hearing. White said he knew nothing of
the plot.

In court, all three suspects in the killing of Sam Catron pleaded not
guilty and are being held without bond in the Pulaski County Jail. No
trial dates have been set, but prosecutors have filed papers saying
they intend to seek the death penalty for the three.

Soon after their arrests, investigators came to believe each man had a
clear and simple motive. But the case is far more complex than it
first appeared. The three allegedly were driven by disparate and
complicated forces in hatching the plan.

The killing of Catron seems to be one of the most wasteful crimes
anyone in southern Kentucky can remember.

The sheriff was 48 when he died instantly at 7:15 p.m. Shelley was
arrested about 20 minutes later. Less than 36 hours after that,
Morris, a former deputy sheriff under Catron, and White, who has a
history of legal troubles, were taken into custody.

"All that for what." said volunteer firefighter Karen Riley, 55, who
rushed that night to the sheriff and instinctively tried to stop
bleeding that couldn't be stopped. With darkness coming on fast one
recent evening, Riley spoke from the spot where Catron fell, a patch
on the roadside now stained white by bleach. "We won't be having any
more fish fries here."

If you believe the confessions police say Morris and Shelley gave--and
the lead investigator believes much of what they said--the plot to
kill Catron was hatched one day before it was carried out.

White was at the wheel as the suspects drove around in his silver Jeep
Cherokee, putting up lawn signs. Well known to local drug-enforcement
folks, the 54-year-old had no job and received about $400 a month in
disability payments because of heart problems and a crippled hand that
earned him the nickname "Fingers." Yet he had come to serve not only
as campaign manager but also as Morris' primary financial backer.

Those in law enforcement who follow the local drug trade believe they
know how White earned at least some of the money he funneled into the
campaign: as a drug dealer. His attorney, David Hoskins, denies that
allegation, saying White earned the money selling various things at
the flea market in nearby Somerset.

In the passenger seat was 34-year-old Morris. He was a deputy sheriff
for five years until last summer, when he resigned and began working
at his father-in-law's plumbing business.

In the back was Shelley, 30, a standout high school athlete until he
injured his knee. He joined the Marines shortly after graduation but
was discharged early from boot camp because of the knee and more
recently had held a series of odd jobs.

"They were just riding around, campaigning, and the subject just came
up," said Kentucky State Police Det. Todd Dalton, who is heading the
investigation. "They know that Sam's the front-runner. And in their
minds, they think they're No. 2. They figure they could shoot him and
walk in" to office.

This was perhaps the first in a series of bizarre miscalculations the
three allegedly made in the hours leading up to the shooting, and one
that almost anyone around here could have cleared up for them.

In a five-man race, Morris was probably running fifth.

Even though he had served as a Pulaski County sheriff's deputy, is
married to a woman from here--with whom he has two children--and has
lived in the area for more than a decade, he's not from these parts.
His family is from a nearby county.

In southern Kentucky, where families hold Civil War grudges and name
their boys Daniel after both the Old Testament prophet and Daniel
Boone, that means Morris is an outsider.

Even more important, he faced almost unbeatable competitors in the
Republican primary. One candidate was a man who had tied Catron in the
last election, losing only in a coin toss, which is how such things
are settled here. Another, Todd Wood, who with the support of Catron's
family would go on to win the Republican nomination in May, was a
well-known policeman from Somerset. The other contender was also
better known here than Morris.

Jeff Morris and his alleged co-conspirators would have had to
eliminate not just Catron but at least two of the other three
candidates, most folks agree, for him to have been elected.

Regardless, by the afternoon of Friday, April 12, authorities say, the
plan had taken root. They would kill Catron, a lifelong bachelor and
arguably the most recognized figure in the county.

They would assassinate him in Stab, a community of a couple hundred
people whose post office is long gone but who retain the old name,
even though their mail is stamped "Shopville," another tiny community
a few miles up the road. They would do it, as Riley put it, "in front
of God and everybody."

Shelley, according to the alleged plan, would be the shooter. He was
an avid hunter and fine shot. He owned several rifles.

Morris would lend him a 1985 Yamaha Virago motorcycle for his getaway.
Morris and White would perform simpler jobs, prosecutors allege. They
were to show up at the fish fry like good citizens, listen to the
bluegrass band and not appear nervous.

Prosecutors say the plan was devised and acted upon in a day, but the
forces that allegedly drove the trio began long before.

Morris, who neighbors say liked to play with his young children in the
frontyard, didn't resign from the sheriff's department because he
wanted to become a plumber, law enforcement officials said. He
resigned because he was in trouble.

In July 2001, Morris "took some time off that he shouldn't have taken
off," said acting Sheriff Jim McWhorter. When confronted by Catron and
McWhorter, who was then a ranking deputy, Morris was told he faced a
written reprimand and two or three days without pay, McWhorter said.
Brash and somewhat temperamental, people who know him say, Morris quit
instead.

Late last year, he filed his papers with the county clerk to run for
sheriff. Shelley was his witness. It's not clear how or when the two
met.

White signed on to the campaign, authorities allege, because he needed
the kind of protection only the highest-ranking lawman in the county
could provide.

"He was going to have the sheriff in his pocket," said Commonwealth
Atty. Eddy Montgomery, the head prosecutor. "And he needed him there."

White's run-ins with the law stretch back to the 1970s, when he was
convicted of armed robbery. In the late 1990s, he was convicted and
imprisoned after police discovered a large marijuana patch that began
3 feet from his back door, according to court records. That conviction
was overturned when he argued on appeal that prosecutors had not
proved the marijuana was his.

But White continued to be active in the drug trade, according to court
records and authorities. Last year he was in serious trouble again.

"We had developed a [drug and stolen property] case against him and
actually charged him," McWhorter said. "He turned into a confidential
informant. His information resulted in the arrest of two other
subjects. That's how he got his charges dismissed."

White, who is married and has an adult daughter, had another, simpler
reason for helping Morris, at least with his campaign, authorities
said. He credited Morris with saving his brother's life. Several years
ago, White's brother had a heart attack. Morris, who lived nearby,
discovered him, called 911 and treated him until paramedics arrived.

Then there's Shelley.

"I've never had a client get the number of cards and letters that
Danny has gotten," said Katie Wood, one of his attorneys. "Usually the
people we represent are not even people others would claim to know.
But people think the world of Danny."

A stocky, handsome former farm boy, Shelley's reward for shooting the
sheriff, prosecutors contend, was to be a job with status. He would be
made a deputy sheriff by Morris.

Shelley, though, had other problems beyond the lack of a solid job,
problems very few knew about. He was under investigation, Wood
acknowledged, by the federal Drug Enforcement Administration for
allegedly trafficking in the prescription painkiller OxyContin. No
charges have been filed.

On the morning of April 13, a Saturday, White and Shelley met for
breakfast at the Bob Evans restaurant on U.S. 27 in Somerset, police
said. After they ate, Shelley left his parents' 1993 Ford pickup in
the parking lot and joined White in his Cherokee.

They drove to the Somerset Flea Market, where they campaigned along
with Morris.

Early in the afternoon, Morris went home, police say, and Shelley and
White went back to get Shelley's truck.

Morris, prosecutors allege, had gone home to get the motorcycle. But
there was a problem. Its battery was dead.

He was able to jump-start the bike and, police say, called White and
Shelley on a cell phone and told them to meet him up the highway at
Wal-Mart.

The three gathered at the store, according to authorities, where they
bought a motorcycle battery and installed it. Shelley left his pickup
there and rode off.

A few hours later, prosecutors allege, Shelley parked the motorcycle
by the side of Kentucky 80 and hiked down a steep hill into an oak
grove. He set up in the shadows.

A hundred yards south, on the far side of a still-green hayfield, the
party was in full swing at the fire department. Then the band took a
break.

Over the years, the annual fish fry had become an informal political
gathering, where whoever might be running for office could give a
five-minute speech if they were inclined. No one took anywhere near
five minutes that night. Most just introduced themselves.

That's what Morris did. That's what Catron did. With a somewhat shy
smile and a bit of a belly--thanks in part to his fondness for the
ribs at the Ponderosa Steakhouse--the four-term sheriff delivered his
standard, humble address: "Hi, folks. I'm Sam Catron. I'm running for
sheriff and I'd sure appreciate your vote."

Then they started auctioning off the cakes and pies. The firefighters
invited the sheriff onstage to hold up the goods so the crowd could
see.

Almost everyone knew Catron, and many had known his father. Harold
Catron was the police chief in Somerset in 1958 when a bootlegger shot
him in the back as he stood on his porch. Sam Catron was 4. His father
died seven years later of injuries from the shotgun blast.

Up on the bandstand, the sheriff grinned. He bought one cake, then
gave it back so it could be sold again. Then he bought two more.

As the band began taking the stage again, Morris was standing near the
firehouse door, witnesses say. Catron began strolling toward his brown
cruiser, parked 20 feet away on the side of the road. He put one cake
on the roof and held the other, a white or yellow one, in his hand.

The "crack" of the shot was muffled somewhat by the heavy air, but
everyone heard it. They looked in the direction of the report and saw
the sheriff collapse, a stream of blood coming from his head "like you
were pouring water from a pitcher," Riley, the firefighter, recalled.

Less than a minute later, a motorcycle appeared on Kentucky 80,
roaring as it accelerated. Everybody thought immediately that it was
the shooter.

Had the motorcyclist sped west, no one would have seen him; the view
of the highway is blocked by the same massive oak grove he allegedly
fled. But he went east, and Riley, other firefighters, deputies and
citizens ran to their cars to give chase.

Shelley turned off Kentucky 80 and onto Route 1675, the same road the
sheriff's car was on, heading away from the scene. He was speeding.
The pavement was just slightly damp. He took one corner too fast and
the bike slid out from under him.

He was only scratched. A Remington bolt-action rifle was beside him.
His pursuers were on him in seconds.

Shelley started talking before he'd even gotten to the police station,
according to police reports. He commented on the difficulty of his
long-range shot. He talked about the plot. He named names.

Within hours, authorities learned the motorcycle belonged to Morris.
On Sunday they pieced together the movements of the three on the
previous day. On Monday, they arrested the remaining two.

Morris also soon confessed, according to court testimony. White said
he was involved in the campaign but knew nothing of a plan to kill the
sheriff.

Karen Riley knew Catron for more than 20 years. She saw him at church,
at the steakhouse, piloting the sheriff's department's helicopter on
marijuana raids. Like countless others here, she never once saw him
wearing anything other than his uniform. "I saw a picture of him once
out of uniform. He was wearing a tuxedo, at a wedding."

For her, the questions are innumerable.

How could the culprits have believed this would help them win the
election, as prosecutors contend. Why would they shoot him in front of
350 people instead of alone at his house.

Why, on election day, did 123 of 11,897 voters still cast their
ballots for jailed murder suspect Morris.

After Catron died, Riley and other firefighters staked a Sam Catron
campaign sign a few feet from where he fell.

Mourners hung flowers from it and piled bouquets in the grass
beneath.

But people--mostly the grieving but also the curious--came by day and
night and couldn't see the memorial after dark. So the firefighters
planted a lantern at each end

"It's better now," Riley said this recent night from beneath the
yellow glow of the lanterns. "It looks nice even after the sun goes
down."