Skidmore, Missouri, looks like any other small farming town. On the surface, you’ll see neat rows of fields, pickup trucks kicking up dusty roads, and folks who wave at strangers passing by. But it harbors a decades-old secret that reporters, lawyers, and investigators haven’t been able to crack.
For nearly 40 years, locals have refused to talk about who pulled the trigger in the 1981 killing of Ken Rex McElroy. He was the town’s self-appointed bully, a towering man said to be as menacing as a thunderstorm rolling in at midnight. Nearly a hundred pairs of eyes watched him die, but no one lifted a finger to help — or to incriminate anyone.
The Town Bully Everyone Hated
Skidmore folks were downright terrified of Ken Rex McElroy. By the time of his death at age 47, he had spent years threatening farmers, store owners, and even their children. Picture the kind of villain who strolls down the sidewalk with a smirk, daring anyone to look his way. He weighed in at 270 pounds and had thick black brows hanging over cold eyes that practically dared people to cross him.
He dropped out of school before high school and supposedly started flirting with crime around age 13. What began as petty theft and mischief evolved into serious offenses, from arson to child molestation. And McElroy wasn’t shy about brandishing a shotgun or reminding his victims that if anyone dared testify against him, they might find a rattlesnake coiled up in their mailbox.
McElroy’s personal life was also disturbing. He fathered more than 10 children with different women. One of his later wives, named Trena, was only 12 when he started a relationship with her. He was 35 at the time. Townspeople knew something was very wrong, but many felt powerless.
Trena endured terrible abuse. According to reports, McElroy raped her multiple times. When her parents tried to keep her away from him, he burned down their house and killed their dog. Fearing more violence, they eventually let Trena marry him, hoping it might reduce the danger.
Even after marrying her, McElroy didn’t stop the threats. Trena got pregnant at age 14 and dropped out of school. She and an older wife of McElroy’s tried to escape. But Ken McElroy hunted them down and forced them to return. That was how he controlled people: through sheer terror.
Eventually, Trena spoke up about the horrors she experienced. Authorities tried to charge McElroy with arson, assault, and statutory rape. He was briefly detained but soon released on bail. Even then, he would drive by the foster home where Trena and her baby stayed, staring for hours.
For reasons that seemed baffling to most, he kept beating the system. Either he’d charm judges, pay off witnesses, or scare them so badly they’d stay quiet. Month after month, year after year, he slipped through the cracks of the legal system like water running off a tin roof.
Penny Candy And A Powder Keg
The fuse to McElroy’s downfall was lit in the most ridiculous way imaginable: a misunderstanding over penny candy. His wife, Trena, claimed the local grocer’s clerk accused their 4-year-old daughter of stealing candy. In any normal town, folks might talk it out or roll their eyes. But in Skidmore, with McElroy, this misunderstanding turned into a full-blown war.
He started stalking the grocer, 70-year-old Ernest “Bo” Bowenkamp, at all hours. By day, McElroy would lurk in front of the store like an ominous statue. By night, he’d sit parked outside Bowenkamp’s house, engine running like an ever-present threat. Once, he even fired a shotgun toward a pine tree by the family’s home, just to show he meant business.
It didn’t end there. When the local marshal tried telling McElroy to back off, the “town bully” pulled a gun on him, leaving the marshal to quit in fear. This was a man no one could tame. But that intimidation only went so far before someone finally snapped.
The Night He Almost Got Away With Murder
On July 8, 1980, the Bowenkamp family’s long-rolling nightmare turned bloody. McElroy crept up behind Bo Bowenkamp at the store’s loading dock and shot him in the neck. Rumor says the blast came within three inches of Bo’s head, but even that near miss wasn’t enough to keep McElroy locked up. He spent just one night in jail before skipping out on bond.
He then taunted the Bowenkamps, returning to Skidmore in broad daylight with a rifle, apparently in violation of his bond. Witnesses pleaded for authorities to act, but the legal system tiptoed around McElroy the same way you’d skirt around a venomous snake. Even when a jury convicted him later for second-degree assault, he was free on appeal bond. The Bowenkamps and other townsfolk saw the writing on the wall: the law wasn’t going to protect them.
People whispered that he had money hidden in every pocket, that he could bribe lawyers left and right, or that he was simply too scary for any witness to face. After all, if you saw him in town, you avoided eye contact. If he met your gaze, he’d stare right back until you felt a cold shiver run through your spine.
A Town With Its Back Against The Wall
The folks in Skidmore decided they’d had enough. They gathered at the American Legion Hall on July 10, 1981 — the same morning McElroy strolled back into town. Some had reasoned politely with the new sheriff, asking if he had any bright ideas. He did not. Then he left, right before McElroy rumbled in with his pickup.
When word spread that McElroy was at the D&G tavern, men started trickling outside, forming a small crowd. Trena sat beside her husband in the truck, possibly sensing this time might be different. Within moments, shots rang out. McElroy slumped over, dead before he could floor the accelerator. Smoke poured from the pickup’s engine, left running at full power while townsfolk quietly melted away.
No one called an ambulance. No one tried to stop the shooting. No one said a word then — or in the decades since. Sure, there were rumors. Some folks suspected a man named Del Clement, but he never admitted a thing, even on his deathbed. Others told stories of more than one gunman. Regardless, silence blanketed the town like a fresh coat of snow. Nobody turned in anyone else, because nobody wanted to cross the line again. Not after everything they’d lived through.
When Justice Hit a Dead End
Prosecutors tried to squeeze answers from townspeople. A county grand jury heard testimony, and so did a federal grand jury. The FBI barged in, threatening locals as if they were trying to crack a bank heist. But it didn’t matter. No one budged. Some said they feared they’d be next if they opened up. Others flat-out believed McElroy had it coming.
“How can you arrest people for murder,” one local asked, “when no one confesses or testifies?” It was as if the entire county developed sudden amnesia the minute law enforcement arrived. Trena claimed she saw who fired the fatal shots, but investigators found no solid evidence to back her up. The shell casings were from two separate rifles — both vanished without a trace, same as any eyewitness courage.
The prosecutor, David Baird, said more than once that if he didn’t have a shred of real evidence, he wouldn’t haul random suspects to trial just to see what might happen. Folks took that as a sign the authorities weren’t all that serious about locking anybody up for offing McElroy.
Fear, Relief, and Indignation
There’s a twisted sense of relief in Skidmore’s hush. Depending on who you ask, some claim the town was finally free from a weight that had crushed its soul. Others wrestle with remorse, stuck with the idea that murder — no matter how deserving the victim might seem — was still a crime. It didn’t help that McElroy left behind 15 children, who’d never see their father again, for better or worse.
But let’s be honest here: if a battered, cowering community sees no help coming, it might just take matters into its own hands. Had the justice system done its job — had the courts not left Bo Bowenkamp’s family twisting in the wind after a near-fatal shooting — maybe Ken Rex McElroy would’ve died an old man. Instead, the people he tormented made sure he didn’t.
One resident even suggested that the entire law enforcement machine practically handed the townsfolk a loaded gun. After all, if they refused to lock him up, what did they expect farmers with families to do? Just keep praying for a miracle while McElroy terrorized them day in and day out?
Everyone Saw, And Then They Forgot
This is one of those rare cases where a large crowd witnessed a killing in broad daylight, then all claimed ignorance. It’s like someone popped open a soda can that had been violently shaken for years. A messy splash, then stunned silence. In truth, a good number of them didn’t even have to lie. They saw something, sure, but in that moment of chaos, they may not have noticed who fired first or last.
Even folks who might have spotted the gunman — or gunmen — knew better than to volunteer their thoughts. They’d seen how the system cowered whenever McElroy strutted around with a rifle. So why should they trust that same system to protect them if they stood up in court?
McElroy’s widow, Trena, later filed a wrongful death lawsuit. She aimed it at the Town of Skidmore, Nodaway County, the sheriff, the mayor, and the man she accused of pulling the trigger. She wanted $5 million. In the end, the case never went to a full trial.All sides chose a settlement out of court for $17,600. Nobody admitted guilt. They likely preferred to avoid the huge legal fees and the long grind of a courtroom battle. Once again, the town refused to share details.
So life rolled on in Skidmore, as if that day never happened. Reporters swarmed the town. Big-shot documentary makers poked around for answers. “No One Saw a Thing,” they love to say. Or maybe they just decided not to speak.
