Murders did happen in Appalachia, usually over moonshine, land disputes, or family feuds.

But the killing of an innocent young girl was almost unheard of.

It violated every code of honor and decency that mountain people held sacred.

By midm morning, Sheriff Bentley and Deputy Porter were riding toward the Roian’s farm.

They found Roy Roan still in bed despite it being nearly Tangor A.

M.

Frank Roans answered the door blureyed and wreaking of alcohol.

Sheriff, he said surprised.

What brings you out here? I need to speak with your boy Frank.

The sheriff said it’s important.

What’s this about? Bertha Hood was murdered last night.

I need to ask Roy some questions.

Frank’s face went pale.

Roy didn’t have nothing to do with that.

Then he won’t mind answering a few questions.

Frank reluctantly called his son.

Roy appeared a few minutes later wearing rumpled clothes, his dark hair sticking up in all directions.

His eyes were red- rimmed and puffy, and he looked nervous.

“Roy, where were you last night between 6:30 and 8?” Sheriff Bentley asked.

“I I was home,” Roy stammered.

Anyone who can verify that? Roy glanced at his father.

P.

Tell him he was here.

Frank said quickly.

Been here since supper time.

The sheriff made notes, watching Roy carefully.

The boy wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Did you see Bertha Hood at all yesterday? The sheriff pressed.

No, Roy said too quickly.

That’s odd because several people say they saw you talking to her near the railroad track Saturday evening.

Royy’s face flushed.

I I might have seen her.

I don’t remember.

You don’t remember? The sheriff’s tone was skeptical.

Look, I talked to her for a minute, maybe.

But that’s all.

I didn’t do nothing to her.

Sheriff Bentley could see the boy was hiding something, but he didn’t have enough evidence to arrest him.

Not yet.

Don’t leave town, Roy, the sheriff warned.

I’ll be back with more questions.

Next, the sheriff visited the Hopkins farm.

It was a much larger, more prosperous operation with a substantial farmhouse, several outbuildings, and well-maintained fences.

Thomas Hopkins met the sheriff at the door, his expression guarded.

“Sheriff Bentley,” he said formally.

“How can I help you?” “I need to speak with your son, Shorty.

What’s this regarding? Bertha Hood was murdered last night.

Thomas Hopkins’s face registered shock.

Good lord, that’s terrible.

But what does that have to do with my boy? I understand he and Roy Roins had been competing for her attention.

I need to ask him some questions.

Thomas’s expression hardened.

My son had nothing to do with this.

The run’s boy, on the other hand, has a violent temper.

If you’re looking for a killer, I’d start there.

I’ll be the judge of that, Sheriff Bentley said firmly.

Now, may I speak with Shorty? Shorty Hopkins was brought out.

Unlike Roy, he appeared confident and composed.

Sheriff, he said, extending his hand.

Shorty, where were you last night between 6:30 and 80, I was here having supper with my family.

My parents and my two sisters can vouch for that.

Did you see Bertha Hood yesterday? No, sir.

Last time I saw her was at school on Friday.

What about Saturday evening? Were you near the railroad tracks? Shorty hesitated for just a fraction of a second.

No, sir.

I was home all day Saturday.

The sheriff made notes, his suspicion growing.

Both boys had alibis provided by their families, which meant very little in a tight-knit community where loyalty ran deep.

Over the next few days, Sheriff Bentley conducted a thorough investigation.

He interviewed dozens of witnesses, searched the area where Bertha’s body was found, and tried to piece together what had happened that Sunday evening.

What he discovered painted a troubling picture.

Multiple witnesses confirmed that on Saturday evening, November 1st, Bertha Hood had been seen near the railroad tracks with both Roy Roins and Shorty Hopkins.

The three of them had been arguing, though no one could hear what was said.

One witness, an elderly woman named Mrs.

Callaway, who lived near the tracks, reported hearing raised voices, and then later that evening, a single gunshot.

She had assumed it was someone hunting or scaring off animals and hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

The sheriff also learned that Roy Roins owned a 32 caliber pistol, a fact Roy initially denied, but later admitted when confronted.

I use it for hunting small game, Roy insisted.

But I didn’t shoot Bertha.

Where is the pistol now? The sheriff asked.

It’s It’s gone.

I lost it a few days ago.

The sheriff didn’t believe him.

Meanwhile, the community was growing restless.

At the general store, at church, in homes throughout Wise County, people talked of little else.

Most were convinced that either Roy Roins or Shorty Hopkins or both were responsible for Bertha’s death.

William Hood heard all the talk, and with each passing day that no arrests were made, his fury grew.

He was a patient man, a godly man, but the murder of his innocent daughter had ignited something dark and primal within him.

On the morning of November 5th, 3 days after Bertha’s death, William Hood decided he couldn’t wait for the law any longer.

He rose before dawn, dressed warmly, and loaded his pistol, a 45 caliber revolver he kept for protection.

He climbed into his truck and drove the three miles to the run’s farm.

The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the mountains in shades of pink and gold.

Frost covered everything, glittering in the early light.

The world seemed peaceful, oblivious to the violence that had shattered so many lives.

William parked his truck and walked up to the Roan’s house.

He pounded on the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Roans, get out here.

Frank Roans stumbled to the door, still half asleep.

When he saw William Hood standing there, pistol in hand, his eyes widened.

“Mr.

Hood, I get your boy now,” William demanded, his voice cold and deadly.

“Mr.

Hood, please.

My boy didn’t now.

” Frank disappeared inside and returned a minute later with Roy, who looked terrified.

The boy was pale, his hands shaking.

William grabbed Roy by the arm, his grip like iron.

You’re coming with me, William said.

Where are you taking him? Frank protested.

To the sheriff.

This boy knows what happened to my daughter, and he’s going to tell the truth.

Mr.

Roins, “I’m sorry, but I’m taking your boy with me, and we’ll let him tell this story to the law,” William said, cocking his pistol for emphasis.

Frank Roins looked at the gun at William’s cold, determined eyes and made a decision.

He stepped aside.

“Don’t hurt him,” Frank whispered.

“That depends on what he tells me,” William replied.

And with that, William Hood marched 15-year-old Roy Roins 3 mi to the Wise County Sheriff’s Office at gunpoint.

The sun was fully risen by the time William Hood and Roy Roians reached the sheriff’s office in Wise.

The main street of town was beginning to stir with morning activity, shopkeepers opening their doors, farmers driving wagons loaded with produce, children walking to school.

But when people saw William Hood, a respected man, a deacon, marching a terrified teenage boy at gunpoint, everything stopped.

People froze midstep, staring in shock.

William kicked open the door to the sheriff’s office, pushing Roy inside ahead of him.

Sheriff Bentley looked up from his desk, his hand instinctively moving toward his holstered weapon.

“William, what in God’s name are you doing?” the sheriff demanded.

This boy knows what happened to Bertha,” William said, his voice shaking with barely controlled rage.

“And he’s going to tell you everything,” Roy stood trembling, tears streaming down his face.

“I didn’t do it.

I swear, Mr.

Hood, I didn’t kill her.

” “Then tell the truth,” William roared.

“Tell them what you know.

” Sheriff Bentley quickly moved between William and Roy, gently but firmly taking the pistol from William’s hand.

“William, I understand your pain, but you can’t take the law into your own hands,” the sheriff said quietly.

William’s shoulders sagged, the adrenaline suddenly draining from his body.

He looked older, more broken than he had just moments before.

“Someone killed my baby girl,” William whispered.

“Someone took her from us, and I need to know who.

and we will find out.

Sheriff Bentley assured him.

But we have to do this the right way.

The sheriff turned to Roy.

Sit down, son.

We’re going to talk.

Over the next 2 hours, Roy Roins told his story.

It changed multiple times, details shifting, contradictions piling up.

At first, he insisted he’d been home all evening Sunday.

Then he admitted he’d been near the railroad tracks, but hadn’t seen Bertha.

Finally, under relentless questioning, he broke down.

I saw her, Roy sobbed.

I saw her walking toward the church.

But I didn’t hurt her.

I swear.

What did you do when you saw her? Sheriff Bentley pressed.

I I called out to her.

I wanted to talk to her, but she was upset.

She told me to leave her alone.

And then what? Roy hesitated, his eyes darting around the room.

Shorty was there, too.

He came out of the woods.

He’d been following her.

This was the first time Shorty Hopkins had been directly implicated.

What happened when Shorty appeared? The sheriff asked.

They started arguing.

Bertha was yelling at both of us, telling us to leave her alone.

She said we were acting like children, fighting over her like she was some prize to be won.

Royy’s voice cracked.

She was right.

We were being stupid.

I just I wanted her to like me.

That’s all.

And then and then I left.

I walked away.

I went home.

Roy looked directly at the sheriff.

I didn’t kill her.

When I left, she was alive.

What about Shorty? Was he still there when you left? Roy nodded slowly.

Yes, he was still there.

Sheriff Bentley leaned back in his chair processing this information.

If Roy was telling the truth, and that was still a big if, then Shorty Hopkins was the last person to see Bertha Hood alive.

The sheriff placed Roy under arrest, not for murder, but for his own protection.

Word had already spread that William Hood had forced Roy to come to the sheriff’s office at gunpoint, and tensions were rising.

Some in the community believed Roy was guilty.

Others thought he was being scapegoed because his family was poor and powerless.

Next, Sheriff Bentley went to arrest Shorty Hopkins.

When the sheriff arrived at the Hopkins farm with a warrant, Thomas Hopkins exploded with indignation.

This is outrageous, he shouted.

My son is innocent.

You’re railroading him because of his association with that Runan’s trash.

Mr.

Hopkins, I’m just doing my job, Sheriff Bentley said calmly.

New evidence has come to light that places your son at the scene around the time of the murder.

I need to bring him in for questioning.

We have lawyers, Thomas threatened.

The best lawyers in the Commonwealth of Virginia.

You won’t get away with this.

That’s your right, the sheriff replied.

But your son is coming with me.

Shorty Hopkins was arrested and taken to the Wise County Jail where he was placed in a cell across from Roy Roins.

The two boys stared at each other through the bars and something unspoken passed between them.

Fear, betrayal, and the realization that their lives would never be the same.

The news of the double arrest sent shock waves through Wise County.

Almost immediately, the Hopkins and Runs families mobilized.

Within hours, both families had hired attorneys and posted bail.

Thomas Hopkins came to the sheriff’s office with $3,000 in cash, an astronomical sum during the depression, and demanded his son’s release.

“The bail for murder is not negotiable,” Sheriff Bentley said.

“He hasn’t been charged with murder,” the attorney countered.

“Only suspicion.

Under Virginia law, he’s entitled to reasonable bail.

” Reluctantly, the sheriff had no choice but to release both boys after the bail was posted.

But as a condition of their release, Roy and Shorty were placed under house arrest and forbidden to leave their properties.

The Roan’s family didn’t have the same resources as the Hopkins, but they scraped together enough for a modest attorney, a young lawyer from Bristol named Marcus Webb, who had a reputation for defending underdogs.

Meanwhile, the Hood family prepared to bury their daughter.

Bertha’s funeral was held on November 6th, 1930 at the Free Will Baptist Church.

The small building couldn’t accommodate everyone who came to pay their respects.

People stood outside in the cold, hats in hand, heads bowed.

The simple wooden coffin sat at the front of the church, surrounded by wild flowers that neighbors had gathered from the last blooms of autumn.

Bertha lay inside wearing her navy blue dress, cleaned and mended where the bullet had torn through with her hands folded across her chest.

Martha Hood sat in the front pew, supported by her sister Elizabeth on one side and her son James on the other.

She wore black and had aged 10 years in less than a week.

Her face was pale and drawn, her eyes hollow from sleepless nights.

William Hood sat beside her, stiff and silent.

He stared at his daughter’s coffin, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles were white.

He hadn’t cried since the day they found Bertha.

His grief had hardened into something cold and unyielding.

Reverend Clayton delivered the eulogy, his voice breaking multiple times.

Bertha Anne Hood was a light in this community, he said.

She was kind, generous, faithful, and full of promise.

Her death is a tragedy that cuts to the very heart of who we are as a people.

We ask ourselves how such evil could touch one so innocent.

We have no answers, only questions and pain.

He paused, looking out at the sea of grieving faces.

But we must also remember that Bertha is not truly gone.

She is with the Lord now, free from pain, free from the cruelty of this world.

And one day, when our own time comes, we will see her again.

After the service, the congregation followed the coffin to the small cemetery on the hillside behind the church.

The grave had been dug that morning, the red Virginia clay piled beside it.

As the coffin was lowered into the ground, Martha Hood let out a whale of such profound grief that it seemed to tear open the sky itself.

William stood motionless, his face like stone as shovelfuls of dirt fell onto his daughter’s coffin, each thud like a hammer blow to his heart.

When it was over, the mourner slowly dispersed, leaving the Hood family alone at the graveside.

William knelt beside the fresh mound of earth and placed his hand on it.

“I promise you, Bertha,” he whispered.

“I will find who did this, and they will pay.

” Over the following weeks, the investigation continued, though progress was slow.

Both Roy and Shorty maintained their innocence, and without a murder weapon or a confession, the case remained circumstantial.

But tensions in Wise County were reaching a boiling point.

Rumors spread like wildfire.

Some said Roy had been obsessed with Bertha and killed her in a jealous rage when she rejected him.

Others claimed Shorty had accidentally shot her and was covering it up.

Still others whispered of a conspiracy that both boys had planned the murder together.

Families took sides.

The Hoods had the sympathy of most of the community, but the Hopkins family had money and influence.

They used both to wage a public relations campaign, insisting on Shorty’s innocence and pointing the finger at Roy Roans.

“It’s that Roian’s boy,” Thomas Hopkins told anyone who would listen.

“He’s got a violent temper.

Everyone knows it.

My son would never hurt anyone.

” The Roins family, lacking resources and social standing, could do little but protest their son’s innocence and hope the truth would emerge.

As Christmas approached, the case seemed to stall.

Both defense attorneys filed motion after motion, delaying the trial.

The prosecution, led by Commonwealth attorney Douglas Hail, struggled to build a case without physical evidence.

But then, in January 1931, a break in the case came from an unexpected source.

A young man named Billy Thompson came forward with new information.

Billy was 16, a friend of both Roy and Shorty, and he claimed to have information that could solve the case.

I know what happened that night, Billy told Sheriff Bentley.

And I can’t keep quiet no more.

Billy’s testimony was explosive.

He claimed that on the evening of November 2nd, he had been hunting rabbits in the woods near the railroad tracks when he heard voices.

He recognized them as Roy, Shorty, and Bertha.

They were arguing something fierce, Billy said.

Bertha was telling them both to leave her alone, that she wasn’t interested in neither of them.

Roy was getting angry, saying things like, “If I can’t have you, nobody can.

” And Shorty was trying to calm him down.

“What happened next?” Sheriff Bentley asked.

I heard Bertha say she was going to tell her father about them bothering her.

She said she’d had enough.

And then then I heard a gunshot.

Billy’s hands trembled as he continued.

I was scared.

I didn’t know what to do.

I hid behind a tree and watched.

I saw Roy standing there with a pistol in his hand, looking down at something on the ground.

Shorty was backing away, his hands up, saying, “What did you do? What did you do?” And then Roy told Shorty that if he said anything, he’d kill him, too.

And Shorty ran.

Just took off running.

And Roy Roy dragged Bertha’s body off the tracks into the ditch.

And then he ran, too.

“Why didn’t you come forward sooner?” the sheriff demanded.

I was scared.

Billy admitted tears in his eyes.

Roy threatened people.

Everyone knows that.

I thought he might come after me or my family, but I can’t sleep no more.

I see her face every time I close my eyes.

She deserves justice.

This testimony changed everything.

On January 15th, 1931, Roy Roins was formally charged with firstdegree murder.

Shorty Hopkins was charged as an accessory after the fact for not reporting the crime.

But before the trial could begin, something happened that nearly derailed the entire case.

On a cold February night, a group of armed men, vigilantes from the mountains, friends and relatives of the Hood family, gathered at a crossroads outside of Wise.

They numbered about 20 carrying Winchester rifles and Colt pistols, their faces grim with determination.

The law ain’t doing its job.

One of them said that boy killed Bertha Hood and he’s going to pay.

Their plan was simple.

Ride to both the Roians and Hopkins homes, drag the boys out and administer frontier justice, a hanging.

But Sheriff Bentley had heard whispers of the plan.

He and his deputies intercepted the vigilantes before they could reach their targets.

“You men need to go home,” Sheriff Bentley said, his hand resting on his holstered weapon.

That boy murdered an innocent girl, one of the vigilantes countered.

And he’s sitting comfortable in his house while Bertha Hood is cold in the ground.

I understand your anger, the sheriff said calmly.

But we have a trial scheduled.

Justice will be served, but it will be served lawfully.

Continue reading….
« Prev Next »