An officer arrested McElroy a few hours after the shooting. He said he knew nothing about the assault—wasn't there, didn't do it. He called his
Bo Bowenkamp spent 10 days in the hospital for a gunshot wound to the neck, but he lived. Over the ensuing weeks, McElroy kept intimidating him. When a minister went to comfort the Bowenkamps—one of few who dared offer sympathy—he began getting threatening phone calls. In between expletives, the man the minister knew to be McElroy gave a simple message: "Mind your own business."

McElroy's plan was to isolate his victims, cut them off from sympathy with his intimidating tactics. A measure of the Bowenkamp's isolation can be seen in pleading letters that Lois wrote, begging the governor, attorney general and state legislators to intercede. She wrote, "Are we to live in fear for the rest of our lives? Please help us see justice done."
In the meantime, McElroy had begun to tell anyone who would listen that Bo Bowenkamp had menaced him with a butcher knife, and he fired in self-defense. The scenario made no sense. Bowenkamp was harmless, docile. Yes, he admitted he was holding a knife when he was shot, but only because he was cutting up boxes. His intimidation didn't stop with the victims and their minister.
One night, McElroy confronted the part-time town marshal, David Dunbar. He asked
McElroy replied, "I'll kill anybody who would put me in jail."
The bully then extracted a shotgun from his truck and pointed it at
When the Skidmore town hall opened for business Monday morning,

Dunbar and Stratton thus got a taste of the treatment of the Bowenkamps, Romaine Henry, Trena's parents and anyone else who had crossed Ken McElroy over the years.



