A Killing at the Creek (4 page)

 

Chapter 8

C
OURT WAS NOT
yet in session at 8:30
A.M.
on Tuesday morning. The first pot of coffee percolated in the courthouse coffee shop; Elsie could smell it as she marched past, exiting the courthouse through the side door to make her way to Juvenile Hall. She encountered Ashlock in the parking lot, and they fell into step, though she had to walk fast to keep up with him.

Treading along the sidewalk, Elsie felt sober. She had awakened early, struggling with the task that awaited.

“Why you looking so glum?” Ashlock asked.

She laughed, embarrassed that her feelings were so easily read. “I'm a little nervous,” she confessed.

Ashlock gave her a quizzical look. “You, Elsie? Why? I can't imagine that taking a statement would ruffle your feathers. Not sure what would.”

“Aw, come on, Ash. Twenty-­four hours ago, I was barfing in the woods.”

“Oh, that. Ancient history.”

“And this morning, we're interrogating a juvenile. I haven't handled a case involving a juvenile suspect before.”

“I thought you wanted this assignment. You've been waiting for a murder case.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Didn't you tell me you came out and asked her for it? And for once, she gave you what you wanted?”

“I know; I wanted a murder case. It's just that I started thinking last night. I'm not sure that this is the murder case I wanted.” She exhaled audibly, rubbing at her eyebrow. “He's so damned young. Is it weird, interrogating a juvenile? How do you feel about it?”

“Tell you how I feel,” he grinned reassuringly. “I feel good. I feel a big confession coming on.”

They walked across the lot to Juvenile Hall, converted from an old granite schoolhouse decades earlier. As they climbed the front steps together, Elsie asked, “Did you talk to the Oklahoma guys? Who brought the juvenile in?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Ashlock said. “Had a little conflict, I hear. They said he's a snake. Said the kid was cold as ice.”

Elsie clutched his arm, dismayed. “Oh Lord, Ash, they didn't question him, did they? Because if they did, we're in a terrible mess. We have to make sure he's read all of his rights, that it's done like the courts require in Missouri. Have those Okies fucked it up?”

Ashlock shook his head. “Just listen to you. They didn't take a statement, I told them not to. They didn't question the kid. Good God, honey, settle down.”

Ashlock held the door for her, and Elsie took a deep breath. “I'm doing the government's job. A woman is dead,” she muttered, like a mantra to equip herself for the undertaking. “Here goes nothing,” she whispered to herself.

When the uniformed officer at the metal detector saw Ashlock, he waved them through, and they walked into the entryway. In the waiting area sat Chuck Harris, surrounded by crying children and anxious adults and teenagers.

He jumped up when he saw them.

“Thank God you're here. I was about to call Madeleine. I can't get anyone's attention. It's like trying to raise the dead.”

Ashlock walked up to a receptionist sitting behind a glass window which bore the sign,
DO NOT KNOCK ON GLASS
. He rapped on the glass and slapped his badge up against it, barking, “Barton PD.”

A stony faced receptionist slid the window open just a crack. “You here about the Monroe boy, aren't you?”

Oh Lord Lord Lord, he's only a boy; she called him a boy
, Elsie thought.

“We've come to take his statement.”

Chuck tugged at Elsie's elbow. “Did you do the research?”

“Yeah, I read up on the Missouri cases last night. How about you?”

“I'm the assistant,” he said with a wink. “Research is the job of the low man.”

Ashlock was still talking to the receptionist. “Before we see Monroe, we'd appreciate talking to the chief juvenile officer first. I'd like him to give me some background.”

The woman shook her head, taking a swig from a large Styrofoam Sonic cup. “Well, you're out of luck. Hank isn't here; he's at the summer teachers' meeting at Lake of the Ozarks. He's doing a seminar there, speaking about the mandated reporter law.”

Ashlock's brow creased. “His assistant, then.”

“He's at the meeting, too. It's pretty quiet around here today.”

A shriek from one of the children waiting on the bench nearby made Elsie's ears ring. She shoved her face into the glass, next to Ashlock.

“Who's in charge today if Hank and the chief deputy are gone?” Elsie asked.

“Lisa Peters. Hank told me she'll handle it.”

“Who's Lisa Peters?” Elsie muttered as the receptionist picked up the phone. She knew most of the county personnel by name or by sight, but Peters didn't ring a bell.

“She's a juvenile officer, brand-­new. She'll take care of you. I'm going to let her know you're here.”

The receptionist waved them in as she pushed the buzzer to the electric entryway into the juvenile office. As they walked through the doorway, Elsie whispered to Ashlock, “What do you think's going on? Should we wait and do this another time?”

Ashlock frowned, but didn't answer. She turned to Chuck and said, “The juvenile ­people are out of pocket, and this is their area. We're new to this, Chuck. It would be smart to hold off. Don't you think?”

“Hell no,” Chuck responded.

With a shrug, Ashlock led Elsie and Chuck Harris back into the main hallway of the juvenile facility. A young woman appeared in the doorway. She looked like a schoolgirl, half a head shorter than Elsie, with a heart-­shaped freckled face and carrot red hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Hold it,” the girl said in a no-­nonsense tone. She blocked their procession with her slight frame.

Ashlock paused, but Elsie stuck out her hand.

“I'm Elsie Arnold, from the Prosecutor's Office,” she said briskly.

“Lisa Peters, deputy juvenile officer,” the woman said. Peters ignored Elsie's overture; her hands stayed at her sides. Smothering a smartass remark, Elsie withdrew her hand. The juvenile officer had a definite attitude problem, she thought.

Chuck gaped at Lisa. “Jesus, how old are you? You look like a kid out of school.”

“Missouri State U, class of 2013,” Peters said. “You want to come on back?”

As they followed, Elsie said in a conversational tone, “Hey Lisa, I went to summer school at Missouri State.”

“A hundred years ago,” Harris quipped, earning Elsie's evil eye. Her thirty-­second birthday was fast approaching, and she was sensitive to old maid jokes.

“We'll have to meet down in the rec room,” Lisa said, ignoring the small talk. “We don't have an office big enough to hold five ­people. I didn't know you all were going to dog-­pile the poor kid.”

“That's not our intention,” Elsie began, as they followed Lisa single file down a narrow stairway.

“Whatever. Two lawyers and a detective going up against a fifteen-­year-­old boy. Call it what you want.”

“Ashlock will be doing the interrogation; Chuck and I are just here to make sure everything goes smoothly. We don't want any legal issues. I've done all the research; I'm on top of this.”

“Wow. Impressive,” Lisa said in a voice that implied the opposite.

Laughing, Chuck asked, “What was your major? ROTC?”

“Social work,” Lisa said, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. Pointing into the rec hall, she said, “Make yourself at home.”

Elsie peered through an open doorway into the dank basement room, dimly lit by a few overhead bulbs covered in chicken wire. No windows provided natural light. A sputtering box fan moved the hot air in the room. The only furnishings were a black vinyl sofa flanked by two matching chairs.

Elsie said, “Detective Ashlock will read him his Miranda rights. I read
State v. Seibert
, so I think I'm on top of this stuff.”

Lisa dropped onto the black sofa and sat cross-­legged, pulling her sneakers under her on the couch. “Yeah? Well, his parents aren't here. I don't even think you can question him without a parent present. Never heard of a case where the cops tried to do such a thing.”

Chuck Harris stood over the juvenile officer, frowning. He demanded, “Why didn't the juvenile office cover that? Can you get the parents here?”

The juvenile officer shook her head. “I don't know where they are.”

Ashlock asked, “How about a conference call?”

“I should've said: We don't even know
who
they are. No contact info. Tanner didn't provide any family information during intake.”

Elsie wiped a sheen of sweat that beaded on her forehead. It was hot as hell in juvenile detention. “Lisa, does he have a GAL?”

“A what?” asked Harris.

“A guardian ad litem. Surely the juvenile judge appointed one if he's got no parents around.”

Lisa said, “The judge appointed Maureen Mason. She handles a lot of juvenile cases.”

Ashlock nodded. “I know Maureen. Let's see if we can get her over here.”

“Call her,” Chuck barked at Lisa, with a kingly wave of his hand. “Now.”

Lisa blinked, but made no other movement. “I don't take orders from you,” she said matter-­of-­factly.

“I'm just asking you to do your job, Ms. Peters. Do I need to talk to the juvenile judge about you?”

“Talk to whoever you want. I don't give a shit what you do.”

Chuck Harris gasped in mock outrage, and said, “Is that how you communicate with your superiors?”

Lisa flushed, her face as red as her hair, and jumped out of her seat. “You aren't my superior. I don't work for you.”

As Chuck opened his mouth to answer, Elsie held up a restraining hand. “Chuck, for God's sake, why would we pick a fight with the juvenile office? Now look you all, I've got my phone.” Elsie reached into her bag and fumbled for her cell phone. After a brief search, she found it and handed the phone to Lisa. “We can't proceed without the guardian. Come on, Lisa, call Maureen and ask her to head on over. She mostly does juvenile stuff, so with the whole juvenile staff at the Lake of the Ozarks, she ought to be free today.”

Lisa pressed her lips together in a thin line. Refusing to look at Chuck, she took the phone and walked off to a corner of the basement room to make the call. Chuck got up from his chair and stretched, strolling casually in the opposite direction from Lisa.

Ashlock turned to Elsie. “Good thing I brought you along. The floor would be wet with blood without your ­people skills.”

“Oh, I've got skills,” she whispered impishly.

His jaw twitched and he winked at her.

Lisa returned with a report that the guardian would be at Juvenile Hall within a few minutes.

“See?” Elsie said, beaming at them, “this is going to work out. Ash, where do you want to set up?”

He glanced around the basement room; the only other equipment was a much-­abused foosball table.

“Looks like this is it. Miss Peters, do you think we could rustle up a ­couple more chairs? We'll be a little too cozy, otherwise.”

Lisa pointed at Chuck, where he lounged across the room. “I thought they were stepping out.”

Before Chuck could respond, Elsie spoke up. “That's not a bad idea. Maybe we ought to scoot out of here. We can be nearby, if anything comes up.”

“We're staying right here,” Chuck said.

Elsie looked at him, disconcerted. “Seems like we ought to clear out. I think it's the best thing to do, under the circumstances.”

“I want to talk to you.” With a sidelong look at Lisa, Chuck added, “Privately.”

As Lisa and Ashlock went to find chairs, Chuck said, sotto voce, “This is the first big case Madeleine has put me in charge of. I need to be in here; I don't want anything to go wrong.”

“That's why we need to leave. We shouldn't be present at the interrogation of the defendant. What if we get called as witnesses down the road?”

“That's not what I'm worried about; I have to ensure that this investigation proceeds like Madeleine wants it to. I'm worried about a small-­town cop bumbling the job.”

In disbelief, Elsie shook her head. “Ashlock? You're nuts. Ashlock can handle this.”

“It's not your call, third chair.”

Elsie leaned in toward him, and said in a stage whisper, “You better back off. And watch how you treat that juvenile officer.”

“She's hot, isn't she?” he responded conversationally. “I think I saw a picture of her in
Barely Legal
magazine.”

Elsie reached over and shoved him. “That's what I mean. That shit is sexist. Stop it.”

He leaned back against the cinder-­block wall and surveyed her with a knowing eye.

“Mm-­hmm, that's what I heard. You know, Madeleine warned me about you.”

Caught off guard, Elsie stepped back. “What do you mean?”

“Madeleine told me about you when I came to work here. She said you'd think you were in charge. She told me to watch out for you bossing me around, telling me what to do. Yesterday, she said you'd want to take over this case, too.”

Elsie looked at him silently, anger washing over her in a wave that brought a flush to her face.

“You should see your face,” he said, but broke off when Ashlock and Lisa Peters returned, bearing two pairs of folding chairs. Chuck jumped up to offer assistance; switching to a jovial tone, he said, “I'll take those. Are we ready now?”

“When the guardian gets here,” Lisa said. “Because the juvenile has to have a friend, someone who is here on his behalf.”

Elsie stood, shaking off her indignation toward Chuck, and focusing on the task at hand. Pleasantly, she said to Lisa, “We're lucky to have you in charge here. Thanks for helping us out today.”