A Killing at the Creek (6 page)

 

Chapter 10

E
LSIE WALK
ED INTO
the Baldknobbers bar shortly after five, grateful for the frosty air blasting from the window air conditioner. The bar was an old dive, the type of establishment that kept the windows covered day and night. Upon entering, she peered through the smoky haze for Ashlock, but didn't spy him. With a wave at Dixie, the longtime barmaid, she headed for a booth. As she dropped her purse on the seat, she recognized a familiar figure at the bar.

Walking up alongside Chuck Harris, she tapped him on the arm. “Happy Tuesday.”

He glanced up, glum, and hunched back over his beer mug. “Right.”

“What's the matter?”

“She's gonna dump it on me. I can see it coming.”

“Huh?”

“That case with the kid. What a dog.”

Elsie slid onto the bar stool beside him. “I understand, I've been ruminating about it myself. But maybe we're just borrowing trouble, Chuck. We're still putting the evidence together; Monroe's not even certified yet. If the case doesn't look strong enough to convict, Madeleine surely won't file.”

“Of course she'll file. A dead woman in the county, and a kid in the bloody bus? She has to file. And then we'll have that piece-­of-­shit case.”

She didn't respond. Staring blindly at the mirror behind the bar, she struggled with her own reservations.

Chuck continued, “He didn't confess. No jury will convict a fifteen-­year-­old of murder without a confession.”

Soberly, Elsie nodded. “It would've been handy if the kid confessed. But suspects usually don't; we both know that. And his statement has holes in it.” She leaned in close to him, and in a determined tone, said, “We need to follow the trail of the bus, to disprove the kid's story about the other passenger. You and me. And Ashlock.”

Chuck traced the water ring his beer mug made on the wooden bar. “This really isn't your case, Elsie. Madeleine told me that in no uncertain terms. You're just the water boy; the case is assigned to me and Madeleine. Which actually means it's all on me.”

Elsie sat back on the bar stool, fighting a surge of resentment. Madeleine was already creating obstacles. If Elsie was to have a meaningful role in the case, she would have to make it happen.

“Let me go to Oklahoma,” she urged. “I'm good with witnesses; I can establish rapport, start piecing the puzzle together. I'll be a lot of help.”

“How? How do you prove a negative? How do you show that the ‘mystery man' never existed?”

Overlooking their conflict earlier in the day, Elsie put an arm around his shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “That's what we've got to figure out. We'll do it. And if we can't disprove the mystery man, well, it's important to find that out, too. We'll put our heads together. With Ashlock.”

“Do you know what she said to me this afternoon?”

Lord, no telling, Elsie thought, but she kept her voice even. “Madeleine? No, what did she say?”

“She said, if the evidence points to the kid, she's filing murder in the first degree. In the
first
.”

Elsie was taken aback. “You mean, she's made her mind up, even before we see what kind of evidence of pre-­deliberation they'll find?”

“Yeah. She told me that with a bloody school bus and a woman victim and a slit throat, deliberation should be assumed. The jury won't be caught up on details.”

“Premeditation isn't a detail.”

“You think I don't know that?”

Elsie stared down at the scarred wooden bar without seeing it. “Maybe she's right. The weapon, the method of killing her; it would have to be intentional, require forethought. Anyway, we can always include the option of second degree murder in the jury instructions, if it comes to that.”

Chuck groaned softly into his beer mug. “Here it comes. I'll be holding the bag, with an overcharged murder case against a fifteen-­year-­old kid.”

“Lucky for him he's fifteen,” Elsie said.

“Huh?”

“If he was sixteen on the date of the crime, and he was convicted of first degree murder, he could get the death penalty. Since he's fifteen, they'll just lock him up and throw away the key. Life imprisonment without eligibility for parole.”

“I know that,” Chuck said, snappish. “Don't lecture me. Sometimes you act like you're the Oracle at Delphi.”

The side door of the bar opened and a flash of daylight blinded Elsie. She shielded her eyes with her hand and made out the outline of Detective Ashlock. “Ash!” she called, with a wave.

As he walked over, she saw he wasn't smiling. He approached the bar, asking Elsie pointedly, “Aren't we sitting at a table?”

“Sure. Got one.” With a final pat, Elsie said to Chuck, “Talk to you later.”

Walking to the booth, she felt Ashlock's hand pressed possessively at the small of her back. When she scooted into the booth, though, he sat across from her.

“Is something the matter?” she asked.

“Why do you say that?” Looking around, he signaled Dixie to come to the table.

“You were a little rude to the new chief assistant. Didn't say hello.”

“I guess that's because I don't like him too much.”

Elsie examined him as Dixie came up to take their order. “You're jealous.”

“You want a beer, honeybun?” Dixie asked her.

“Corona for me,” Elsie said.

Ashlock smiled at Dixie. “Coke.”

Leaning back in the booth, Elsie observed that Ashlock offered up a smile for Dixie, but had not yet spared one for her. A little nettled, she said, “You're no fun.”

“You're surely shining a spotlight on all my bad qualities this evening. Rude. No fun. Jealous.”

She slipped her foot out of her shoe and propped it upon his thigh, under the table across from her.

“You've got nothing to be jealous of, Ash.”

When he didn't answer, she slipped her toes under his leg and nudged him.

“Hey,” she said.

As her foot inched its way to his crotch, he grabbed her ankle and cracked a smile.

“You're incorrigible,” he said.

“Since when do you need to worry about being the focus of my attention? You know I'm hooked.”

He didn't reply, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. With a devilish expression, she leaned across the table and said in a stage whisper, “Let's play the game where you're taking me to the home for wayward girls.”

When he responded with a laugh, she smiled, glad to see him restored to good humor. Dixie bustled up, setting their drinks in front of them. Picking up her beer bottle, Elsie tilted it toward Ashlock.

“First swallow?” she offered, but he shook his head. Elsie took a long drink from the neck of the cold bottle.

“My mom called today,” she said. “She and Dad want to know if we're coming over for dinner on my birthday. It's two weeks away, but she's already wanting to set the table and plan the menu.”

He squeezed her foot under the table with a warm hand. “What do you want?”

“Well, I hate to disappoint Marge and George. They're chomping at the bit. But I'd really like to go out, just you and me. There's a new steakhouse in Monett. ­People are talking it up.”

“Sounds good. We'll check it out.”

Elsie watched as Ashlock toyed with his glass, turning it in a circle with his fingers. “Hey,” she said. “What's up?”

He let out a tired breath. “Just got off the phone with the next of kin. Glenda Fielder's niece.”

“You mean the deceased didn't have any closer relations? Just a niece?”

“That's right. Never married, parents long gone, one brother who passed in a car wreck a ­couple of years back. The niece wasn't a bad source, though. They were pretty close, considering.”

“What did she say?”

“For one thing, she said her aunt was bitching about the employer: the transport company had been leaning on the workers to speed up delivery time. She had to drive through the night to make her deadlines. That's why she picked up hitchhikers; it helped her to stay awake.”

“Okay, that makes some sense anyway,” Elsie said. “I couldn't figure out why on earth she'd pick up a hitchhiker. It's a hell of a gamble.”

Peering over Ashlock's shoulder, she saw Chuck leave his bar stool and head toward the men's room. “Finally. He's in the bathroom; I can tell you the buzz.”

“What buzz?”

Leaning across the table, she spoke in a hushed voice. “Bree got the goods on our new chief assistant.”

“How's that?”

“She's got a friend, an old law school buddy, who works in the Jackson County office. Bree was on the phone with him last night, and the guy asked what we thought about Chuck.”

“And?”

“He told Bree that Chuck was in hot water in Kansas City. He was nailing one of the secretaries. The girl thought it was a big romance; and when she figured out it was just recreational on his part, she threatened to file a Title VII complaint with the EEOC for sexual harassment.”

Ashlock was nonplussed. “This story doesn't surprise me, for some reason.”

“Chuck's dad is some big-­time lawyer up there; we already knew that. And he had political ambitions for Chuck. So he called Madeleine, and they agreed that Chuck would come down here and work until the dust settled in Jackson County.”

“How does he know Madeleine?”

“Politics, maybe? They're both Republicans. Or maybe it's the money magnet.” She picked up her beer bottle and took another swallow. “In my experience, rich ­people always seem to find each other. Like bees to honey.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like flies on shit.”

When Chuck emerged from the restroom, Elsie changed the subject. “School's out,” she said. “The elementary across from my apartment is quiet as the tomb. So I was wondering: When are the kids coming?”

Ashlock had three children from a prior marriage. They lived in the Bootheel of Missouri with their mother, but Ashlock did everything in his power to exercise his visitation schedule: every other weekend, a handful of holidays, and a portion of the summer. Though Elsie and Ashlock had been keeping company since the winter months, she had yet to meet them.

When he didn't answer immediately, she asked again: “When will you get them?”

His face became neutral. “I'll pick them up in July. They'll be here a month.”

“That's great. Can't wait. I'm looking forward to seeing them while they're here.”

He nodded, but his face was noncommittal. Elsie persisted.

“There's great stuff to do here in the summer. We can go to Silver Dollar City; I love the roller coasters, all the wild rides. I've been there a million times; we won't even need a map.” She took a quick swallow of beer, and added, “And the Ozark Empire Fair will start the end of July; we'll take them to that. Marvelous carny stuff: the food, the games, the old-­fashioned carnival rides. It's a hoot.”

“We'll see,” he said.

Elsie knew she'd been shut down. Hurt, she glanced around the bar, ready to change the subject. She saw Chuck Harris order another drink; he was still sitting alone.

“I think the chief assistant is a little blue,” Elsie whispered, her eyes on Harris's back. “He's flipped out about the murder case.”

Ashlock flashed a look of impatience. “What's he got to flip out about? We're still putting it together.”

“He says it's going to be a weak case, a loser. And Madeleine is going to dump it on him.”

“He's a punk. A spoiled kid. If the Juvenile Court certifies Monroe to stand trial as an adult, I bet Harris never touches that case. Watch out, sweetheart.”

At his word of warning, Elsie focused on Ashlock, her brows drawn together.

He said, “When the going gets tough, your boss Madeleine and her number one man are going to scatter like chickens.”

“Hmmm.” She leaned forward. “So how do you think the murder case looks?”

He reached for her bottle and took a quick swig. “Ain't no telling. Not till I get to Oklahoma.”

 

Chapter 11

O
N
W
EDNE
SDAY,
E
LSIE
took time to bolt down lunch at the downtown Dairy Queen, and sped back to work in the punishing heat of her car, air-­conditioning vents blasting. The heat in southwest Missouri was reaching record highs, though it was not yet July. Her phone buzzed as she neared a stoplight; she rummaged in her purse and checked the text. It was from Ashlock, inquiring about lunch.

She nearly missed the green light, replying to the text:
Sorry! Too late!
A horn blared behind her and she felt a moment's remorse for texting while driving. It was a bad practice, she knew.

“I'll never do it again,” she swore.

After a few blocks, the phone hummed again. Snatching it up, she read,
See U 2nite?
She texted back
Yes!
and pushed Send before she realized she had broken her vow.

“Busted a resolution. Again.” She sat up straight as she pulled into the courthouse lot, tugging her damp blouse from the vinyl seat back. Addressing herself in the rearview mirror with a jaunty expression, she added, “Aw, well.”

She took the elevator instead of the stairs in a vain attempt to cool down. Entering the reception area shortly before one, she passed the receptionist, Stacie, a cute local girl who made an attractive first impression for ­people entering the Prosecutor's Office. Stacie looked the part but had minimal interest in the clerical particulars of her position.

Poking a fork into a Tupperware container, Stacie said to Elsie, “You're in Division 2.”

“I most certainly am not,” Elsie said.

“You are. There's a change of venue hearing in there, and you're doing it.”

“I don't even have a case with a change of venue motion pending.”

“No, but Chuck does. He handed the hearing off to you.” Stacie looked up from her lunch, twirling her fork in pasta salad. “Ask him if you don't believe me.”

“I'll fucking ask him right this fucking minute,” Elsie muttered, heading down the hallway to the chief assistant's office. As she drew near, she saw Chuck slip out the door with his jacket on his arm.

“Where do you think you're going?” she asked.

“I'm going to lunch, Wicked Witch. That's what you sound like at the moment.”

He hooked his jacket over his shoulder and moved to continue down the hallway, but Elsie blocked him.

“Why aren't you heading to Judge Callaway's court to handle your change of venue?”

“Because you're such a good lawyer, I have complete confidence in your ability to handle it.” He flashed a brilliant smile. Elsie noted that he seemed fully recovered from the fit of pique he'd suffered at the Baldknobbers the night before. Her momentary sympathy for him dissolved accordingly.

“You're trying to butter me up, but I'm immune,” she warned.

“How could you be immune to hearing what a really great lawyer you are?” In a plaintive tone, he added, “Please do this for me, Elsie, okay? I'm dead on my feet. I was in there all morning on a motion for new trial, and I am wore slick.”

Elsie frowned. She knew why Chuck was pushing his hearing onto her. Judge Callaway was notorious for his prejudice against air-­conditioning. Even on the hottest days of summer, he insisted on keeping the windows open and the air-­conditioning off. The Division 2 courtroom was stifling from early June through mid-­September. Longer, if there was an Indian summer.

“I'll get faint in there,” she complained.

“What about me? I have to wear a tie and jacket.”

Elsie shook her head, unmoved. “It's your case.”

“I wrote notes for it, everything you need to know, from A to Z. It'll be a breeze,” he said, reaching out and massaging her shoulder. “Please?”

“How's the bailiff today?”

Emil Elmquist, the Division 2 bailiff, had the same contempt for deodorant that his boss had for temperature control. In the summer, Emil's body odor was legendary.

“Not so fresh, I must confess. Grab the counsel table at the far end of the courtroom.”

“Oh Lord,” she groaned.

“Tell you what,” Chuck said, backing away from her. “If you do me this little favor, I'll talk Madeleine into taking you along with me tomorrow.”

“Along where?”

“To Oklahoma.”

Elsie's interest perked up. “You're going tomorrow? I think I'm free.”

“Okay, then. Ashlock is scheduled to collect evidence off the bus at the Tulsa Highway Patrol headquarters. Plus, he's tracking the kid's trail, and Madeleine's sending me along.”

Why didn't Ashlock tell me about Tulsa?
Elsie wondered, a little injured; but maybe he would have filled her in on the plan at lunch, had she been able to meet him.

Chuck said, “I've got to tag along, because I'm supposed to make sure the case is airtight in case she files. Because it's tough to convince a jury to lock a juvenile up for life.” He pretended to wipe away tears. “Boo hoo.”

Elsie followed as Chuck attempted to get away.

“What time are you going?”

“First thing in the morning. Is it a deal? You'll get to see the bus. All
bloody
.”

With the back of her hand, Elsie wiped sweat from her forehead. She would have liked to shut down Chuck's off-­putting wisecracks, but she stifled the impulse; she needed to ingratiate herself with him, so she could see what the Oklahoma evidence revealed. And she needed to prove to herself that the juvenile was a murderer, before she could prove it to a jury. “Okay. Deal.”

“Great, thanks,” Chuck said, dashing through the door before she could change her mind.

Elsie followed, walked around the courthouse rotunda, and hurried into Judge Callaway's courtroom, eager to seize the far counsel table. The bailiff was reading the newspaper as she entered. When he saw her, he folded the pages.

“You doing the change of venue?” he asked.

“Boy oh boy, Emil. I won the prize.”

“You got witnesses in the hallway.”

“Thanks, Emil. I'll go out there in a minute.”

Elsie flipped the file open and scanned the contents. The defendant was charged with methamphetamine production. The case had received some play in the news, because the meth lab was discovered when it set fire to a local hotel room. Still, the coverage was far from extraordinary. The file contained copies of articles from the local paper, reporting defendant's arrest and preliminary hearing. Both articles ran photos alongside the text. One showed the smoking interior of defendant's hotel room. The other photo depicted defendant and his attorney entering the courthouse. Elsie didn't think either story could be branded as sensational.

Walking to the courtroom door, she poked her head out. “Any witnesses for
State v. Maggard
?” she called.

Several ­people raised their hands. One man rose from the bench, protesting that the subpoena didn't make sense; he didn't even know anyone named Maggard.

Elsie approached him, extending her hand. “Let me see your subpoena,” she said. She scanned it, nodding. “You've been summoned for a change of venue hearing. The defendant claims he can't get a fair trial in McCown County.” She smiled, turning to include the citizens nearby. “I don't mean to be mysterious, but with a change of venue motion, we don't need to consult before you testify. The less we talk, the better.”

Elsie gave a brief overview of the basic mechanics of a change of venue hearing. Sometimes, when there was a great deal of pretrial publicity, the defendant asked the court to order that the case be tried in a county where the community had not heard so much about the facts of the case, to ensure an impartial jury.

After Elsie provided a thumbnail sketch of the hearing procedures, she walked back to the courtroom door. With a hand on the knob, she said, “I really appreciate you all coming today. It shouldn't take long.”

“I want to get back to work as quick as I can,” said the man who'd spoken up earlier. “This still don't make much sense to me, why I'd have to miss work for some guy I don't know nothing about.”

Elsie gave him a conciliatory nod. “Appreciate it,” she said again. Then she returned to the courtroom, leaving the witnesses on the benches outside.

As she rummaged for a pen and legal pad at her counsel table, the defense attorney, Billy Yocum, ambled into court with his client in tow. His genial expression disappeared when he saw Elsie.

“Where's Mr. Harris?” he asked.

“I'm filling in. How's it going, Billy?”

Elsie and the elderly attorney had gone around a time or two. Billy Yocum was old school, a master litigator who learned the trade from his time in the Prosecutor's Office, decades earlier. Yocum had more tricks up his sleeve than a riverboat gambler.

“Well, I don't know. Seems like Mr. Harris should handle the hearing if he's assigned to the case.”

“Billy, you're just going to have to get over it. I'm all you've got.”

She slid back in the wooden chair, determined not to let Yocum rile her. Yocum was famous for turning tables on the prosecution, making it appear that the defense wore the white hat and the prosecution was the bad guy, rather than the other way around.

He had countless tactics that infuriated her. At jury trials, after wrangling an evidentiary point before the judge at the bench—­and outside of the jury's hearing—­Yocum would invariably claim victory for the jurors' benefit. Whether the judge ruled in Elsie's favor, or in Yocum's, the old attorney would swing back toward the bench on the way to the counsel table with a jubilant: “Thank you, your honor! The defense appreciates your excellent ruling on that issue.”

The first time it occurred, Elsie just stared at him with her mouth open, like she was catching flies; Yocum had managed to make himself look like a victor on an evidentiary point he had, in fact, lost to Elsie.

Now that she was educated to the trick, she had become adept at beating him to the punch, chiming in with her own words of appreciation on behalf of the state, and punctuating the statement with an expressive wink to the jury. She had developed an array of nonverbal cues in her years as a trial lawyer and prided herself on her ability to connect on an unspoken level with the jurors. No one in the Ozarks could match her on that score—­with the possible exception of Billy Yocum.

The bailiff emerged from the judge's chambers and asked whether the parties were ready.

“All set,” said Elsie.

“Yes, sir,” said Yocum. “Tell Judge Callaway we can start any time.”

The bailiff disappeared and Yocum's client, a disheveled young man, said, “Does he stink?”

“Hush,” Yocum replied.

The judge emerged from chambers. Elsie stood as the bailiff cried, “All rise!” After Judge Callaway took his seat, he invited the parties to do the same.

Opening the file, Judge Callaway said, “What you got here, gentlemen?”

Elsie frowned.

The judge caught his gaffe and corrected himself, while Emil snickered in his bailiff's chair.

“I apologize, Ms. Arnold. I was expecting Mr. Harris. You all ready?”

Billy Yocum rose slowly from his chair and drawled, “As a courtesy, I'd be glad to give the state the chance to go first.”

Elsie jumped up, her blood pressure shooting up in response to Yocum's suggestion. “Your honor, this is defendant's motion. We didn't ask for a change of venue. If defendant doesn't have any evidence in support of his motion, he should say so, and we can free up the court's time.”

Yocum turned to her, laughing. “Judge, tell the prosecutor to settle down. It's too hot to get riled up over nothing. My witnesses are right outside; I'll be glad to call them. I guess Miss Arnold's not particularly concerned about inconveniencing the witnesses for the state.” As an aside, he said to Elsie, “Those benches out there are mighty hard.”

Elsie gave him a sour look. Billy Yocum always knew how to get her goat.

The judge said, “Call your witness, Billy.”

Yocum called a Mrs. Cooper to the stand, a pleasant-­looking middle-­aged woman, wearing church clothes. Under examination, she told the court that she had read about the case in the newspaper and seen it on TV, and she'd already made up her mind about defendant's guilt. Because of the news coverage, she couldn't be impartial. The man could not get a fair trial in McCown County, she added.

“No further questions,” Yocum said, favoring the woman with a courtly nod.

Elsie stood. Advancing toward the witness stand, she asked, “Ma'am, are you acquainted with the defendant?”

“Never met him.”

“How about his attorney, Mr. Yocum?”

“No.”

Elsie paused, puzzled. Yocum would not call a witness to the stand for a change of venue hearing unless she was certain to be in his pocket.

“You don't know Mr. Yocum from church? Rotary? From a civic organization?”

“No,” the woman said, as Yocum objected: “Asked and answered.”

“Sustained,” the judge murmured, eyes closed. He looked ready for a nap.

Elsie studied the witness for a moment. Oozing respectability, the woman was clearly a law-­abiding citizen. She could not be connected to the meth business, or the defendant sitting next to Billy Yocum.

“Where do you work?”

“I'm a homemaker.”

Elsie smiled.
Gotcha
, she thought.

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Yocum's wife? Peggy?”

The woman flushed. Glancing at the defense attorney, she said, “Yes.”

“How do you know Mrs. Yocum?”

“We're in PEO together.”

“Ah,” said Elsie, nodding sagely, “that's a sorority, right?”

Pursing her lips, the woman answered, “It is a philanthropic educational organization.”