Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 01 - Courting Murder (14 page)

“I guess you’re going to have to arrest me next.” Rosswell drew out the ring and stuck it in Frizz’s face. “For withholding evidence.”

“What’s this?” Frizz said. He
turned the ring in all directions, inspecting it closely.

“It’s a ring I found at the crime scene.” Rosswell told him the whole story.

Frizz shoved it under a lamp, appraising its every detail. For a long time, the only sound Rosswell heard in the sheriff’s station came from the static on the radio. An old clock, probably evidence in a long forgotten crime, chimed every quarter hour. A ticking from the computerized tape recorder for the telephone system rose to Rosswell’s consciousness. He grew tense, waiting for the wrath of Frizz.

“Judge, why in the hell do you have Ollie Groton helping you?”

“He’s my research assistant.”

“That’s shit and you know it. You don’t need a research assistant. Ollie’s a criminal, plain and simple.”

“Don’t you believe in rehabilitation?” That line hadn’t worked on Tina, and Rosswell doubted that it would work on Frizz. “People don’t like to see judges hanging around with criminals in social settings.”

“Social settings?”

“Merc’s.”

“Ollie knows a hell of a lot of stuff about people and computers. And he doesn’t ask for legal advice. Sure, he’s got a spotty past, but we all have secrets that we don’t want everybody else knowing.”

Frizz didn’t reply. Instead, he returned to examining the ring. Eventually he said, “No use trying to lift prints off it now.” He studied the ring one more time. “You and Ollie are probably the only ones who have left prints here. I’ve almost dismissed you as a suspect, even though you were the first one on the scene by sheer happenstance.”

Rosswell hung his head. “I picked it up without thinking and stuck it in my pocket. It’s not often I discover two corpses.” Rosswell’s body language must’ve showed remorse to the point that Frizz didn’t blast him with any more sarcasm.

Father Mike marched through the door, letting a blast of hot air into the air-conditioned semi-comfort of the station. “Sheriff, may I speak to you, please?” Always the gentleman.

“Rosswell was just leaving,” Frizz said.

Father Mike waved his hands in a dismissive gesture. “Oh, no. This isn’t private.” He focused on Rosswell. “The judge can stay.”

Not wanting to miss anything, Rosswell propped his bad arm on the desk behind the counter, relaxed, and listened.

“What is it?” Frizz verged on sounding brusque. Rosswell fought back the urge to tell him that maybe the priest had important information. About what he didn’t know, although you should never brush aside people who may have information.

“Do you have Candy Lavaliere locked up?”

“Yes, I do.” Frizz closed his eyes and shook his head. Rosswell could tell that the sheriff longed for a catnap. Frizz said, “I should say that I have her locked up in a manner of speaking. Why do you need to know that?”

“I’d like to post her bail.”

“Father Mike,” Frizz said, “she’s not been charged with anything yet. That means there’s no bail. She claimed she committed the murders. Right now, she’s writing a confession. I think she’s loony.”

Candy wasn’t loony. Arguing with Frizz about that in front of the priest wasn’t going to happen. In fact, arguing with Frizz about anything in front of anybody wasn’t going to happen. Rosswell kept his mouth shut.

Father Mike said, “If she’s not been charged, then can she leave?” Apparently, he wasn’t going to argue the loony charge either.

“No, she cannot.” Frizz stood. “I wish she could leave.”

“Then I want her.”

“You can’t have her.”

The priest’s eyes widened. “I want to talk to her.”

Frizz strolled to Candy’s cell.

Although Rosswell couldn’t make out the words, Frizz and Candy engaged in a lengthy conversation. After a moment or two of silence, the sheriff returned with Candy in handcuffs. Frizz was playing this by all the rules.

She took a gander at the priest. “What do you want?”

Rosswell decided that covering his mouth with his hand to hide any smiles seemed advisable in case there were a fight between Candy and Father Mike.

Father Mike said, “People are worried about you. I want to take you home.”

“What people?”

Father Mike said, “Sheriff, could I talk to her in private?”

“Yes. Lawyers and clergy get that privilege.” Frizz showed them the room adjacent to the dispatch area that was divided by a heavy glass partition with a grille for speaking. Each side had a passage door. Candy sat on one side and Father Mike sat on the other. Rosswell didn’t think either one of them looked pleased with the situation. Each side had a call button. “One of you press your button when you’re through.”

Candy said, “I can’t do that with my handcuffs on!”

“Sure you can.” Frizz shut the doors.

Rosswell said, “You’ll have to charge her and get another judge to set her bail.”

“Already in the works,” Frizz said. “The prosecutor’s taking care of it. Now, what about this ring?”

“Maybe the killer left it. Maybe it belonged to one of the victims. Maybe someone lost it there years ago and it has nothing to do with anything.”

“Do you have any idea whatsoever who could own this?”

“I don’t know who owns that ring.”

Frizz paused a moment before he continued. “EJD. Do you know anyone with those initials?”

Frizz caught my equivocal answer.

Rosswell said, “I searched the phone book. Nothing there.”

“Maybe EJD doesn’t have a phone. Or maybe he has a cellphone.”

“Why do you say he?”

“This is a man’s ring. And you said Ollie told you it was a Mason’s ring.”

“
Maybe
it’s a Mason’s ring.”

“What else could it be?” Frizz said. “If it’s not a Mason’s ring, then what could it be?”

“Maybe it’s a gang symbol, although I don’t know of too many gangs who have Latin mottos.”

Frizz grunted. “Nothing surprises me these days.”

“One of my language professors at Mizzou told us that if you learned Latin, you wouldn’t become a criminal.”

“Do you believe that?”

“No. He’s serving time for embezzlement.”

“Studying Latin must actually lower your morals.”

“I’m not sure this ring is evidence.”

“You’re not on the case, remember?”

“What case?”

“Damn it, ANY case!” Frizz removed his hat, mopped his brow,
ran the handkerchief around the inside of the hat, and then punched it back on his head. “I need some rest.”

“Yeah, and a happy pill.”

That made Frizz chuckle. “Yeah. If only a pill could solve my problems.”

A loud clunk signaled that the air conditioning system had failed. Again. Frizz had fought with the cooler for the last two years. The system was held together with bailing wire and pink bubble gum. Humidity and heat began rising inside the sheriff’s station.

Rosswell watched Frizz go outside and stomp to the air conditioner where he kicked it. When he came back, the uncooperative machine, subjected to the sheriff’s magic foot, returned to service. Frizz said, “Works every time.”

Rosswell said, “Did you know that Candy had the keys to Johnny Dan’s car?”

“She had keys when I arrested her. How do you know they were Johnny Dan’s?”

“Ollie told me. Candy told him on her way in to jail.”

“Shit.” Frizz consulted the phone book and then punched in a number on the phone. Rosswell could hear an answering machine click on and a voice deliver a message. Frizz hung up. “At least he left his cellphone number.” Frizz punched in the number. “Johnny Dan? Sheriff Dodson here.” Frizz picked up a pen and scribbled on a legal pad. “Yeah. Did you loan Candy Lavaliere your car?” Frizz wrote something. “Okay. I’ll wait.” He covered the mouthpiece and said to Rosswell, “He said, hell, no, he doesn’t loan his car to anyone. He’s going to check it out.” Johnny Dan came back on the phone. “Thanks. I’ll call the Highway Patrol and report it stolen.”

Rosswell thought about that exchange. Hadn’t Ollie said that Johnny Dan and Mabel had gone somewhere in Mabel’s car? Of course, it was possible that Mabel was close and drove Johnny Dan past his shop to check on the car.

Rosswell said,

“All this excitement has worn me out.”

“Do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Go home. Rest up. Heal.”

“I appreciate your concern, Sheriff.” He grew weary at Frizz always telling him to go home. An inferiority complex would sprout next if Frizz didn’t treat him better. “You don’t want me to wait around until Father Mike gets through talking to Candy?”

“No. Take care of yourself before you keel over dead.” The sheriff patted Rosswell on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t know what to do with all the peace and quiet if you weren’t around.”

“That’s what I’ll do. Go straight home and go to bed.”

I hate lying to the sheriff.

The first thing Rosswell thought
when he woke up in the chair next to Tina’s bed was (again) that Frizz had no one else to help.
Except for me and my duty is clear.

Junior Fleming showed to up to start guard duty. “Judge,” he said in a whisper. “Come here.”

Rosswell followed the cop into the hallway.

“Is that ugly nurse here?”

Rosswell said, “I haven’t seen her.”

“She’s so ugly, anybody who’d try to get in her pants is too damned lazy to jack off.”

“Junior, just keep your mouth shut, your eyes open, and your zipper zipped.”

Rosswell returned to Tina, who was groggy but awake.

“Go away,” she told Rosswell.

“I just need rest.”

Rosswell left the hospital and called Frizz from the parking lot. “Did Candy finish her confession?” Rosswell unlocked Vicky the Volkswagen and got in.

“No, she did not.”

“Crap.”

“Candy’s gone.”

Rosswell grabbed the steering wheel with the hand that wasn’t holding the phone, sending pain up the arm he’d accidentally cut. “What happened?” The other hand, the one holding the phone, felt like it could crush the device.

Frizz told him that the prosecutor had filed charges and another judge from two counties away had set bail. “Then,” the sheriff continued, “she posted bail. Or, I should say, Ribs Freshwater hired a bail bondsman who posted her bail.”

“Did you find Johnny Dan’s car?”

“Nope.”

Rosswell calmed himself. He didn’t want to give this part away. “Okay. Thanks.” He hung up.

Rosswell knew that if Candy was the murderer, she’d be heading only one place in Johnny Dan’s car. Tina was no threat. She lay on a hospital bed, out cold or, now, groggy. If Rosswell was in trouble with Candy, then he’d take his chances, but she wasn’t heading for him or she’d already have gotten him. There was only one immediate concern. If Rosswell was wrong, Frizz would never know. If Rosswell was right, he’d be a hero, and Frizz would
pin a medal on his chest while at the same time excoriating Rosswell for playing detective.

Hermie
Hillsman was in danger.

Hermie was the guy who’d fingered Candy. Rosswell still couldn’t believe that Candy was the murderer, but she had confessed and Hermie had witnessed her in the area driving the now famous silver car. Rosswell had been wrong before. But not this time.

Damn it! Rosswell knew he couldn’t withhold the information. He called Frizz again.

“Hermie
Hillsman is in danger.”

And Rosswell told Frizz’s voicemail why he thought that.

He hung up, started the convertible, and gunned it for Foggy Top State Park. Unfortunately, he had no blue light to clear the traffic. Motorcycles clogged the streets of Marble Hill. He nearly clipped several, trying to pass them. Once he got out of the town and zoomed onto the Confederate Trail heading for the park, the traffic thinned, but not much. Storm clouds gathered in the sky. The Weather Channel warned of supercells forming yet again over the area. Ozone from lightning strikes to the west tinged the air with a biting odor.

The motorcyclists clumped into a group on the blind curves of the main highway, a road carved into the side of the hills. Once, in a flat stretch in a small valley, Rosswell passed seventeen bikes at one time,
floorboarding his sweet Vicky. Seventeen motorcyclists and each carrying a female passenger. That meant thirty-four birds flipped his way when he and Vicky overtook them. Rosswell waved back. He tooted Vicky’s horn as he boogied through the cloud of stinking Harley exhaust.

Still in the proverbial one piece, Rosswell eventually arrived at the park, although more frazzled than when he started. No cars were visible and no one occupied the guard’s rock-covered gazebo. That was a good thing. Maybe it was
Hermie’s day off. Maybe no one was looking for him.

Tooling Vicky slowly down the road, Rosswell yelled “Hermie!” several times. No answer from Hermie or anyone else. On the bright side, no one screamed for help. Honking the horn didn’t raise anyone. As they say, no news is good news.

Rosswell hammered to a stop, jumped out, and vaulted up to where Hermie usually stood guard.

He rushed to the front of the guard shack and peered inside.

Too late.

Hermie lay flat on his back. Dead. The cause of death was unmistakable. Rosswell’s sword pierced the ranger’s heart.

V

Frizz and Neal hovered over the body. Rosswell stayed back,
waiting for the storm that he knew was coming.

Neal asked, “Ross, why do dead bodies seem to follow you around?”

There were several things wrong with that question. Main among the reasons was that his name wasn’t Ross. Next, “dead bodies” is redundant. Finally, nothing “seemed” to follow Rosswell anywhere. Yet he kept his peace.

Frizz said, “Nothing’s following the judge. I’d say he’s following the bodies.”

Hermie’s wife and son wouldn’t be celebrating the kid’s birthday next week after all. Instead, they’d be attending a funeral. Poor kid. Poor wife.

Neal said to Rosswell, “What’re the chances of you finding three corpses in the state park?” The medical examiner’s face burned red and his breath came in gasps. “And one of them’s killed with your sword?”

Rosswell said, “I’d say the chances are one hundred percent.”

“You son of a bitch.”

Frizz tugged Rosswell aside. “Neal’s sister is Hermie’s wife.”

“Now that,” Rosswell said, “is awful. Neal, I’m sorry. My God, who did this?”

Neal said, “I’m going to find out.” Neal transformed instantly from a grieving relative into a scientific crimefighter. “This crime scene will be documented in more detail than any other scene in history.” Rosswell believed Neal’s words. Neal held up his camera. “I want someone else to back me up on the photos. This one is too close to home. Do you have your camera?”

“Yes. And it’s at your disposal.”

After each of them had snapped several hundred shots, Neal motioned Rosswell to stop.

Neal then started his examination by withdrawing the sword from Hermie and placing it in a long cardboard box. After that, he barked commands to the EMTs who’d arrived after he had. There would be nothing overlooked by Bollinger County’s version of a big city’s crime
scene investigation unit.

Frizz and Rosswell walked to his patrol car. The sheriff said, “You know what’s next?”

“You’re going to arrest me for murder?”

“If the evidence is there, that’s exactly what I’ll do.” He wasn’t joking. “But something else needs to be done first. A search.”

Rosswell said, “Your main priority is finding Candy. I can’t believe that all of us failed to see how violent she can be.”

“Anyone can hide his plans. Her plans. Anybody can do that when they’re devious enough. It’s not hard to fool people. That’s what makes my job difficult.”

Frizz and Rosswell faced off in the grilling sun, Rosswell certain that the sheriff’s brain boiled as fiercely as his own did. The sky to the west had grown a deep gray. Rosswell heard rumbles of thunder and smelled the lightning.

Rosswell said, “We’d better make sure that this body doesn’t wash away.”

Frizz contemplated Neal working the scene. “He’ll make sure that he doesn’t miss a thing.”

“Yes, you’ll need to search my house and car.” The salty taste of sweat dripping from Rosswell’s mustache into his mouth nauseated him. “Probably want to give my office the twice over.”

Frizz regarded Rosswell without making a motion or saying a word. Guessing the next thing that needed doing was easy.

Rosswell said, “I’ll have the consent to search ready by the time you get to town.”

“Vicky?”

“Search her now.” Frizz scoured the car and, finding nothing, finished only seconds before the storm pounced on them.

After reaching Marble Hill, Frizz and Rosswell dashed through the rain from their cars into Rosswell’s house. Once inside, Rosswell wrote and handed Frizz the consent to search.

Frizz said, “I need a deputy here.”

“Call one. We’re in no hurry.”

“They’re all still looking for the bodies and controlling traffic.”

They stood together at the front door and listened to the thunder and the rain pounding on the tin roof. Then, after flicking on every light in the house, Rosswell rejoined Frizz.

Rosswell said, “Call the Highway Patrol.”

“They’re swamped. They’re trying to work loose an investigator to come down here and help us.”

“Listen, Frizz, you search however much you need to. I’ll check into a motel. You can seal the house until you get more help if you don’t think you’ve done a thorough enough job.”

“Let me do it and I’ll tell you what I decide when I finish.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Frizz searched the kitchen. Nothing unusual there except that Rosswell’s fingertip test revealed that the countertop by the sink wasn’t as clean as normal. There were knives, but nothing that any other kitchen in the whole nation wouldn’t have. As expected, no guns. The only gun Rosswell owned resided in the desk of his bench in the courtroom at the courthouse.

Next, Frizz prospected the living room. He found nothing until he knelt and peered under the couch. Without turning around or standing up, he said, “You need to make reservations at a motel.”

As if Frizz’s words had called down an Old Testament sign from the Lord, a lightning bolt struck nearby, filling the air with ozone and damn near deafening Rosswell. Coldness prickled his skin. He felt nausea rising and his vision blurring. Something itchy ran up and down his spine.

Rosswell said, “What is it?”

With the barrel of his gun, Frizz teased out the object under the couch.

A knife that had to be a foot long, covered with blood and gore.

“This knife,” Frizz said, “is a polycarbonate quasi-resin.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s a super tough plastic that’s extremely sharp and a metal detector can’t find it. Terrorists love them.”

“Terrorists? Are you telling me that terrorists attacked me in my own house?”

“I don’t know who attacked you.”

“Of course you do. Candy. When she tried shooting Tina and me, she couldn’t pull off a kill shot because it was dark. After we got carried off to the hospital and everyone cleared the scene, she came back and planted that knife. It’s a message that she cut the throat of that poor guy out at the park. Then she probably shot the woman. After that, she killed Hermie, which makes three. I’m going to the hospital to make sure it’s not four.”

“I’ve put a twenty-four hour guard on Tina,” Frizz reminded Rosswell. “Candy is after Tina. And me.”

“Candy never mentioned one word about trying to shoot you two. Her confession is so full of holes it looks like a hunk of Swiss cheese after Ollie the rat got through with it. Why would she confess to two murders but forget about two attempted murders? It doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to make sense to Candy. She’s nuts.”

“If there had been trouble at the hospital, we’d already know about it. Rosswell, you act like I don’t have a stake in Tina being safe. She’s going to be fine.”

“I’ll call you if you’re wrong.”