Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 01 - Courting Murder (6 page)

Rosswell took a gander over at the mousy woman Ollie pointed out. Mabel Yolanda Smothers. She wouldn’t bother the Miss America people much, what with her bad skin and stringy hair.

“I think,” Ollie said, still whispering, “she’s my daughter.”

“Cut the crap.”

“I’m not shitting you.” Ollie wasn’t whispering now, but his voice was still low, as was Rosswell’s.

“Why,” Rosswell said, “do you think that sweet girl would be any
kin to you? You don’t know?”

“Her momma and I were… .” Ollie stared down at his own beverage.

“Were what?”

He looked up at Rosswell. “Close.”

“Does Mabel know that you think you’re her daddy?”

“She knows everything. I told her that I’m proud of her. She takes after her momma. She’s never been in jail.”

“That’s an accomplishment to be proud of.”

A low hum came from Ollie, which Rosswell took as a squeak precursor.

“Smothers,” Rosswell said. “Her momma’s the nurse, Benita Smothers?”

Ollie swigged a long drink of ice water. “I’m pretty sure.”

“You’re pretty sure Benita is her mother or that she’s your kid?”

“Maybe.”

Rosswell really wanted to discuss the disappearing bodies, not Ollie’s possible contribution to the gene pool of Bollinger County, but he had no choice. “That doesn’t tell me why you think Mabel Yolanda Smothers is your daughter.” Ollie had a way of roping a conversation and pulling it his way. If Rosswell didn’t like it, Ollie clammed up.

“Her momma told me.”

“Right,” Rosswell said, giving up. Trying to pry information out of Ollie was like catching flies blindfolded. Rosswell inspected Mabel as casually as he could. “Did Mabel tell you about the bodies?”

“Yeah, I already said that.”

“She told you because you’re her daddy?”

“You’re on track.”

“How did she find out?”

“I told Mabel I was her daddy.” Rosswell removed his glasses, covered his face with his hands, and breathed deeply. All the times he’d been in Merc’s, the thought that Mabel was possibly related to a
hairless human rat had never crossed his busy mind. How many more relatives did Ollie have scratching around here? Rosswell didn’t want that conversation with him now.

Rosswell replaced his glasses. “No, I mean about the bodies. How did she know about the bodies?”

“No secrets in Bollinger County.” Ollie started with the rodent grinning. “If you think you know someone else’s secret, then you head to Merc’s and spill your guts.”

“And the reason you never told me before that Mabel’s your
daugter?”

“It didn’t seem important before. She’s never had any really good info until now.”

“I need your help.”

Ollie grinned more but said nothing.

“Frizz is swamped. He can’t handle the investigation by himself, whether he wanted to admit it or not.”

I know everyone in the county and remember most of their names. Some of their names. Some of the time. I’m essential. My mushroom hunting can be shunted aside for however long it takes. My docket is clear. I’m on vacation.

Rosswell said, “I need to help Frizz. Two bodies. That’s never happened before in Bollinger County.”

Ollie shook his head. “No way. I’m not in the mood to piss off the sheriff.”

Rosswell gritted his teeth. Ollie had been drifting around for the last few months in one of his periodic bouts of sobriety. He knew more about esoteric stuff than Rosswell did. Ollie made the trivia sites on the Internet look like something that stupid third graders had cobbled together. Add to that he knew how to work computers and Rosswell didn’t, and you then had a guy who could be useful to Rosswell for the investigation. Useful? Try essential.

“Ollie, I can pay you.”

“I’m making lots of money off my computer consulting business, thank you very much.”

Someone, Rosswell couldn’t tell who, dropped a load of dishes, the crash reverberating through the restaurant.
Merc yelled. A couple of customers laughed.

Rosswell said, “Think of the intellectual challenge.” Ollie held a Mensa membership.
Mensans were noted puzzle aficionados. There was no way he could pass up an intellectual challenge. “It would be a great intellectual challenge. You could help me find the guy who killed two people.”

“The only intellectual challenge I currently have and the only one I need is my study of the Book of Revelation. I’m writing a complete study about the prophecies.”

“You don’t care that two people got murdered?”

Ollie stared at Rosswell for a long time without saying a word. Had Rosswell offended Ollie? After a couple of minutes, Ollie said, “None of my business.”

“There’s nothing I can say to convince you to help me?”

“Not a thing.” He half squeaked and gurgled a mousy half laugh. “But we’ll still be friends.” Now he was fishing for something.

“I’m not going to apologize for throwing you in jail. You deserved it. That’s irrelevant to this conversation.”

After Ollie was released from jail the first time Rosswell imprisoned him, they’d met accidentally at Merc’s. When they realized they both shared the trait of being nosy bastards, a common bond formed.

“I’ve got to eat and then go see some of my clients.” Ollie pointed to his tuna sandwich, potato chips, and pickle. “You’ll have to excuse me.” The pickle juice had moistened the potato chips, leaving them soggy. Rosswell hated the smell of dill pickles. The thought of eating potato chips soaked in dill pickle juice nauseated him.

Rosswell swallowed the last of the sludge, then rose and grabbed both checks. “Thanks for talking to me.” He drew a dollar from his wallet and laid it on the table for Mabel. Remembering who her father
might be, Rosswell added a five. Sympathy may as well be worth a couple of dollars.

Rosswell turned and headed for the cash register where Mabel asked, “Is everything all right?”

Not really. There are some wars going on and diseases that can’t be cured and poverty grows worse. And it appears that a man almost hurt you right in front of your father.
That’s what Rosswell thought but didn’t say. He said, “Fine. Everything’s fine,” all the while wondering if there were a minimally invasive way for him to kill Ollie. A way that wouldn’t get him caught.

Rosswell opened his billfold and discovered that the last money he had now lay on the table as Mabel’s tip. He fished in his pocket, hoping to grab some change and froze.

“Mabel, I’ll be right back.”

Rosswell moseyed over to Ollie’s booth, leaned close to his face, and whispered, “
Virtus junxit mors non separabit
.”

Ollie jolted sideways like Rosswell had broken a watermelon on his head. “Sit down.” Ollie had nearly choked on a potato chip.

“Thanks.” Rosswell sat.

“Where did you hear that?”

“I didn’t hear it anywhere.” Rosswell inventoried the room. Only one or two people were watching Ollie and Rosswell. Rosswell took a paper napkin from the dispenser, drew the ring from his pocket, and then cradled it in his lap. After wrapping it carefully, Rosswell brought the ring up and slid it towards Ollie. “I read it.”

Ollie did his own glance around the room. When he was apparently satisfied that no one was staring, he opened the napkin and read. Ollie choked again, spitting bits of potato chip on the table. Mabel, who’d been waiting on the table next to the pair, whirled around, probably wondering if she needed to perform the Heimlich maneuver. Ollie drank water, then quickly rewrapped the ring, and Mabel turned back to her work.

“Where did you get this?”

“At the crime scene.”

“What makes you think it has anything to do with the murder?”

“I don’t know if it does or not.”

Ollie slid the ring back to Rosswell.

“Keep it,” Rosswell said. “For now. I may need it back.”

“When do we start?”

“Right now, but what about your clients?”

“I can catch up with them later.”

The two men arrowed for the death place.

“Nothing but mud.” Ollie poked
his foot into the stinking muck of Picnic Area 3. There were three sewage treatment plants upstream. “If there was any DNA evidence or … well … any evidence at all, it’s been washed away.” He stared at a single set of tire tracks, turned over a couple of rocks, booted three or four big sticks out of the way. “Nothing. No evidence. No clues.”

“I know that.” Every cloud had fled to wherever it is that clouds go, and the sun boiled the pair. The weather forecast had predicted that the heat wave could last another ten days. A sparkling rock looked interesting. Rosswell picked it up and felt the rough surface of the quartz. “There are still things we could learn.”

“You’re on track.” Ollie lowered his head and fixed his gaze on Ross- well’s eyes. Ollie’s gray eyes always set alarm bells jingling in Rosswell’s brain. In truth, Ollie scared Rosswell. “Judge, what were you doing here in the first place? You just happened to stumble upon two corpses by accident?”

“I was searching for mushrooms.” Rosswell had set himself up for
what he knew was coming next. The running jab was beginning to wear his patience thinner than a muslin dress on a fat woman.
All right, Ollie, get it over with. Hit me with it.

Ollie said, “Mushrooms?”

“Yes.”

Wasn’t Ollie going to tell Rosswell that it was illegal to pick mush- rooms in a state park? He didn’t. Instead, he asked, “When did you start searching for mushrooms?” No surprise showed in his voice. He was used to Rosswell’s oddities.

“Since I bought my camera, earlier this year. It was a Valentine’s Day present to myself.”

“You’re taking pictures of mushrooms?” His demeanor hadn’t changed, indicating that he didn’t think taking pictures of mushrooms was all that strange.

“I’m taking pictures of lots of things. When I finish my mushroom collection, I’ll take pictures of frogs or wild flowers or fish or rocks. Something. I print the pictures and keep them in an album. A real world album, not something online.”

“How about people?”

“Holy crap. I can’t believe I forgot about the pictures on my camera.” Rosswell avoided Ollie’s eyes while he slunk to the car, doing his best to keep his hands from slapping himself silly. When he returned with his camera, they reviewed the 738 photos Rosswell had taken of the bodies earlier in the day. Ollie snatched the Nikon from Rosswell and again studied each shot without a word. Not even a squeak. Ollie paced and stepped, moving around like an actor trying to find his marks on the stage. Often, he’d hold the camera at ground level. Other times, he inspected the surrounding area and compared it to what he saw in the camera.

Ollie straightened to his full height after finishing his analysis. “These people,” he tapped the viewer on the camera, “knew the murderer.”

“The corpses knew their killer?”

“What I said. They’re the only people on your camera.”

Rosswell clicked through the pictures, also studying them. “How do you know that?”

Ollie crossed his arms and leaned over Rosswell. “There was one wound on the man.” Ollie with his 6′6″ six frame tried to intimidate Rosswell, who stretched to reach 5′5″. “I think it was a man. You have to get up close and personal to slit someone’s throat. It’s highly unlikely that the murderer was hiding in the bushes waiting for these people to walk by. The two victims and the murderer or murderers probably came out here in the same vehicle. The man’s throat was slit. That’s what killed him.”

“That’s what Neal thought. Someone sliced the guy’s throat open. Neal didn’t get a good look at the woman. There was some blood right where we’re standing.” Rosswell dug at the ground with his foot. “They were probably killed before last night’s rain, so most of the blood had washed away by the time I arrived.”

Ollie circled the scene and studied the ground. Then he circled the other way. “The other one, the female, didn’t have her throat slashed. She wouldn’t have stuck around after the guy bought it if she wasn’t in on it, unless she was under some kind of duress.”

“You get that from looking at the ground?”

“No. Looking at the pictures. The murderer slashes the guy’s throat. The woman is watching. She’s in on it. Or drugged. The murderer kills her second. Why, I don’t know. Maybe they had a fight. Who knows?”

Kneeling, Rosswell wadded up a ball of mud and smelled it. It smelled like a wadded up ball of mud. Nothing special. He wouldn’t taste it if the fate of the universe depended on it. It felt squishy, full of leaves, sticks, and who knew what else. From knee level, he again surveyed the whole area. A bald eagle flew loops high in the air. Rosswell hoped the bird wouldn’t mistake Ollie’s bald head for a tasty purple treat.

Ollie’s reasoning made sense. Rosswell stood and rephrased Ollie’s
conclusion. “The female helped the guy kill the other guy. That means there were at least three people out here. Could be more, but definitely three.”

“You’re making assumptions.”

Across the river, Rosswell watched an armadillo clawing into a mound of dirt, apparently searching for tasty grubs. Armadillos were supposed to be nocturnal. Had the scent of death awakened the critter?

“What assumptions?” Rosswell said, turning his attention back to Ollie. “Name me one.”

“You think the third person was a man.”

Rosswell thought about that. Ollie, damn it, was right. “The female helped the male or female suspect kill the male. Is that fair?”

“Fair and clear.”

“Maybe we need to be looking for a big woman? The dead woman wasn’t all that big. It would’ve taken a big woman to help the dead woman hold the guy so they could slice his throat.”

“Not if he was drugged. Or perhaps shot.”

“You just pointed out that his throat was slit.”

“Maybe his throat was slit.” Ollie sounded like he was about to bray that fricking squeak of his. “Do you have the autopsy reports? No, you don’t. You lost the body. Bodies.”

Rosswell thought about that too. He recalled why he consulted Ollie often. Ollie was
pissy, yes, but the rodent could think. Although now Ollie could be running down the wrong track.

Rosswell said, “What if the guy and the other person killed the woman first? Maybe one of them shot her. Then the third person, the mastermind, was a big guy who slashed the dead man’s throat. That could’ve happened.”

“I doubt that. If the killer shot the woman, then why didn’t he or she shoot the man? Why waste all that energy to slash the man’s throat?”

“The murderer wanted to send a message.”

“Judge, let’s not get mired down in all that unadulterated bullshit pop psychology.”

“Let me get this straight. We’re looking for at least one person, male or female, that could be big enough to kill the guy with the help of the dead woman?”

“That’s a good place to start.”

“And the man could’ve been shot before his throat was slit. Or maybe drugged before.”

“Judge, now you’re thinking like a detective.”

“But there could be another, fourth person, another murderer. The two bodies I found and two other people to kill them.”

“Or a fifth.”

“Maybe not. Even Hermie
Hillsman would’ve noticed a killing party that big.”

“Think outside the box.”

Rosswell scratched his mustache. “Let’s not even get ourselves in a box. Keep an open mind.”

“Keeping an open mind here.” The Vaseline on Ollie’s bald head glistened in the afternoon sun. His hand reached for his head, but he stopped before he could follow through with a head rub.

Rosswell said, “What if there were only two people involved?”

Ollie squinted into the sun. “You’re not making sense.” He closed his eyes.

“What if one of the dead ones surprised the other two? The mastermind had to kill them both.”

“She wasn’t planning on coming out here.” Ollie’s eyes flew open. “The dead woman was decked out for a cocktail party. She wasn’t dressed for the picnic area of a state park out in the boonies.”

“The guy lured her out here, tried to rape her, she resisted, he shot her, and the other person came along, didn’t like what he or she saw, and then sliced the guy’s throat. Makes perfect sense.”

“You’re not only thinking outside the box, you’re thinking outside your brain.”

“I’ll bet,” Rosswell said, “the dead female was surprised. Her throat wasn’t slit and there wasn’t much blood around her. The killer could’ve just shot her without warning.”

“UNSUB.”

It still had to be close to a hundred degrees. Rosswell stunk, the place stunk, and he was hungry, tired, and irritated. Every insect within a mile must’ve pledged itself to torment him with its biting and buzzing. The last thing he needed was more of Ollie’s games. “What kind of word is that?”

“You’re being intentionally dense.”

“Dense?” Ollie started to squeak but Rosswell shot up a hand and wiggled his fingers. “Don’t do that again for the rest of the day. Tell me. That’s all, just tell me.”

“UNSUB is an FBI acronym for unknown subject. That’s why we’ll call this person the UNSUB.”

“No, let’s not call anyone that. I hate acronyms. And sometimes synonyms. And I’m not real fond of antonyms.”

“Okay.”

Ollie and Rosswell searched Picnic Area 3 again. Rosswell crouched while Ollie lay face down, giving himself a worm’s eye view. Nothing. Ollie rose muddy. They both walked backward, looking down around their feet as they shuffled. They also walked forward, staring at the area around their feet. Nothing.

“Damn,” Rosswell said after two hours of finding nothing. “This detective business is tiring.”

Ollie grabbed him by the shoulders. Ollie’s tight grip hurt Rosswell. There’s something unsettling in being grabbed by a big guy you’ve thrown in jail. Rosswell made no move. What Ollie thought at that moment wasn’t clear to Rosswell. What the large snitch wanted that caused him to grab Rosswell was a mystery. The fact that Ollie had never beaten him up before was comforting. Not much. But a little.

“You,” Ollie said, “need to learn something.”

“What?”

“We’ve just started.” Ollie dropped his arms. “If you’re giving up, then take me back to town.”

“No.”

The thought that a third murder or perhaps a good thumping was in the works raced across Rosswell’s mind like a scared jack rabbit with a wolf on his tail. A detective slaughtered by his snitch was bad karma.

Ollie pulled out the heavy silver ring Rosswell had given him at Merc’s. “Either take me back to town and keep your ring and your whining to yourself, or show me where you found this.” He held out the ring. Rosswell considered it but didn’t take the ring.

“What’s that Latin phrase mean?”

“
Virtus junxit mors non separabit
.” Ollie said it with a sepulchral tone, as if he were pronouncing doom on someone. “‘Virtue has united and death shall not separate.’ Or, maybe, ‘Whom virtue unites, death will not separate.’ It depends on your translation.”

“Sounds like something out of a wedding ceremony.”

“Nope. Masonic.”

“Ollie, what in the hell are you talking about?”

“You didn’t see the rest of the inscription.” He pointed to three letters on the opposite side of the inside of the ring. “EJD.”

“Somebody’s initials?”

“Could be. Or it could be the abbreviation for a motto.”

“We need to find a Mason who has those initials.”

“Or,” Ollie said, “someone who knows if that’s an abbreviation for a motto.”

Rosswell, by then tired as a lost dog, pushed himself to walk to where he’d found the ring. Exhaustion hulked down the road towards him like an 18 wheeler on the interstate. The log, following the rules of nature, had sailed down the river along with the bodies. “It was under a log which is probably floating in the Gulf of Mexico by now.”

“Did someone hide the ring in the log?”

“Got me.”

Ollie said, “You’re withholding a clue you found at a crime scene.”

“I’ll show it to Frizz.” Rosswell took the ring from Ollie. “Eventually,” Rosswell added. Every time he touched the thing, it felt heavier. “Let me get this straight. This belonged to a Mason?” Rosswell stuffed the ring into his pocket.

“Got me.”

“That’s my line.” Rosswell tapped his head with a forefinger. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Listening here.”

The only thing to listen to now was a gentle breeze, not what Rosswell admitted to himself was the lukewarm air he spouted. “We need to find the bodies.”
That was brilliant.

“Do you expect us to do what the twenty people Frizz called out can’t do?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Whatever. Wait. Something.” Ollie held up his hand and shut his eyes. “Something,” he repeated. Rosswell began to speak, but Ollie shushed him with a wave of his hand. Bowing his head, Ollie covered his ears with his hands, and then covered his eyes. Was he praying for divine guidance? Was he going into some kind of mystical fit? Was Rosswell’s smell bothering him? Ollie had strange—strange to Rosswell’s way of thinking—ideas about the “
worlds we cannot see” (Ollie’s words), although Rosswell doubted that Ollie thought those worlds were going to solve a double murder.