A Killing at the Creek (17 page)

The juvenile caught her eye. He was watching her. He pursed his lips and sent her an air kiss.

The kiss jolted Elsie from her trance. She jumped from her seat, shouting, “Jesus Christ!”

The judge swung his gavel in Elsie's direction. “Is that an objection?”

“Yes, your honor; oh yes it is,” she said, recovering her wits in a rush. “Mr. Yocum's tactics are underhanded and unethical. He is badgering the witness, intentionally inciting him with questions designed to inflame the witness and the court.”

Yocum raised his hand, preparing to respond, but Judge Callaway cut him off.

“Sustained.”

Billy looked like he'd been delivered an electric shock. “Your honor!”

“Now Billy, I gave you some leeway with this, let you make your point. But you're going into territory that's best left alone.”

“Your honor, I can demonstrate bias—­”

“Hold off, Billy. You're done here. And you won this round.”

Elsie, who had half risen from her seat, sat down again. Chuck leaned in to whisper something to her, but she only listened with half an ear. She waited for the judge to continue, clutching her pen in a tight grip.

The judge said: “I'm not going to ask you all to prepare written suggestions, because my mind is made up. I'm suppressing the statement. The state cannot submit it at trial as part of the state's case in chief.”

Billy straightened his tie before he spoke. “Judge, I respectfully request that the state also be barred from using the statement for purposes of cross-­examination in the event the defendant testifies.”

Elsie was busy calculating the damage that the judge's decision would do to the state's case when she heard Ashlock speak up.

He was still in his seat on the witness stand. “Judge, we got all the forms signed, read him his rights—­did it by the book, from A to Z. And you're throwing it out? I don't understand.”

“And I'm not obligated to defend my ruling to you, Detective. But this once, I will.” The judge cut his eyes at Elsie, then turned his chair toward Ashlock. He spoke so softly that Elsie could barely make out the words: “I don't much care who you're fooling around with. But I don't like you interrogating a boy that age without a parent present. Doesn't sit right with me.” He tossed the file folder to his clerk. “Court is adjourned.”

 

Chapter 30

A
FT
ER
J
UDGE
C
ALLAWAY
left the bench, Elsie followed Chuck out of the courtroom, holding herself so tightly that her jaw hinge locked up. Rounding the rotunda on the second floor, Chuck pointed to the back entrance of the Prosecutor's Office and said: “First stop: Madeleine.”

Elsie ignored him. She dodged into the stairway and tore down the steps, nearly tripping over her own feet. On the ground floor, she made for the exit, pushing the ancient oak door open wide and letting the sun blind her. For a moment she stood, sucking the hot air into her lungs, with her eyes squeezed shut and her face turned up to the sky.

Jeanette, the court reporter, brushed past her.

“That was some hearing, huh?” the woman asked with a laugh.

Elsie nodded, her head bobbing like a toy on a string.

“I've got to get back in a hurry and work up the transcript for the court file. Wouldn't want to be you today. You're going to be famous.”

Elsie stared at the woman's back as she marched away, her heels clicking a beat on the hot concrete. She tried to summon a surge of anger toward the reporter, but it wouldn't come. The words she'd spoken were the Lord's own truth.

A weathered pair of park benches rested on the edge of the courthouse lawn where it met the street.
I've got to sit down
, Elsie thought, making her way toward them.
I need to sit and think.

She lowered herself onto the planks, taking care to keep her bare skin from touching the peeling slats of wood. All she needed to make the day complete was a splinter in her ass.

A distinctive stink registered, and she looked around warily, to find the source. It was near at hand; a trash receptacle beside the bench was topped by a metal ashtray wriggling with maggots.

“Jesus.” She groaned, scooting away from the odor; but as she thought the afternoon couldn't be more uncomfortable, she saw Lisa Peters coming toward her on the walk.

Lisa walked toward Elsie at a determined clip and planted herself in front of her, as if daring her to leave. Elsie looked up into her face, but the sun was so bright she had to squint.

“What?” Elsie said.

“It wasn't personal.”

“Shit,” Elsie said, her voice almost a sigh.

Lisa stood rooted to the spot, clutching a big white Sonic Drive-­In cup to her chest. “Really, I want you to know: I think you do a good job. I understand the prosecutor's role, what you do. And Chuck. But I was under oath.”

Elsie rubbed her eyes; the sun was too bright. “Yeah.”

“I swear to God,” Lisa said, dropping onto the bench beside her. “I wouldn't throw a rock at you. I've come to have a lot of respect for you.”

“You didn't have a choice,” Elsie said.

“I didn't have a choice,” Lisa said, as if Elsie hadn't spoken.

They sat in unhappy silence until Elsie pointed at the storefront across the street.

“Do you remember the old Ben Franklin? Or are you too young?”

“Kinda. It was a craft store, right?”

“No, that was just at the end, before it closed down for good. It was a five-­and-­dime before that, the real thing. Great candy. And weird shit. Random stuff.” The women gazed at the porcelain tiles that still covered the two-­story structure. “Somebody should do something with that property.”

“The square is dead.”

“Don't tell the Chamber of Commerce.”

“Chamber of Blow Jobs.”

For the first time that day, Elsie laughed out loud. It felt like a tonic. She turned to Lisa and said, “Don't worry. I'm not going to stick pins in a voodoo doll because you did what you had to do.”

“Really, I want you to know: I think you do a good job. But I was under oath.”

“I know.”

“I was; I had to tell the truth. I'm sorry you had such a terrible time in there. But I did the only thing I could do. You knew I didn't like the way that statement went down. I was straight with you about it.”

Elsie started to speak, but thought better of it.

“I just told the truth. That's all.” Making a face, Lisa said, “It smells like death,” then took a long pull on a Sonic Drive-­In cup.

Elsie settled back on the seat, scooting back far enough to feel the wood warm her thighs. She knew Lisa didn't have a choice. She'd been under subpoena; when questioned, she answered truthfully. “Apt description. It's maggots.” She nodded toward the offending trash can.

Lisa leaned in the direction of the can, appearing to examine the vermin. Nodding, she said, “It's the heat. Flies love the month of July. Nothing you can do about it.”

The women sat in silence, side by side, until Elsie roused herself from her inertia and said, “There's always something.”

Lisa sucked on the red straw. “How's that?”

“About maggots. My mom told me. Her family didn't have a garbage disposal when she was a kid, so maggots were fierce in the summer. But my grandmother sprinkled 20 Mule Team Borax in the garbage cans. Flies don't like borax.”

Lisa nodded, looking genuinely impressed. “That's good to know.”

Elsie let out a short laugh. “Honest to God, my mother knows some crazy shit.”

“Okay. Give me another one.”

Elsie lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “Sunburn.”

“What about it?”

“Apple cider vinegar for sunburn. She'd pour it on me in the tub. I bitched about the smell, but it works like magic.”

Lisa nodded. “That's a good one. But I've heard it before.”

Taking the challenge, Elsie inched closer to Lisa. “What about leg cramps? Charley horses? Mom puts a bar of soap under the fitted sheet. I never had trouble with muscle cramps in the night when I lived at home.” To herself, she added, “I ought to do that now.”

“That sounds like an old wives' tale. There could be a million other reasons to explain the phenomenon.”

Elsie did not deign to reply.

Lisa went on, “I always heard gin and tonic is good for muscle cramps.”

“Gin and tonic is good for what ails you,” Elsie said, but remembering the cocktails that led to her casino war with Ashlock, she fell silent.

Lisa sighed. “I can't help it, I worry about him.”

“Tanner Monroe?”

“Oh yeah. Tanner Monroe. My first assigned juvenile case. What a kickoff.” She held out her Sonic cup. “Have a drink.”

Elsie shook her head. “No, thanks.”

Lisa ignored the refusal; she put the drink in Elsie's hand. “It's cherry.”

Elsie stared at the cup. She had no desire to share the cherry slush; she was not a germophobe, but she wasn't ready to smoke the ceremonial peace pipe with Lisa, if that was what the cup represented.

“I'm not thirsty,” she said, but Lisa snorted.

“If you don't suck on that straw right this second, you ain't got a hair on your ass.”

That caused Elsie to crack a smile; she'd always liked that expression. Obligingly, she sucked on the straw.

Fire poured down her throat and made her eyes water. “Shit,” she choked, “you should've warned me.”

Lisa cut her eyes at Elsie with a conspiratorial look. “Vodka. I needed a big dose of something after that court hearing.”

Elsie shuddered, the aftereffect of the unexpected shot. “Do you think you're okay?”

“I'll survive.”

Narcissistic little shit
, Elsie thought
. Maybe you should try to survive being the Hester Prynne of McCown County.

“Lisa, what I meant was—­are you okay to drive?”

“I've got a ride. I'm waiting.”

Elsie rested against the back of the park bench. The vodka must have deadened her sense of smell; the maggots were more bearable. “Give me another bite of that snake.”

Lisa offered the cup, saying, “You're sure you're not hating my fucking guts?”

“Just a little. Less than I was.” At the sight of Lisa's anxious face, Elsie laughed. “Aw, shit, hon; he had you in a spot. I can't hate a girl for telling the truth when she's under oath.” Elsie hand back the cup. “Because I'm not like that.”

“I finally figured that out.” Lisa lifted the lid and showed Elsie the icy remains. “We're down to the slushy stuff.” She tipped the cup and took a mouthful.

Looking away, Elsie said, “Sometimes I wish I'd never heard of Tanner Monroe.”

Lisa choked and gagged. After spitting a chunk of ice on the sidewalk, she said. “Hey, sista. I'm thinking that every single day.”

A voice cut across the courthouse lawn. “Peters! Petie!”

Both women looked around to see Chuck Harris standing under a shade tree near the side entrance of the courthouse, loosening his tie. He jerked his thumb toward the employee parking. “Ready?”

“Gotta go,” Lisa said, tossing her Sonic cup into the maggoty waste can. She strutted up to Chuck, and as they walked off together, Lisa's hand slipped around Chuck's waist.

Elsie's jaw unlocked and she stared at the pair, openmouthed. “Fuck me running,” she whispered.

 

Chapter 31

W
HEN
E
LSIE OPENED
the door of Billy Yocum's storefront office on the town square, a chime jangled to herald her arrival. She looked up and saw a tarnished brass bell dangling overhead.

Elsie heard a toilet flush, and a moment later, an ancient secretary appeared. The woman shuffled toward Elsie, squinting through tortoiseshell glasses.

“It's Elsie, isn't it? Little Elsie Arnold.”

“Hey, Veda.” Elsie gave her a smile. Veda Wilson had served as Yocum's secretary for decades.

The woman shook a finger at her. “I used to babysit your mama.”

Elsie nodded. “Yes, ma'am, I know. You've told me.” Veda Wilson reminded Elsie of the babysitting connection each and every time Elsie encountered her.

“She was such a nice girl. And smart! Why, she could read the newspaper in first grade.”

“She's still reading that paper, Veda. Every morning. Say, Veda, is Billy around?”

“Yes, indeed. Let me stick my head in his office.” Veda stepped over to a closed door; without bothering to knock, she literally stuck her head inside. “Billy, she's here.”

His voice boomed into the outer office. “And who's this ‘she'?”

“Billy, it's Elsie. Elsie Arnold. Marge's girl.”

“Have her take a seat. I'll be out in a minute.”

Elsie dropped into a chair of mustard yellow vinyl, thinking that the delay was a power play on Billy's part. She stretched her legs in front of her, settling in for a long wait, and started to simmer. She did not intend to waste her afternoon in Yocum's office; he was at the very top of her shit list, even over Madeleine and Ashlock. Elsie hadn't deigned to look at Yocum since the motion to suppress hearing a fortnight ago, much less speak to him; but he'd surprised her with a phone call that morning, demanding in a curt voice that she come by his office after lunch. He said he had important news to share. And before she could protest, he hung up.

Elsie picked through the magazines on the table beside her chair. They were Mrs. Yocum's discarded issues of
Good Housekeeping
and
Southern Living
, with the address labels still intact. On a lower shelf of the side table, she saw a stack of old yearbooks: Barton High, Home of the Mountaineers! She picked up the one on top, bearing a worn green cover with the year set forth in faded gold: 1960.

“Jesus,” she whispered, flipping through the black and white pages of Yocum's glory days. In the senior class photo, the caption revealed he was president; she spotted him on the basketball team; and the debate team ran a half-­page photo of Billy, a staged pose, with his arms crossed as he scowled at his opponent. Two pages later, she found the prize: Billy sitting on a hay bale beside a girl wearing a gown of layers of tulle: Barnwarming King and Queen.

Elsie guffawed at the picture, drawing a curious stare from Veda. As she closed the yearbook and slipped it back in place with the others, she nearly upset a huge pottery ashtray. Elsie pushed it back to safety by the magazines. It was a vintage jewel of speckled aqua, with room for a dozen smokers to ash and rest their cigarettes and extinguish butts. It held a matching lighter. Elsie picked it up and flicked it, but it didn't work.

“You itching for a smoke, Miss Arnold?” Billy stood in the doorway of his office, regarding her with a raised brow.

She jammed the lighter back into its spot. “Lord, no, Billy. I've never smoked.” The statement was not entirely true. “I was just wondering—­why do you have that thing out here? They just passed that new smoking ordinance. You're violating city law.”

“I don't plan on using it.”

“Then what's it here for?” In a mocking tone, she said, “Sentimental reasons?”

“It was a gift. When I opened my law practice. A gift from my late father.”

Aw, shit, Elsie thought. Billy Yocum always played the dead family card on her. She had no comeback; she followed Billy into his office and settled into a bloodred club chair that faced his desk. He sat across from her, staring, his right hand toying with a paperweight that sat atop a manila file folder.

“Billy. What did you call me over here for? I'm busy.”

“I have a report to share with you.” Billy set the paperweight aside and opened the folder, pulling a stapled sheaf of papers from the top of a pile. As Elsie watched, jiggling her foot with impatience, Yocum scanned the document through his bifocals.

At length, she interrupted his silent reading. “Billy, you could send that to me. E-­mail me, and attach it. Or fax it. You could send it U.S. mail, if you're not in a hurry. Or, I don't know, maybe just drop it off with Stacie. That's how I got your last important motion.”

Yocum continued to examine the papers. Elsie stood. Her voice was snappish when she spoke. “I'm heading out, Billy. I'll be damned if I'm going to sit here and watch you read. I'll tell you the truth: I'm not really in the mood to hang with you, after that hatchet job in Callaway's court.”

She nearly reached the door when Yocum's voice stopped her. “My client suffers from mental illness. Mr. Monroe.”

Elsie turned, scrutinizing him with a wary eye. “What's this? What happened to Other Dude Done It?”

Billy didn't answer. His eyes were trained on the document.

Elsie said, “If Tanner Monroe didn't cut the woman's throat; if, as you and your client contend, another person did the deed, then what does it matter whether he's crazy or not?”

Billy Yocum replaced the document in the file folder and closed it, carefully setting the paperweight on top. “Then you have no interest in the content of my medical report.”

Elsie edged back to her chair. “I'm interested, sure. What's the diagnosis?”

Billy sighed. Shaking his head, he said, “My client is a troubled young man.”

She smiled in response, genuinely amused. “No shit.”

“Miss Arnold, could you please refrain from using vulgar language in my office?”

Resentment washed over Elsie like the tide. “Oh please. Excuse the fuck out of me, Billy. I thought I was talking to the guy who accused Ashlock of ‘dicking' me in open court.”

Billy leaned back in his chair with a patient expression. “Miss Arnold, you fancy yourself a litigator. I'd expect you to understand trial tactics.”

Behind Billy's head was a shelf containing two prizes: a plaque from the Missouri Trial Attorneys Association, naming him the Trial Lawyer of the Year in 1982; and the trophy for Division 1 High School basketball in 1960. She imagined the satisfaction she would derive from knocking the treasures to the floor.

“It was personal. You crossed the line, Billy.”

“Miss Arnold, you have some hard lessons to learn. Not the least of which is how to stand clear of that line. You walk right into the line of fire, you know that?” He tapped the file folder with his index finger. “Antisocial personality disorder.”

Elsie made a hissing noise, waving her hand in dismissal. “Is that the best you can do? Every inmate in the Department of Corrections can claim that disorder; just means they commit crimes. You were better off with ODDI.”

Yocum adjusted his glasses, smiling broadly. “I guess you'll find that out soon enough.”

She didn't like his expression. “What do you mean?”

“At trial. You'll learn about our defense pretty soon now.”

“What do you mean? We won't go to trial for months yet. We're way down on the docket.”

“I'm filing a motion. Veda just typed it up. Maybe you should be there when the judge takes it up.”

Her face flushed; he always kept her off-­balance. “Billy, what's going on?”

“My wife and I are taking our fortieth wedding anniversary trip. She wants to see the castles of Europe.”

“Judge Callaway isn't going to rush a murder case to trial so you can go on vacation.”

“Oh goodness, no. He'll do it for the safety and security of a minor. My client is in the general population at the county jail; did you know that?”

Elsie felt a twinge of angst; she'd supposed they'd placed Monroe in some kind of protective custody, away from the other inmates. “I don't know the particulars.”

“He's in grave danger, on a daily basis. I'd think such a wrinkle would occur to you. You purport to be greatly disturbed by sex crimes against young victims.”

She almost winced. “If there's a problem, you should talk to Vernon Wantuck at the jail. He'd listen to you.”

“Oh, I think I'll take it up with Judge Callaway. I believe I will.”

Elsie's head started spinning; if they were looking at a trial date in the near future, she needed to start anticipating the defense's hand. “Hey, Billy, who's your doctor? Who did the mental eval on Monroe?”

“Dr. Boone. In Springfield.”

“That quack?” Elsie recognized the name; Dr. Boone was a psychologist in private practice who was popular with the criminal defense bar, due to his propensity to declare criminal defendants unfit to stand trial and unable to comprehend that their behavior was wrong. “Boone thinks everyone is crazy. He'd diagnose me with antisocial personality disorder.”

Yocum didn't reply; he just looked at Elsie with his brow lifted.

“Don't you dare,” she said. “Don't say it. We're on thin ice as it is, you and me.”

“Miss Elsie, you can't read my mind. And you mustn't be disposed to paranoia. Such an unattractive quality in a woman.”

She stood in a huff. “Give me the goddamned report, and a copy of your new motion. And I'll get out of here before you make me lose my temper.”

He patted the manila folder with a blue-­veined hand; on his fourth finger, he wore a Mason's ring sporting a large faceted ruby.

“I think I'll take your suggestion, Miss Arnold. I'll send this motion to you and Mr. Harris through the U.S. Postal Ser­vice. It should reach you next week. If Veda gets it in the mail in the next day or two.”

Elsie didn't bother to reply. She walked away from Billy and made for the exit. Before she reached the door, Veda called to her.

“Elsie, honey, hold up. I've got something for you.”

Elsie turned. “Is it the new motion in the Monroe case? I'd like to see that.”

“No, I don't have that ready for Billy to see. This is something else.” Veda lifted a stack of envelopes that appeared to hold the morning mail.

“Really, Veda, I'm in an awful hurry.”

“Well now, I had it right here.” She opened the top drawer of her desk and began to paw through it. “I had it just a minute ago.”

“Mrs. Wilson, I'm sorry, but—­”

“She was just here. Just right here with it.”

As Elsie burned with impatience, Veda scoured the drawer a second time, breaking off the search with a laugh. Reaching for the blue Kleenex box on her desk, she said, “I put it right on top so I wouldn't lose it. Sometimes I think I must be getting the old-­timers.”

Veda extended an open hand; when Elsie saw what it held, she quailed. It was a tarot card. The Fool.

She didn't want to touch it, but Veda held it out with an expectant face.

“A woman was looking in here for you, but she wouldn't wait. She said to give this to you. Said you'd understand.”

Elsie examined the worn card, its cardboard edges soft and frayed. The Fool was stepping off a cliff. Because the Fool didn't look to see where he was going.

These days, it felt like she was doing the same thing.