A Killing at the Creek (19 page)

 

Chapter 34

A
HORSEFLY INVA
DED
Judge Callaway's courtroom through one of the screened windows. Elsie heard the buzz before she saw it; twisting around in her chair, she looked up and watched it zigzag around the room.

Judge Callaway was seated at the bench, flipping through the pages of Billy Yocum's motion. “Billy,” he said, “what are you thinking about this?”

“Your honor,” Billy said, rising to his feet, “my client is only fifteen years old. The county jail is a perilous environment for him. He is in danger of attack from all sides. I could elaborate, but”—­with a courtly nod at the court reporter—­“there is a lady present.”

At the prosecution table, Chuck leaned close to Elsie and whispered, “He doesn't mean you.”

“Shut up,” she said.

The judge said, “Billy, this is a change of tune. The defense generally pleads for more time.”

Billy nodded. “Your honor, that's true. But we have an uncommon case here. My first concern has to be the safety of this child.” He pointed at Tanner Monroe, who sat cuffed at the counsel table.

Elsie glanced over at Monroe and heard him mutter: “I'm not a child. Jesus fucking Christ.”

Billy put a hand on the young man's shoulder and gave it a squeeze; the gesture looked supportive, but Elsie guessed that Yocum's fingers were digging in hard enough to deliver a message. Yocum then walked around the table and blocked Monroe from the judge's view. Elsie smiled, in spite of herself; Yocum was a smart old dude.

“So we entreat the court, with all due respect, to try the case without delay. In the interest of my client's safety. And the interest of justice. And you know, Judge Callaway”—­Billy grinned, baring his piano-­key teeth—­“I'm not getting any younger.”

The horsefly had targeted Elsie. It buzzed in angry circles around her head. She ducked, an involuntary response, but it dive-­bombed her. She waved a frantic arm to shoo it away.

“Ms. Arnold?” Judge Callaway said, as Chuck hissed, “What are you doing?”

She dropped her hand to the table. “There's a fly in here,” she said.

The judge tuned back to Yocum. “So Billy, what are you asking for, time-­wise?”

“Your honor, the court knows I'll be unavailable in the fall, due to Peggy and my anniversary celebration. But I think I can see my way to freeing up some time before then. In the summer, Peggy and I generally spend time at our place on Table Rock Lake. But she and I had a talk, and she is willing to make a sacrifice on behalf of my client. Peggy can't sleep at night for worrying about that boy.”

The horsefly moved to the defense table. It circled before it landed on the file in front of Yocum's empty chair. Elsie watched in fascination as it walked along the varnished surface of the tabletop.

The juvenile's hand moved so swiftly that it made her blink. He caught the fly in his hand and looked over at Elsie. Cocking his brow, he lifted his fist in triumph.

Elsie watched his hand, curious to see what he would do next. Monroe squeezed his fist; she could see his fingers clench. Then he opened his hand and let the fly drop onto the tabletop.

It wasn't quite dead. It flopped around, its buzz muted to a death rattle. Monroe toyed with it, pushing it with his index finger.

He had new letters tattooed on his fingers, and she could almost make them out. She leaned toward the defense table, scooting her chair in his direction.

“Ms. Arnold?”

She jerked back, sitting up straight. Judge Callaway was looking at her with a disgruntled expression. “Ms. Arnold, could we have your attention? You're representing the state of Missouri here today, aren't you?”

“Yes, your honor.” She offered the judge an apologetic smile, resisting the urge to glance back at Monroe's hand. At her side, Chuck looked at her with disbelief.

“Are you high? Pull your head out of your ass,” he hissed.

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Get your shit together.”

“I'm fine. Hush.”

Judge Callaway was leafing through his black leather-­bound calendar. “Billy, if I move some things around, I can give you four days in August.”

“I'll take it.”

Chuck jumped up. “Judge, that's awful soon. We'll have to check and see whether the state's witnesses can be available on such short notice.”

“Get them here. You're set for trial.”

Chuck walked up to the bench, holding papers from the file. “Judge, the defense just sent me a mental evaluation of the defendant, claiming he has a personality disorder. We'll need to have a doctor examine him on behalf of the state.”

“Then do it. I expect Mr. Monroe has plenty of free time for the appointment.”

“Judge, it will take some time to arrange it.”

“Mr. Harris, we have a fifteen-­year-­old in lockup at the McCown County jail, and the defense is ready to proceed. Get your case in order.”

“Judge Callaway,” Chuck said, his voice bordering on a whine, “We need to know whether the defendant is changing his plea from ‘Not Guilty' to ‘Not Guilty by Reason of Mental Disease or Defect.' ”

Yocum ambled up to the bench, chuckling. “Thinking about it,” he said.

Elsie glanced back at the defense table, anxious to see Monroe's reaction to the insanity discussion. He was holding the fly by a broken wing. When he saw her looking, he said, “I'm not crazy.”

But she didn't respond. Because over Monroe's head, she saw a woman's face pressed against the glass panel of the courtroom door. Elsie recognized the hat with the crushed orange flowers: it was Cleo, the fortune-­teller. She was staring at Elsie.

“Shit,” Elsie whispered. Before she could look away, Cleo pointed a finger at her.

 

Chapter 35

W
HEN
J
UDGE
C
AL
LAWAY
left the bench, Elsie didn't hesitate. Without waiting for Chuck, she bolted for the door, nearly colliding with Emil as the bailiff fumbled with the keys to truss Monroe.

“Whoa,” Emil cried, but Elsie didn't pause. She shot through the courtroom and ran to the Prosecutor's Office.

At the reception counter, she found Stacie, toying with a lip-­gloss wand. Without looking Elsie's way, Stacie said, “I can't do anything for you. I'm going to lunch.”

“Stacie. I cannot let that woman have an appointment. Did she come in here? To see me?”

“I'm not making appointments for anybody. I'm out of here. Madeleine said I could lock up the front office till one o'clock today.”

Elsie glanced over at the door. Stacie had taped a
CLOSED
sign with bold numbers: 12:00–1:00.

Elsie let out a grateful sigh. “Okay, then. That's good. But did that woman with the crazy hat come by? The homeless woman? She's stalking me. Seriously.”

“I don't know.”

“What do you mean, you don't know? You're the receptionist.”

“Hey. It's a public office. All kinds of nut jobs come in.”

“But did the hat lady come in? Today?”

“I don't think so. Unless I was in the bathroom. I do have the right to go to the bathroom, don't I?”

Elsie searched the counter, lifting Neighborhood Watch Committee pamphlets and citizen complaint forms. No tarot cards had been hidden, nothing to jump out at her.

“Stop messing that stuff up,” Stacie said. “I have to get over to the Wagon Wheel for the reunion planning committee. It's our five-­year.”

“Great.” Since Elsie turned thirty, she tossed the annual Barton High School reunion notices. She was tired of looking at baby pictures and warding off old lady jokes. “See you at one.”

She headed to the inside hallway with her keys in hand. A note was taped to her door, a piece of paper that looked like it had been pulled from a waste can. She ripped it down and carried it to her desk.

She stared at the wrinkled paper with trepidation.
Maybe it's from Bree
, she tried to convince herself;
maybe she was in a hurry and grabbed a piece of waste paper to write on.
But it wasn't likely. Elsie delayed confronting the note for another minute. Turning away from it, she stepped over to her miniature refrigerator. Once she had a Diet Coke in hand, she settled in her chair, picked up the note, and opened it.

I WARNED YOU,

QUEEN OF SWORDS

“Ohhh,” she breathed out in a moan. The capital letters were written in a spidery hand, so faint that it looked like the pen had run out of ink. With a reflexive gesture, she dropped the paper, as if it had burned her fingers.

Her stomach twisted as she examined it, thinking it was a cowardly, chickenshit gesture to send anonymous messages. “Show your face, motherfucker.” Then she paused, rethinking the challenge; Elsie didn't really want to see the person who left the note. She had just tried to dodge the obvious author, Cleo.

And why had Cleo promoted Elsie to queen? She was not a bit happy with the title of Queen of Swords. She had been more comfortable with the Fool. The mention of swords made her nervous.

It was necessary to notify someone higher up, she decided. This game should not escalate; she knew the danger from past experience. The Taney incest case, one of her toughest yet, had involved nasty backlash from a local religious group that took a violent turn.

She opened a desk drawer for a plastic bag, but the box was empty. She had forgotten to pick more up at the grocery store. She lifted the note by the corner, wishing she didn't have to touch it. It made her uneasy, sending a shiver down her back, like someone was walking on her grave.

Chuck was typing at his keyboard and didn't look up when she walked into his office. “What?” he said.

“Chuck, look at this.”

“I'm trying to update Madeleine. Come back later.”

A flash of irritation sent a buzz through her. “I'm serious. You have to help me.” She dropped the note on his keyboard.

He recoiled. “Don't put trash on my keyboard. What's on this, mustard? Jesus.”

“Read it, Chuck.”

He glanced at the note, picked it up with two fingers, and dropped it in his waste basket. “It's a crank.”

“It's a threat.”

With an exasperated groan, he wheeled his chair to face her. “Don't make me babysit you. This kind of shit happens in an office like ours.”

“Yeah, but it always seems to happen to me.”

“Oh, come on. In Kansas City, ­people got this kind of thing all the time. You're not so special. Man up, Elsie.”

Her face started to flush. That particular expression always incited her ire. “That's easy for you to say, since it wasn't taped to your door. What if you were the Queen of Swords?”

Chuck turned back to the keyboard and focused on the computer screen. “Well, I'm not. Because I'm not a queen.”

“Ha. Funny.” Elsie stepped behind his desk and dug the note out of the trash. She could run it by someone else. Ashlock, maybe.

“Nope,” she said aloud. She walked back to the nearest chair and sat down. Elsie watched in silence as Chuck finished his e-­mail and hit Send.

Turning to her, he said, “Are you going to stay here all day? Don't you have work to do?”

She gave him a look. “I always have work to do. It never ends.”

Ignoring her response, he continued, “Because we're set for trial August 10. That gives us basically zero time to prepare. Quit fucking around.”

The mention of the approaching trial date sent a wave of panic through her. Even after four years in the office, she always fought anxiety before a jury trial. Once it began, adrenaline kicked in and took over, making the job easier. But knowing that she would have her game face when the time came never helped to prevent the initial sensation of drowning.

I'm second chair
, she told herself.
It's not all on me. I'm the assistant.

Chuck broke into her reverie. “Here's the first thing I need you to do. Get the ball rolling on the state's mental exam of Monroe.”

“You want me to do the paperwork?”

“What did I just say? You claim to be the insanity defense expert. Get moving on it.” He opened his desk and pulled out a Clif Bar. As he unwrapped it, he said, “Get us a doctor who will say he's okay. Fit for trial and sound as a dollar.”

Elsie's brow wrinkled. “Chuck, I can't control the evaluation. The doctor will reach his own conclusion.” Sitting, she waited for him to agree.

He pulled an impatient face. “Why are you still here?”

She made for the door, thinking that he acted more like Madeleine every day.

“Hey, Elsie,” Chuck said.

She paused in the doorway. “What?”

He was toying with a pink notepaper; a phone memo, she thought. “I've been meaning to tell you. You were right.”

“What?” she said again, taken aback.

“About the interrogation. As I recall, seems like you wanted to bug out, leave the room. I guess that would've been a good idea. Looking back, in hindsight.”

“Yeah. A real good idea,” Elsie agreed, but she felt a glow of appreciation at his admission, and her opinion of Chuck rose several notches. “Thanks for saying so.”
Took you long enough
, she added to herself.

He tossed the pink phone memo across his desk. “Return that call for me, okay? I need to get that woman off my back.”

She picked it up and read the name. “Who's Phyllis Garrison?”

“Some friend of the murder victim. She keeps calling; like I've got all day to talk to the dead woman's friends.” He snorted and turned back to his computer.

So I guess I'm the one who has all day to do your grunt work
, Elsie thought. “Shit runs downhill,” she said aloud, but Chuck didn't respond.

Back in her office, she first made a note to contact Dr. Salinas, to see if he was available. Salinas had an established psychiatric practice in Joplin, Missouri; he made a strong witness for the prosecution. If the juvenile was a faker, Salinas would pick up on it. He could bring the insanity defense down.

Elsie picked up the receiver of her office phone and dialed Phyllis Garrison's number, giving the line five rings before she hung up. She had no sooner set the receiver in the cradle before it rang with a vengeance.

She picked up. “This is Elsie Arnold.”

“I want to talk to Chuck Harris,” a female voice said. “This is the Prosecutor's Office in Missouri, isn't it?”

“It is, the McCown County Prosecutor's Office. But you dialed my line; this is Elsie Arnold. I think Chuck's tied up,” she said, checking the caller ID; it was the number she had just dialed a moment before. “Can I help you?”

“I want information on the Glenda Fielder case.”

“Right; that's
State v. Tanner Monroe
.” She checked the pink message again. “Is this Phyllis Garrison?”

“Yeah. And who did you say you are?”

“Elsie Arnold; I'm cocounsel on the Monroe case.”

She could hear the woman huff into the phone. “Finally. I've been chasing that Harris guy's tail for weeks. He won't talk to me.”

“How can we help you?”

“I'll tell you what you can do to help me. You make sure the guy who killed Glenda gets the death penalty.”

Elsie rubbed her forehead as she spoke into the receiver. “Well, there's a legal issue. You see—­”

The woman cut her off. “I want you to promise me that.”

Elsie raised her voice slightly and said, “The defendant—­Mr. Monroe—­is fifteen. There's no death penalty in Missouri for persons under the age of sixteen. It's the law. But we will do our best to see that justice is done. So, how do you know the deceased, Ms. Fielder?”

“She was my wife.”

Elsie sat in silence for a moment, digesting the statement. “You and Glenda Fielder were married?” Elsie had no idea whether gay marriage was legal in Michigan; she knew that the state constitution of Missouri refused to permit or recognize same-­sex unions.

Elsie heard a catch in Phyllis Garrison's voice as she said, “Not legally. We were partners, for over eleven years. Married in every way but the law. You know?”

“Yes. I understand.”

“I wanted to do it; begged Glenda to go with me to Massachusetts and get married there, back when it was the only place that we could go. But she didn't want to fight the battle with her family.”

Gently, Elsie said, “We've been in touch with Glenda's niece, and she never mentioned the relationship.”

“Yeah, well. They never accepted it. Shit, there we were—­in our forties, living together for over ten years, but had to play some lie for her family, like we were just friends. Roommates. Really good friends.” She laughed into the phone with a hollow sound.

Elsie asked, “Did you own property together?”

“We didn't own much. I'm on the car title. And we both signed the apartment lease.”

“Good. That's good.” Elsie's heart rate increased as the significance of Phyllis Garrison's revelation hit home. Glenda Fielder was looking better by the minute. Even Billy Yocum would have a hard time convincing a jury that a forty-­year-­old lesbian in a committed relationship was the seductress of a teenage boy.

“Phyllis, the case has been set for trial, and I'd really like for you to be here. Can you come to Missouri?”

“You're goddamned right I'll be there,” Phyllis said.

Elsie secured the dates with her new witness and hung up the phone with a smile on her face.

Feeling thoroughly self-­satisfied, Elsie tilted back in her chair and propped her feet on her desk; but her jubilant mood dissolved when she saw the soiled and wrinkled anonymous message under the heel of her left shoe. In the quiet of her office, she heard a voice whisper in her head:
Queen of Swords
.