A Killing at the Creek (3 page)

 

Chapter 5

A
S
E
LS
IE UNLOCKED
her office door, Madeleine's voice stopped her cold.

“Where's Chuck? I want a report.”

Elsie wheeled around to face her boss. “Madeleine, he went straight to court after we got back. He's got to do the appearance on the vehicular homicide case. The preliminary hearing waiver.” When she saw the blank look on Madeleine's face, she added, “My case. Remember?”

“Why aren't you doing it?”

Elsie was glad she wasn't holding a gun, because if she had one, her boss would be dead.

“You wanted Chuck to do it. Remember? This morning? The meeting?”

Madeleine's face twitched with irritation. “Fine. Come along.” Turning on her heel, she stalked down the hallway in her expensive shoes.

Elsie followed reluctantly. One-­on-­one conferences between Elsie and Madeleine had a history of going sour.

Once inside Madeleine's office, Elsie lingered in the open doorway. The better to beat a hasty retreat, if necessary.

“What did you and Chuck find out there?” Madeleine picked up a pen, poised it to write.

“There's a corpse under a bridge about five miles outside the city limits. It's a woman. A farmer found it—­her—­and he called the Sheriff's Department.”

“Can we identify the deceased?”

“She had an ID on her. Ashlock says she was transporting a bus from Detroit to northwest Arkansas. Somebody killed her and dumped her.”

“Cause of death?”

“Cut her throat. She bled to death, medical examiner says.”

Madeleine shuddered. “Did they do a good job at the scene, you think? Forensic samples? Photos?”

A vision of the bloated corpse with the gaping slash flashed into Elsie's mind; she shook her head with a jerk to dismiss the image. “As thorough as possible, considering she was out in the woods. It's not as tidy as finding a body in bed with white sheets and latex paint on the walls. But Ashlock was there, and he took charge.”

“Good. I don't want it mishandled, for heaven's sake. I made a promise to the voters.”

“Right.”

“I told them I'll personally see to it that this terrible crime is punished.”

“Yeah, I heard that.” Elsie advanced a ­couple of inches into the office. It was time to make the pitch, she thought. “You know, Madeleine, I'd really like to be part of this case.”

“I have a second chair. Chuck will assist me.”

“I could be third chair. Assistant to the assistant.”

Madeleine paused, refusing to meet Elsie's eye. She exhaled as if ridding herself of an unpleasant burden. “You don't have the necessary experience. Chuck has been exposed to these kinds of cases in Kansas City. You've never tried a murder.”

And you haven't faced a jury in a dog's age
, Elsie thought. Madeleine cherry-­picked high-­profile cases, either pleading them out or handing them off to her assistants when they hit a wrinkle. Elsie kept a genial tone as she replied, “If you don't let me in on a murder case, I'll never get any experience.”

Madeleine ignored the remark. Dropping her pen on the notepad, she pushed her chair from the desk. “I wonder how on earth they'll ever find a suspect.”

Elsie stepped into the room and dropped onto the sofa that faced Madeleine's desk; with excitement overtaking caution, she said, “But they already have, Madeleine; didn't anyone tell you?”

Madeleine answered with a blank look. “Tell me what?”

“They found the bus the dead woman was transporting. And the guy who was on it is being brought in, straight to McCown County. As we speak,” Elsie concluded.

“Who is it? Who would be crazy enough to kill the bus driver, and remain in the vehicle? That doesn't make any sense.”

“It's a kid. He's fifteen. They're taking him to juvie.”

Madeleine was struck dumb. Elsie could swear she saw her swallow. Elsie edged off the couch, anticipating a curt dismissal and bracing herself.

But Madeleine began to nod, focusing on a crystal paperweight on her desk. “You're right,” she said.

Elsie cocked her head, not certain she'd heard correctly. “What's that?”

Madeleine picked up the paperweight and hefted it in her hand. She regarded it for a moment before switching her gaze to Elsie. “You're right,” she repeated, sounding assured. “You need to get your feet wet.” She set the paperweight down with a careful hand, focusing her attention on its facets. “You're in. Assistant to the assistant.”

Sitting back, Elsie opened her mouth to express her gratification at the decision, but Madeleine swiveled in her chair, showing Elsie her back.

“Go find Chuck Harris. I want to talk to him.
Now
.”

Elsie didn't require urging. She hit the floor running.

 

Chapter 6

D
R
IVING IN THE
heat at the end of the workday, Elsie signaled a turn at the grocery; she knew without doubt that her cupboard was bare. Her refrigerator contained two cans of beer and a bottle of salad dressing. But before taking the turn, she changed her plan; ignoring the blare of an angry horn as she veered back into the traffic, she headed for her parents' house.

George and Marge Arnold lived in the old section of Barton, a short drive from the town square where the county courthouse sat. Elsie pulled her Ford Escort along the curb beside her childhood home, a sturdy brick colonial built in the 1920s. Trudging through the wall of humidity outside, she reached the side door and walked into the kitchen. Her mother stood at the counter, chopping cabbage on a cutting board.

“Hey, Mom,” Elsie said as she pulled a kitchen chair from the table and sat. Seeing the flush on her mother's face, she shook her head. “You're killing yourself in here. You could get stuff for coleslaw in a bag at the store. Ready-­made.”

Swiping at a trickle of sweat at her hairline, Marge scoffed. “I wouldn't set that store-­bought business on my table. It's full of preservatives. Who knows what all they put in there.” Huffing a tired breath, she added, “I'd give you a hug, but I'm sopping wet. Let's go cool down a minute.”

Elsie didn't argue; the temperature in the kitchen was stifling. She followed her mother into the living room, where a window air conditioner blasted cool air. Elsie's parents had toyed with the notion of installing central air in the old house for many years, but the trouble and expense involved in retrofitting a century-­old house had caused them to decide against the update. It was a family joke that the house would be air-­conditioned when the Arnolds won the Missouri lottery.

Marge pulled a pair of French doors shut, closing the living room off from the rest of the house to maintain the temperature. Settling into her recliner with a sigh of relief, she said, “All right, then. I want to hear how your manslaughter preliminary went. Walk me through the whole thing.”

“Didn't happen.”

Marge's brow rose. “Continued?”

Elsie shook her head. “Waived. They had a plea bargain worked out.” Kicking off her shoes, she stretched out on the sofa.

“What on earth? You worked all weekend on it,” Marge said, leaning forward in her chair to protest. When Elsie shrugged, Marge settled back. “So you're happy with that? You seem all right.”

“Yeah, sure; whatever.” Smiling with satisfaction, Elsie rolled on her side and faced her mother.

Marge studied her. “Something's up. It's not like you to be so casual about losing hold of that case. You worked like a dog on it, hardly came up for air.”

A laugh bubbled out of Elsie; she couldn't contain it. She felt like a grade school kid with a good report card to show. “I've got bigger fish to fry.”

Marge gasped. “No.”

“Yep.”

“What? A murder case. Am I right—­is that it?”

The excitement in Elsie's chest inched up another notch; telling the news was part of the thrill. “Big old case, and I'm in. Not first chair; not even second. But I'm in.”

Pushing back on the arms of her recliner, Marge released the footrest.

“Is this some new crime? In Barton? The batteries on my radio are dead. I haven't listened to the news all day.”

Elsie's voice dropped to a near whisper, as if she were telling a secret. “It's not in Barton; it was out in the county. A woman was found in a creek bed with her throat cut.”

“Oh,” Marge moaned, shaking her head. “Terrible. Good Lord.”

“And they've apprehended a suspect already.”

With a sober expression, Marge nodded. “That's fast.”

“Yeah.” With a shade of hesitation, Elsie added, “It's a juvenile.”

Marge's brows drew together over her eyeglasses, giving her face a forbidding look. “A juvenile.”

Elsie remained silent, waiting for her mother's assessment. It occurred to her, later than it might have, that her mother's thirty years as a middle school teacher would color her reaction to the news.

“How old?” Marge asked, after a pause.

“Fifteen.”

A look of profound sadness passed over Marge's face. She closed her eyes. “Fifteen,” she repeated. “A boy.” It wasn't a question.

It nettled Elsie a little. Clearly, the focus of her mother's sympathies didn't rest with the woman in the creek, or Elsie's triumphant assignment. “Yes. It's a male suspect.” Keeping her voice casual, she added, “A man.”

Marge said, “A fifteen-­year-­old is not a man.”

Elsie looked away. This was not how she hoped her announcement would be received.

Returning the footrest of the recliner to a seated position with a decisive clunk, Marge rose. “I'd best make up some dressing, so the slaw can chill by suppertime.”

Elsie hopped off the couch. “Oh, I'm not staying.”

“What? I thought for sure you'd eat with us. Your dad will be home any second.”

Elsie shrugged. “Sorry.” She couldn't handle the reproach in her mother's eyes, not tonight. Right now, she needed the wind in her sails. Her case depended on it.

Her mother followed her into the kitchen, pleading as Elsie retrieved her purse. “Don't run out like this. I've got a pork roast in the Crock-­Pot. Your dad will be so disappointed.”

“Tell him I said hi,” Elsie said, waving goodbye with a brisk flip of her hand. The hurt in her mother's voice gave her a mean sense of satisfaction, but the feeling faded as she recalled that she had nothing to eat at home, and her debit card was tapped out.

 

Chapter 7

T
HE J
UVENILE STOOD
with his head bowed, his hands cuffed behind him. Two Oklahoma state troopers, a lieutenant and a young patrolman, stood in close proximity to the boy. The lieutenant pushed the buzzer at the McCown County Juvenile Hall, scrutinizing the teen as he waited.

“You're going to get a lot of attention, son,” the lieutenant said. The boy didn't react. The young patrolman standing a pace behind them coughed, a hint of warning in the sound.

“A lot. A whole lot of attention. When they lock you in prison, you'll be Queen of the May. Everybody will want a piece of you.” The lieutenant drew close to the boy's ear and whispered, “They'll line up to ream you.”

The boy's head jerked up so suddenly, the trooper jumped back in surprise. The lawman laughed, embarrassed by his involuntary reaction.

Without speaking, the boy stared at the trooper through narrowed eyes.

The younger trooper said, “Let's just get him inside. After we drop him off, we can get something to eat.”

The lieutenant grasped the juvenile's arm in a tight grip. “Don't forget who's in charge, kid. It's the man wearing the badge and toting the gun.”

The indoor button was released and the automatic door to Juvenile Hall opened. A petite young woman with bright red hair greeted them.

The trooper's face lit up. “Well, what have we got here?”

“I'm the juvenile officer. I've been waiting for you. Is this young man Mr. Monroe?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Behind them, the younger patrolman let out a slow whistle. “Good thing you wasn't a juvenile officer when I was a kid. I'd have been in trouble all the dang time.”

The woman ignored the remark. “Do you have the paperwork for the transfer?”

Before the troopers could respond, the boy spoke up. “They threatened me.”

“What the hell,” said the lieutenant holding the boy. He jerked the young man's arm, trying to force him to face him.

The boy kept his face trained on the woman. “They harassed me, they said I'd be raped. Gang raped. Help me.”

The young woman's eyes widened. She pushed a button by the door; an alarm sounded, and footsteps could be heard running toward them.

“We'll investigate,” she said. “I'll get someone from the Sheriff's Department to take your statement, Mr. Monroe. Come on in with me.”

As the juvenile stepped inside the building, the young trooper standing at the rear cursed audibly, saying to his partner, “Now we'll be here all night. Why do you have to talk that crap?”

The juvenile walked into the hallway with the juvenile officer, who laid her hand on his arm. “It's okay,” she said. “Everything's okay. I'm Lisa. I'm here to protect you.”

L
ISA
OPENED THE
door to a small cinder-­block room and stood back to let the juvenile enter.

“This is it,” she said. “Not exactly the Hampton Inn. But you'll be safe here.”

Monroe paused before entering, taking in the room and its battered furnishings. Stepping inside, he set a plastic bag of items atop a battered dresser.

“Hey, man, that's mine,” said a boy reclining on the lower berth of a metal bunk bed.

Monroe shrugged and shoved the bag onto the floor.

Lisa spoke up. “Barry, I've brought someone to be your roommate. Tanner Monroe, this is Barry Bacon.”

Monroe glanced briefly at the boy before pulling a folding chair from the wall and sitting in it. He opened his bag, rummaging through the contents.

Eyeing him, Barry's face registered awe. “You're that guy. Shit, man, you're the guy on the bus.”

Lisa said, “Barry, don't mess with Tanner. He's had a long old day.” Surveying the two with uncertainty, she added, “You all gonna be okay?”

Neither boy answered. Barry swung his feet to the floor, bouncing on the mattress in excitement. Tanner focused on Lisa as she turned to go.

“I'll check on you later,” she said.

As her footsteps echoed down the tiled floor, Barry hopped off the bunk bed.

“They said you cut a woman's throat. Did you?”

The juvenile didn't answer.

“Did you kill her?” The boy was breathless, waiting for a response.

Monroe exhaled wearily, looking at Barry for the first time. Barry was younger than Monroe, only fourteen, but he was tall and gangly, with a bad case of acne. A patchy mustache on his upper lip drew attention to his protruding front teeth.

“Did you?” Barry persisted.

“If I killed somebody, do you think I'd tell you?”

“Oh yeah,” Barry said with wonder, absorbing the response.

“I didn't kill anybody,” Monroe insisted. “Shit.”

Barry waved his hand at the beds. “You can have whichever bunk you want. And the dresser. I don't have nothing much in there.”

Monroe stayed in the chair, impassive.

Barry said, “They put us together in here because we're badasses. Not like the rest of them, runaways and dumbshits they got at juvenile. I got busted for sale and possession. At school. Wasn't the first time, that's why they're riding me so hard.”

Barry picked up a pillow from the bunk and punched it. “Man, if I was on the street, I could get you some good shit. Anything you want. Even in this shitty little town.”

“That's cool.”

Barry beamed, proud to receive the affirmation. He extended the flat pillow to Monroe, like an offering.

“I been using your pillow. I didn't know you was coming.”

Monroe accepted it, grasping the stained white covering and tucking it behind his back in the metal chair.

After a moment, Barry picked up the other pillow, the one that remained on his bed.

“You can take my pillow, too. I don't mind.”

Tanner Monroe took it without hesitation. “Yeah. I will.”