Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 01 - Courting Murder (10 page)

“Rosswell?” Frizz sauntered up to
the open doorway, pausing in the hallway to rap his knuckles on the doorjamb. “May I come in?”

“Tina?” The dope stopped working. Rosswell’s heart galloped around his ribcage and sweat trickled down his chest. He reached the crescendo of an adrenaline high. His body reeked of fear. Frizz could not be the bearer of good news.

“It’s bad.” Frizz walked to the edge of the bed. The sheriff must have missed his sleep for the last two days, judging by the lines on his face and the bags under his bloodshot eyes. He removed his hat and rubbed the inside of it with his handkerchief.

After Rosswell belched an acidy belch, he closed his eyes. “When’s the funeral?” Visions of Feliciana’s funeral invaded his brain, soon to be joined by the reality of Tina’s final services.

Frizz dabbed at his eyes, then stuffed the handkerchief into his back pocket. “Funeral?” He put his hat on and stared at Rosswell. “Are you doped up?”

“I’m going to her funeral, I don’t care if you have to push me in
this hospital bed, I’m going.”

“There’s no funeral, Rosswell.”

If he said that to calm Rosswell, it wasn’t working. “What’re you saying?” Had it been so bad that they’d already cremated Tina? “Has she already been buried? Did you cremate her and spread her ashes?”

“Listen to me.” Frizz sat on the edge of the bed. “You hurt your arm. Nothing that a tetanus shot, antibiotics, painkillers, and bandages won’t help. Tina got shot. That’s bad. But you’re both alive. She’s here in the hospital, too.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“I’m not a doctor, but her wound wasn’t serious.” Frizz smiled. “In fact, she got off easier than you. A bullet grazed her arm and it doesn’t look as bad as your wound. You need to be more careful with that sword.” He lost his smile. “We need to talk.”

“Talk.” Rosswell slugged the pillow with the fist of his good arm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t have any idea who broke into your house and shot Tina.”

“I do.” Rosswell waited a couple of seconds to build suspense. “I know.” Frizz would have to listen to him now.

“Who?”

He enjoyed knowing something Frizz didn’t about this case. “I got a text message right before the gunfire started. It said—”

“
2 DWN UR NXT.
”

Rosswell clenched his jaw until it quivered. “You searched my cellphone?”

“It was an emergency.”

“Damn it, Frizz.”

“The person or persons who killed those people at the park are after you. That’s my working hypothesis.”

“I’ve irritated a lot of people.” Rosswell knew where this conversation was headed and didn’t like the signposts to the destination. “It could’ve been one of a thousand people who’re pissed off at me.”

“No. What do you think
2 DWN
meant? It’s an explicit reference to the two bodies at the park. Two down.”

Rosswell stayed silent, unwilling to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

Frizz said, “You were out there investigating and you dragged Tina into it. Whoever was after you was after her, too.”

“You don’t know that. It was just coincidence that she came to my house when she did. Wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Tina got shot because she was helping you do something that you shouldn’t have been doing.”

The elephant took a big dump, right on Rosswell’s head. “You think I’d put Tina in harm’s way?”

“All I know is what happened.”

“Judge Carew?” A priest called his name at the hospital room door. It hadn’t taken long for him to arrive. “I’m Father Michael David Smothers.” He could’ve passed for the twin brother of a young Pope John Paul II, except that his hair was shockingly white and his skin was lighter—no, grayer—than the late Pope’s. “They call me Father Mike.”

Rosswell envied the man’s black pupils and clear eyes. No blood-shot there. Dressed in his black priest’s outfit, he carried an aura of power about him.

Frizz shook hands with Father Mike. “I’ll leave y’all alone. Rosswell, you’re off the case. Period. End of story. Even if.”

Rosswell took off his eyeglasses to rub his face, which felt gritty. Holding the glasses with the hand of his wounded arm didn’t work. He dropped the trifocals.

After Frizz left, Rosswell said, “I met you at your church picnic last year.”

Father Mike winked at Rosswell. “You’re the one who ate three helpings of chicken and dumplings.” The priest hadn’t moved from the doorway even though Rosswell had motioned him in.

“Your memory is excellent. They were a tad salty or I’d have eaten
four helpings.” The pain in his arm increased, causing him to grimace. “Can I make a confession?”

The priest came in, pushed the door shut, and walked to the bed- side. “Are you a Catholic?” He spoke in a soft voice.

“No.” Rosswell squinted to focus on the priest’s face. “I need to confess because I put the woman I love in a dangerous situation. She could’ve died. Would you hand me my glasses, please?”

Father Mike’s ready smile—what Rosswell could see of it—and his patience impressed the judge. The priest searched for a moment until he discovered the trifocals on the floor and handed them to Rosswell. Once he had put on his glasses, the priest came into clearer view.

“Judge Carew, is your death imminent?”

“No.” Able to see now, Rosswell studied the man’s face more closely. “It’s a superficial wound. I’m going home today. Or in the morning at the latest.”

“I can’t hear your confession, but I’ll be glad to talk to you. Let’s start with what Benita said. You have other problems?”

“Leukemia. I’m in remission, but if I don’t get a bone marrow donor or go through some kind of experimental treatment, I’m a goner.”

Father Mike moved the bedside table out of the way to stand closer to him. “You say you put someone in a dangerous situation. But did you do serious harm to someone?” He’d no doubt heard about Tina getting shot.

“Benita said there was a rule about death.” Rosswell felt like he was in grade school again with a grownup hovering over him while he worked on a problem at his desk. This must be what it was like to attend Catholic school. “She said all of us are going to die. I’m going to die.”

“Yes.” Father Mike pulled a quarter from his suit coat pocket, flipping it end over end in one hand like a magician practicing a coin trick.

Outside the window, a pigeon landed on the ledge. The gray bird, boasting an opulent white chest, ogled Rosswell, sharing a soft coo. It strutted up and down, making a clicking sound as it pecked the window a couple of times, then flew off.

Rosswell drank from his water glass. “I know I’m going to die.” He removed the eyeglasses and rubbed his face some more. Before speaking again, he put his glasses back on. “I hope it won’t be soon.”

The priest drew up a chair next to the bed and sat. He flipped the quarter in the air where it disappeared, folded his hands together, and contemplated Rosswell before he answered. “What else is on your mind?”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“Explain the things that are bothering you, and I’ll listen until you finish. It’s all confidential.”

Rosswell commenced, starting with the cigarette he smoked behind the barn when he was six, the money he’d stolen from his mother’s purse when he was eight, the sex he’d had when he was fourteen, and on and on in lurid detail, including Feliciana’s death and putting Tina in harm’s way.

Rosswell said, “All of those are bad things, but then there’s the big one.” Up until now, his list of sins probably sounded like myriad other confessions Father Mike had heard.

The priest, his face impassive, retrieved his quarter, seemingly grabbing it from thin air. “Tell me.” The quarter turned into a dime, then a nickel. Rosswell wondered if he did that in the confessional.

“I was in the military in the Middle East.” Rosswell punched the pillow behind him, trying to make himself more comfortable. The pain meds continued dripping, helping the hurt in his arm, although the dope wasn’t strong enough to make him lose control of his faculties. “On patrol, I rounded a corner where I discovered a little girl hunkered in a red chair with a bomb strapped to her.” Clearing his throat and wiping his eyes bought him a little time before he reached the big one. “She grabbed for a wire on the bomb and I shot her.”

Rosswell fell silent. The priest asked for no details, but also fell silent, marching the quarter through his fingers at a slow pace.

Rosswell said, “What kind of monster puts a bomb on a little girl?”

“The kind,” Father Mike answered, “whose mind I can’t understand.”

Rosswell removed his eyeglasses again. “I knew if she set that bomb off, she’d kill twenty people.” He wiped his face, hoping that his hands could erase the hideous memory. “I had to choose between shooting her or letting her murder twenty other people. That’s why I killed her.” Rosswell stared at the eyeglasses in his hand. “The bomb people said it was a fake.”

“God knows what was in your mind.”

“There wasn’t any choice. If it’s a sin, then I’m sorry.” He replaced his eyeglasses and scratched his thin mustache. “Killing another human being is never right.” He fell back on the bed. “I’m through.”

Father Mike shifted the quarter to his other hand and flipped it through his fingers for a few seconds before he continued. “God will have mercy on you.”

Rosswell hoped the priest would have solutions. Father Mike not only had no solutions, he gave Rosswell a cliché for comfort. The old saying that nothing in life is free is wrong. Just the opposite. If it’s free, it’s nothing.

Rosswell said, “I lost Feliciana because I was drunk and made her drive. I don’t want to lose Tina by doing something wrong.”

“God knows that.” Father Mike drew a small gold crucifix on a silver chain from his pocket. “I’d like you to have this. It’s a crucifix blessed by the Pope.”

“Would you put it around my neck?” It felt warm against Rosswell’s bare skin.

Father Mike’s cellphone beeped. He lifted it out of the holster on his belt, read the screen, and said, “Oops, that’s my reminder. I’ve got an appointment in fifteen minutes.”

The priest left before Rosswell could tell him that if Tina died, Rosswell would make sure he himself was right behind her.

Frizz was right. Rosswell had
accepted that he had no reason to be involved in a murder investigation. True, he’d found the bodies. It was also true that Frizz now had the impression of a tire track that may or may not be from a suspicious car, thanks to Rosswell. And Tina.

What Rosswell needed to do was relax, lie in the clean-smelling hospital bed, enjoy the dope, heal, and let the cops do all the worrying. Then, when he left the hospital today or tomorrow, he’d kick back and enjoy the rest of his vacation. Sipping coffee at Merc’s and listening to Ollie sounded pleasant to his drug-addled brain. Ultra sweet coffee and Ollie droning on would be the cure. Sitting around all day, working on a caffeine sugar high and chatting, staring out the windows at Merc’s, watching Marble Hill plod along. The perfect daydream.

The only worry he nurtured was whether he and Tina would be killed by whoever invaded his house.

That terrifying possibility stabbed him out of his stupor.

Outside the hospital, a distinctive sound signaled that a Harley had exploded to life, its two-piston engine popping. Rosswell knew about the Harley’s unique sound. A hog’s crankshaft has only one pin, and both pistons connect to it. The way the pistons are arranged, they fire at unequal intervals. No other internal combustion engine sounds like a Harley. On the street, the first motorcycle was joined by what sounded like another hundred. Then the whole flock growled their way to somewhere else.

Harley riders, their pockets filled with money, had already begun zipping throughout Bollinger County. The locals loved Harley riders. The couple of hundred riders might spend hundreds of dollars each, keeping the county’s economy healthy. Most of the riders camped at Foggy Top State Park. Rosswell hoped the clues were all recorded, because by now they’d been destroyed by the crush of bikes and riders.

The murder investigation wasn’t progressing. Rosswell needed to do something. Progress happens when you’re out and about, seeking a goal you’ve set. Progress doesn’t happen when you’re stoned in a hospital bed. That revelation kicked Rosswell in the butt.

He jerked out the dope line feeding the vein in his arm, tumbled out of bed, dressed himself, and gathered his belongings. Later, when he sobered up, he knew he’d hurt like nine kinds of hell. Future pain didn’t matter. He had places to visit and people to comfort.

He wandered all over the hospital. When he discovered Tina’s room at the end of a hallway next to a staircase, he barged past Junior Fleming, the city cop he loathed, and saw her.

The cop jumped up from his seat in the hallway and stood in the doorway. “Judge, the nurse said can’t nobody go see her.”

“Tina.” Rosswell leaned over and kissed her cheek. She stirred yet didn’t open her eyes or make any other reaction. He ran his fingers through her hair. “Tina, it’s Rosswell.” Nothing. She lay there inert but still alive. “I’m so sorry, Tina. Can you hear me?” Her voice could heal him. For the moment, he couldn’t hear that voice.

“Judge?”

He turned around to face the nurse in charge of everything. “Yes?”

“You can’t be in here.” The woman, stick thin and homely as a mud fence, couldn’t have been any older than Tina.

“Why isn’t she awake?” Rosswell asked the nurse, whose name tag said she was Priscilla Brewster.

“Sometimes anesthesia affects people differently. She’s just sleeping.”

“Anesthesia? Did she have an operation?”

“No, just a precautionary procedure. No one knew at first if her wounds were serious. The doctor checked her thoroughly. All she needs is rest.”

“I put this woman here,” Rosswell said to the ugly stick.

Priscilla pursed her lips. “From what I hear, she’s not hurt as bad as you were.” Rosswell thought she delivered the line as if it were some kind of moral failing that Tina wasn’t hurt badly, so why was she taking up space in the hospital?

“If you want me out, then you have Junior there arrest me.”

“Do you want to give her an infection?”

No, dreadful tree branch, I don’t want to give her an infection. As it so happens, I’m not contagious. Leukemia, acid reflux, allergies, bad eyes, and poor judgment are not contagious.

That’s what he thought, although he didn’t say it. He wasn’t that stoned. Instead, Rosswell said, “Tell whoever runs this place that I’ve checked out against medical advice to solve a couple of murders.”

Although Benita said he wouldn’t need a sling, Rosswell rigged a homemade one. It kept his arm from moving which, in turn, eased the pain somewhat. With a buzz from the painkillers running strong, Rosswell’s feet weaved the three blocks from the hospital to the sheriff’s station. Frizz, of all people, was dispatching. Nobody else was around. Especially no prisoners. Rosswell was sure that Frizz prayed that no one got arrested. Frizz should’ve been out running the roads, not stuck inside talking on the radio and the telephone. The sheriff shouldn’t be doing such things. That’s what a dispatcher is for. And Rosswell was responsible for temporarily downing the best dispatcher around.

Rosswell said, “I thought you’d be out making sure the Harley riders spent money on legal substances.” He fell into a chair next to the sheriff. “I don’t feel so good.”

“How’s Tina?”

Rosswell squirmed in the chair, trying to get comfortable. “The anesthesia knocked her for a loop. She’ll get out later today.”

“Neal said he dug a couple of .38 slugs out of your wall.”

“Thank God the shooter was a lousy shot. I’ll put the slugs in my scrapbook.”

“Go home.”

“There’s nothing at home.” A cry of pain escaped Rosswell’s lips before he could convince himself that he was too tough for showing pain. “I don’t even have a goldfish waiting for me.”

“Go sit by Tina.”

Rosswell laughed. “The nurse said Tina needed to rest. If I was there, she couldn’t rest.”

“Junior Fleming will make sure no unauthorized person goes in there.”

Rosswell grabbed his stomach. “Junior couldn’t keep a dust bunny from getting in Tina’s room.”

“I promised Junior that if anything happened to Tina, I would personally hurt him bad.”

Rosswell belched and clamped his hands over his mouth.

Frizz said, “Are you going to throw up? If you’re going to puke, then go in the bathroom.”

Frizz’s sympathy level hovered close to the bottom of a flimsy barrel.

“My stomach is calmer than it’s been for years.” Patting his stomach to demonstrate, Rosswell dug a mint from Frizz’s candy dish and popped it in his mouth. It was sweet with a whiff of cinnamon. “They give you good stuff at the hospital.”

“I’ve been busier than a whore at a used car salesmen’s convention.” Frizz covered his face with his hands. “I didn’t realize how much I depended on Tina.”

“Has anyone reported a missing man or a missing woman?”

“Nope.”

“Then we still don’t know who the victims are.”

“Nope,” Frizz said.

“Two bodies and no one has raised an alarm about people missing. Weird.”

The radio squawked. One of the deputies needed help on traffic control. Frizz told him there wasn’t anyone else available, he’d just have to tough it out. Another deputy asked Frizz where the rescue team should search next. Frizz suggested downstream. That covered a lot of territory since Cloudy River eventually dumped into the Mississippi River, which dumped into the Gulf of Mexico. The phone rang. Rosswell did the gentlemanly thing and answered it.

“Sheriff’s department.”

“Have y’all found the murderer?”

“Which one?” The caller hung up. Rosswell could be of real use around here if Frizz would only let him. The sheriff couldn’t talk on the phone and the radio at the same time.

Frizz said, “Who was that?”

Rosswell checked the caller ID. “It says payphone. Do we still have payphones in town?”

Frizz slumped in his chair. “I’m exhausted.”

That was clear to Rosswell, who waited but said nothing. What was the response to a blatant statement of fact? Hell if he knew.

Frizz continued, “Not only do I have all this shit going on, but I’m dealing with my wife.”

His wife? Before Rosswell could ask him to elaborate, the conversation jerked to a halt. Rosswell heard the noise of a large Harley right outside. The motorcycle revved a couple of times then went silent.

A huge man, wearing a British bobby cap and sunglasses, rumbled through the front door of the sheriff’s station. Rosswell couldn’t describe his face, since he could see little of it through the mass of his red hair and beard. After the man removed his sunglasses, Rosswell guessed that his eyes were green. Tattoos of naked women covered his arms. His Harley t-shirt, covered by a leather vest, appeared to be wriggling. What was happening with his shirt? Was the dope making Rosswell hallucinate? The big guy stuck four sticks of Big Red chewing gum in his mouth and leaned on the counter.

“Sheriff?” he said, staring at Rosswell. He pronounced it
Shurff
.

“No,” Rosswell said. “Try the man with the gun and the badge.” He pointed to Frizz.

An impossibly tiny dog with beady eyes and bad hair sprouting all over its body peeked out of the guy’s shirt at his neck. The reason the shirt wriggled. Rosswell wasn’t hallucinating.

The faceless mountain said, “Some of the boys and me, we done found something.” His accent was pure hillbilly.

Rosswell pointed at the thing in the guy’s shirt. “Is that a dog?”

“Yup.”

“Is it a Yorkie?” The dog lapped the air in front of it, its tongue

flicking in and out of its mouth. A mess of brown hair hung over its eyes.

The motorcyclist gaped at Rosswell, his mouth hanging open, the wad of gum nearly falling out. The guy was six or eight inches taller than Frizz and outweighed the sheriff by a hundred pounds. How he could fit on a motorcycle was an astounding question without an answer.

“That there’s Scooby,” the guy said. “She weighs right near three pounds.”

Rosswell said, “I can believe that.”

Rosswell started to express his opinion that Scooby was a stupid name for a weird dog, but Frizz interrupted and instead asked, “Sir,
what’s your name?”

“
Rabil. Purvis Rabil.”

Frizz said, “And what did you find?”

“Might have something to do with them there bodies you’uns all are missing.”

A blush crept up Frizz’s face. “Yes, we had some problems.”

Rosswell repeated, “And what did you find?”

Frizz threw daggers at Rosswell with his eyes. “I’ll handle this.” Frizz turned to Purvis. “What did you find?”

“There’s a bunch of them buzzards a-flying around a deadfall in the creek.” He said
crick
.

“Actually,” Rosswell said, “what’s flying around that mess of logs and crap in the river are vultures. Buzzard is an old English word for hawks or other raptors, not carrion eaters, although the term—”

“Just a minute,” Frizz said to the man. “Please wait right there while Judge Carew and I consult in headquarters.”

Frizz forced Rosswell up and dragged him away. When they lurched into the sheriff’s office, Frizz said in a low, menacing voice, “The hospital called and said you checked yourself out.”

“I did.”

“You’re still stoned.”

“I am.”

“Then keep your mouth shut while I’m talking to one of our tourists.”

“I will.”

When they got back to the counter, Frizz said, “Sorry. You saw a bunch of buzzards flying around a deadfall in a creek?” Scooby’s silky hair invited Rosswell to scratch her ears. Rosswell gave in to the temptation. Scooby closed her eyes in pleasure. When he slowed down the scratching, she nipped him until he upped the rhythm. She farted, sending a tiny cloud of stinking gas down Purvis’s shirt.

The big man said, “Yup.”

Frizz said, “Can you tell me where?”

“Up to the state park.”

Rosswell sobered up instantly.