by Bill Hopkins
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.
“Judge,” he said, his eyes still closed, “we’ve missed the mother of all clues. Maybe. Anyway, I guess we should both turn in our Junior G Men badges, we’re so dense.”
“What are you talking about?”
Ollie opened his eyes and pointed. “Tires.”
“Damnation.” Rosswell whipped out his cell phone. No bars. “Ollie, don’t move.”
Rosswell touched the peace symbol on his car, then jumped in, and raced down the hill to Hermie’s gazebo.
When he got there, Hermie sprinted to his car. “Judge, this morning after y’all left—”
“Okay, Hermie. Thanks.”
Ross
well punched in the speed dial and said, “Come on, come on, come on,” until he heard her answer.
Chapter Six
Monday afternoon, continued
“Tina, I need your help.” He’d called on her personal cell number. No sense in calling on the official line, the one recorded for all posterity. If he did that, there would be evidence he was playing detective.
Tina said in a soft voice, “I hope you need my help.” She gave a little growl. She didn’t sound like an official dispatcher for a sheriff’s department. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“No,” Rosswell said. “I mean your help legally. As a cop, I mean.”
Static buzzed in the heartbeat of silence that followed. Then, “What kind of help?”
“You went to the academy and learned all that forensic stuff, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I had to do that for my job as dispatcher.” Rosswell heard the radio crackling in the background. Someone was looking for somebody. He heard Tina rustling papers, then tell someone where somebody was. “I’m not a cop,” she eventually said to Rosswell. “Not in the strict sense of the word. I’m a deputy, but not one who goes out on the street.” Her tone of voice deepened, grew more tense. “You’re worrying me. What do you need?”
“Do you know how to pour a mold of tire tracks?”
“Sure.”
“Then come out here to the death scene and do it.”
He heard Frizz in the background say something to Tina. Why wasn’t he with the search party? She said, “Sheriff, I’ll be right with you.” Then to Rosswell she said, “Let me talk this over with Frizz. I’ll get back with you. We’re hugely busy.” The line went dead.
Hermie tapped Rosswell’s shoulder. “Judge, I was trying to tell you. There was a car out here earlier that drove up to where the bodies were found.”
“I know. I called the sheriff to tell him.” In truth, he’d called the dispatcher on her private line. Same thing as calling the sheriff. Almost.
“The car came in about an hour before you and Ollie got here. It didn’t stay long.”
Rosswell moved closer to Hermie to ask a question. “You let them go through?”
The beginnings of a pout started on Hermie’s face. “Y’all didn’t put up any yellow tape or crime scene signs around the area. The sheriff didn’t declare it off-limits. That’s a rule, you know.” He focused on his shoes, hiding his hangdog look. “How was I supposed to know that people couldn’t go up there?” Despite Hermie averting his face, Rosswell could smell America’s favorite drug on his breath.
“No one’s blaming you for anything.” What Rosswell really wanted to ask him was where he was hiding with his bottle when the car came in. Frizz should’ve given Hermie instructions on what to watch for before the crew packed up and headed for town that morning. Here was another reason the sheriff needed Rosswell on his team. Rosswell wouldn’t have forgotten a detail like that.
Hermie didn’t raise his head. “Silver.”
“What?”
“It was a silver car.”
“What kind?”
“Pretty new. Had a chicken claw. Maybe a Malibu.” Hermie swiveled his head to stare at a large oak tree with squirrels running up and down its trunk.
Rosswell said, “Chicken claw?”
Hermie let fire an alcoholic belch. “Yeah, one of those things.” He made motions with his fingers that Rosswell couldn’t follow.
This interview ranks up there with the Titanic.
Rosswell said, “You mean the make of car?”
“Maybe not a Malibu,” Hermie said. “Could’ve been a Lexus or a Kia or an Infiniti. Maybe a Taurus. They all look alike.” Still inspecting the tree, he expelled a huge sigh. “No imagination anymore. I could spot your orange car a mile off, but today everyone else has to drive a car that looks like every other car and a dull color to boot.” Hermie shook his head and his jowls flapped. “Back in my day, we had cars that were colorful, and you could tell a Ford from a Chevy or a Plymouth. I remember when my dad’s car—”
“Did it have Missouri tags?”
“Yes, he always bought Missouri tags. He lived in Missouri.”
“I mean the car that drove out of here.” Rosswell ground his teeth. Hermie answered immediately. “I don’t know, but it was silver.”
“The license plate was silver?”
“No, the car was silver. I just told you that.” Hermie’s explanation was growing harder to follow.
Rosswell said, “Where were you when the car came into the park?”
“See … I … I was checking on a few things back yonder.” He waved an arm in the direction of the woods. “I didn’t actually watch them come in.”
“Them? Did you see the car leave?”
“Oh, yes, sir, I was right here.” He pointed to the gazebo. “I saw the car leave all right.”
“Them. You said them. How many people were in the car?”
Hermie closed his eyes and then rubbed his eyelids. Maybe that’s what he did to make answers appear in his head. “One.” His eyes popped open. They were still as bloodshot as they were that morning.
“Did you see who was driving the car?”
“You got that straight. Couldn’t miss that.”
“Tell me.”
Hermie said, “Big. The driver was big.”
“Woman or man?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Race?”
“No, they were driving pretty slow.”
“I mean was the driver white, black, brown, what?”
“Oh. I couldn’t tell. I guess white.”
Rosswell said, “There was no one else in the car besides the driver?”
“Not that I could tell.”
That narrowed it down to maybe several hundred suspects: A big person, maybe white, driving a silver car that looked like a Chevy or Plymouth or Ford or some other brand with tags from somewhere, maybe Missouri. Rosswell pondered how many actual cars there were in the area that fit that description. And how many people fit that description. No maybe about it. There were several hundred suspects on his suspect list but none on the really good suspect list.
Hermie said, “Besides that silver car, I saw a Cadillac with a big driver.”
“You know for certain that this car was a Cadillac?”
“Oh, yeah. A big Cadillac. A big driver.”
Rosswell said, “Was it silver?”
“No. White.”
“How about the driver? Male? Female? White? Black? Asian?”
“Couldn’t tell. The windows were those smoky ones you can’t see through. I thought those were illegal.”
In his effort to be helpful, Hermie kept losing Rosswell with his roundabout way of speaking. “How did you know the driver was big if you couldn’t see the driver?”
“Shadows. The driver was big.”
Hermie’s too drunk to make sense. How could he have seen shadows in a car with dark windows?
“I don’t guess you got a tag number.”
“No. Sorry.”
“Hermie, did the white Cadillac leave before or after the silver car?” Surely, there weren’t a lot of white Cadillacs in Bollinger County. Hermie may’ve given a good lead and not even realized it. Rosswell silently ticked off the owners of white Cadillacs he could recall. Ambrosia Forcade, a lawyer he suspected of withholding client funds. “Turtles” Rasmussen, a man who owned lots of real estate with no visible means of support; Rosswell couldn’t recall his real first name. Susan Bitti, owner of a successful furniture store. Trisha Reynaud, president of Marble Hill National Bank. None of them was a particularly big person.
“The Caddy left first, I’m pretty sure.”
Tina Parkmore pulled up behind Rosswell and honked her horn, scaring the hell out of him.
“Hey, Hermie! Hey, Judge!” She’d driven her silver Nissan Sentra with Missouri tags to the park. Fortunately, she wasn’t big. Rosswell mentally crossed her off the really good suspect list.
; Rosswell patted the hood of Tina’s ride and asked Hermie, “Was this the silver car you saw?”
“Oh, no. I’d have recognized Miss Tina.”
“I hope so.” She flipped her hair and threw her head back in what the old-time movies called a coquettish gesture. “I come out here a lot to sunbathe.”
Hermie grinned. Fond memories, Rosswell supposed, of watching Tina sunbathe.
“Judge, why wouldn’t Hermie recognize me?”
Rosswell explained, as kindly as he could, what Hermie had said about suspicious cars that had left the park not that long ago.
“Ah.” She extracted a plastic tub from the back seat of the car. “I’ve got plenty of Plaster of Paris.”
Hermie said, “Paris?”
Rosswell said, “For the tire impression?”
Tina said, “True enough.”
They left Hermie scratching his head, and each drove to the crime scene. Ollie’s eyes grew wide when he saw the dispatcher. “You talked Frizz into letting Tina come up here?” Tina tugged on Rosswell’s sleeve.
“We need to talk.”
They walked out of Ollie’s earshot.
Tina grabbed Rosswell’s elbow. They had their backs to Ollie. “Why do you have him with you?”
“He’s my research assistant.”
“So you say.” She leaned closer, put her forefinger on his lips. “I thought I was your research assistant.”
“You are.” Was his face as red as it felt? “Ollie does a different kind of research.”
“How many times have you thrown him in jail?”
He grasped both of her hands. “Don’t you believe in rehabilitation?”
Tina released herself and pushed away. “Frizz said that I could take the tire tracks for you, but that’s it. He doesn’t know about Ollie helping you. He’ll be pissed.”
“Meaning?”
“Rosswell, he doesn’t want you involved in this, much less Ollie. Right now he’s swamped with coordinating the search team. This weekend he’s got traffic problems all over the county with the Hogfest coming. In fact, there’s a bunch of Harleys already here. You can’t get involved.”
“I am involved.” Gesturing toward the crime scene, he said, “I found the bodies. I’m the main witness.”