by Bill Hopkins
“Candy’s not my girlfriend.” Ollie spoke with little conviction. If she was his girlfriend, Rosswell was hopeful that she wouldn’t become pregnant. “I’m still talking to Benita. She’s the mother of my child. She even likes you.” Rosswell prayed that Benita wouldn’t get pregnant by Ollie. Again.
“Benita’s a great nurse.”
“The best. She graduated at the top of her class.”
“But Candy’s got the hots for you. I could tell that from the way she acted around you at Merc’s. You would’ve thought she was fifteen instead of thirty.”
“Thirty-five.”
“There you go.” Something smelled like a fish market here. “Wait a minute. Ollie, why did she confess?”
“She said she’d killed someone. Two someones.” He studied the American flag. “I don’t believe she killed anyone.”
“Did she tell you she was a double murderer?”
“Yes, she did.”
“What made her think she’d killed two people?” What was going on in Candy’s mind, making her think she’d murdered the pair? To date, Rosswell hadn’t heard any gossip that she was suffering from Alzheimer’s or any other dread disease that would affect her thinking. Besides, wasn’t she way too young for such a thing? “Is she mentally sound?”
“That’s the thing, Rosswell.” Ollie started up the street, away from the sheriff’s station. Rosswell fell in step. The reporter tried to join them but Ollie shooed her away. “Candy’s smarter and more rational than ninety-nine percent of the population of Bollinger County.” Rosswell believed Ollie, which made Candy’s actions even more incomprehensible.
“Then how did this happen?” They’d reached the end of the block. They turned sharply and marched back towards the sheriff’s station. The reporter wrote on her pad. Ollie shooed her away again.
Ollie said, “Candy called me about fifteen minutes ago and said she needed to confess to a crime.”
“Where was she when she called?”
“That’s something else that’s strange. From the background noise, it sounded like she was at Merc’s. If you’re going to call someone about confessing to a crime, wouldn’t you go somewhere more private?”
“Was she calling from her cell or Merc’s phone?”
“Her cell.”
From the way people discussed intimate details on cellphones while standing next to complete strangers, that part of the story made sense. For some reason, the need for privacy evaporated when you used a cellphone.
Other parts of the story, unspoken parts, worried Rosswell. “Do you know if anyone was with her? Do you think someone forced her to call?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Tell me the rest. It can’t get any worse.”
“I met her in front of the courthouse. I asked her what kind of crime she needed to confess. She said she’d killed those two people at the park. She turned herself in and gave Frizz a full confession.”
This could mean the end of dark fudge brownies for a while.
Rosswell said, “You didn’t try to stop her?”
Sweat trickled down Rosswell’s face. A drop or two of the salty stuff rolled into his mouth before he wiped his face.
“Do you think you or anyone else could keep Candy from doing something?” Ollie was right. If nothing else, Candy was headstrong. “Besides that, I want Frizz to forget I exist. I’ve seen the inside of that jail enough to do me the rest of my life.”
“That’s crap.” Ollie jerked to a stop. Rosswell said, “I mean the confession. The whole confession thing is crap. How did she say she did it?”
“She told me she stabbed them both after they’d tried to attack her. I don’t know what she told Frizz.”
“The murder happened either Sunday night or early Monday morning. Do you know where she was then?”
“Not the slightest idea.”
“She wasn’t with you?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“You’re the research assistant. Find out where she was.”
“You heard what she said at Merc’s. She said she’s been at home, keeping cool, writing in her journal.”
“Another thing, where’s the knife?”
“She said she threw it in the river.”
“Oh, Ollie, that was convenient. There aren’t any witnesses. There’s no murder weapon. How could Frizz believe someone without any corroboration?”
“Hermie Hillsman identified her as the driver of the silver car. He told me that himself.”
“Was Hermie here?”
“He just left.”
“Was he sober?”
“Yes, Judge, he was sober.”
“Are you sure?”
Ollie said in a low voice. “You and I are drunks. Hermie’s a drunk. Drunks can tell when drunks are drunk and when drunks are sober.” Rosswell couldn’t argue with that.
“She doesn’t have a car, much less a silver car.”
“But she had the keys to a silver car when she turned herself in.”
“Whose car?”
“Johnny Dan Dumey’s Malibu.”
“What?” Rosswell scratched his mustache, trying to process this information. “She stole a car? Candy stole a car and killed two people? I don’t believe any of that crap.”
“She didn’t tell me how she got the car.”
“Does Frizz know she was driving Johnny Dan’s car?’
“Got me.”
“Where’s Johnny Dan?”
“He and Mabel took off somewhere. They’re in Mabel’s car.”
The Harley riders passed them again. Purvis wasn’t in the group now. Where had he gotten to?
Rosswell said, “You and I checked the tires of Johnny Dan’s Malibu. They don’t match the impression.”
“I heard that Frizz said they were close enough.”
Rosswell blustered into the station, leaving Ollie at the flagpoles. The reporter snapped photos of both men. Rosswell hoped she got his good side. She followed him into the station.
Frizz told her, “I don’t have a statement. I’ll issue a statement in the morning.”
She assumed a journalistic air of hatred and skepticism. Then left without a word.
“Frizz,” Rosswell said. “Why did you arrest Candy?”
The light inside the station appeared dim compared to the glaring sun outside, and the air was several degrees cooler. Not cool, but cooler.
“Calm down,” Frizz said. The sheriff was the only one in the place except for the single prisoner he now held. “Stop scratching your mustache. There’s not much left of it.”
“It’s grown back as much as it’s ever going to grow since I took my last dose of chemo.” In other words, it was as scrawny as ever.
“That’s a good reason not to scratch it.”
“I doubt that Candy could kill a small fly, much less two grown people.”
“Sit.” Frizz indicated a chair. “Let’s talk.”
Rosswell sat. “Talk.” He reached up to his face to scratch his mustache again but thought better of it. It had taken him too long to grow the emaciated thing.
The telephone rang. Frizz grabbed it as if he feared Rosswell would answer it. More media types apparently, since he told whoever it was on the other end the same thing he’d told the reporter. When he hung up, he closed his eyes for so long that Rosswell thought he was taking a nap. To pass the time, Rosswell ate a couple of Tootsie Rolls from the sheriff’s candy dish. Chocolate helped him think. Then Frizz opened his eyes and gave Rosswell his full attention.
Frizz said, “With all the sugar you eat, one of these days you’re going to blossom.”
“Thanks for your concern, but tell me about Candy.”
“She came in here a few minutes ago and said she was a murderer.” Frizz removed his hat and finger combed his hair. “I stuffed her in one of the female cells. She’s got paper and pen, writing her confession.”
“Did you book her?”
“Not yet, but I did call the pub
lic defender. She talked to Candy and told her to keep her mouth shut and stop writing.”
“But she’s still writing.”
“The public defender can’t sit back there and babysit her. And I can’t take pen and paper away from a prisoner.”
“Has the search team found the bodies yet?”
“I sent them out to the park, but the water’s still too high. It’s dangerous to explore that deadfall. They’ll have to wait until the river goes down.”
The sheriff was stuck in town at the jail, guarding a woman who claimed to be a double murderer. She hadn’t been booked yet, so she wasn’t officially in jail, and the prosecutor wouldn’t charge her until she was booked. Frizz was smart enough to notify the public defender. If she came over to talk to Candy again, perhaps the lawyer could persuade her to withdraw her ludicrous confession, whatever that confession might say.
Frizz couldn’t take the chance that Candy might be guilty. If she were guilty and he didn’t keep her behind bars, the wolves would gather around the sheriff’s station and howl for his body to be thrown to the pack.
On top of all that, Frizz had no help. The three deputies were exhausted, having been on overtime duty, searching for the bodies. The only dispatcher was in the hospital.
Junior Fleming was a standing joke. Every Saturday night, the cop issued one traffic ticket, always to a driver between the ages of 16 and 21. The tickets usually ran around $50. The kids in town (and some adults also) had started a ticket fund. Whoever got the ticket that weekend was given $50 to cover the cost.
“Frizz, did Hermie tell you that he saw Candy driving a silver car out of the park?”
“You aren’t a detective. You aren’t on this case. You aren’t going to stick your nose into my business.”
“If you’re right about the killer going after Tina, then it is my business.”
“No, it’s cop business.” Frizz’s face grew red. He drummed his fingers on the desk. However this turned out, the two would still be working together after it was over. Rosswell didn’t want to burn any bridges he might need to cross in the future, and he hoped the sheriff felt the same. Eventually, Frizz said, “Do anything you want as long as you don’t do it under the porch and scare the dogs.”
“I guess you’re going to have to arrest me next.” Rosswell drew out the ring and stuck it in Frizz’s face. “For withholding evidence.”
Chapter Fifteen
Tuesday afternoon, continued
“What’s this?” Frizz said. He turned the ring in all directions, inspecting it closely.
“It’s a ring I found at the crime scene.” Rosswell told him the whole story.
Frizz shoved it under a lamp, appraising its every detail. For a long time, the only sound Rosswell heard in the sheriff’s station came from the static on the radio. An old clock, probably evidence in a long forgotten crime, chimed every quarter hour. A ticking from the computerized tape recorder for the telephone system rose to Rosswell’s consciousness. He grew tense, waiting for the wrath of Frizz.
“Judge, why in the hell do you have Ollie Groton helping you?”
“He’s my research assistant.”
“That’s shit and you know it. You don’t need a research assistant. Ollie’s a criminal, plain and simple.”
“Don’t you believe in rehabilitation?” That line hadn’t worked on Tina, and Rosswell doubted that it would work on Frizz. “People don’t like to see judges hanging around with criminals in social settings.”
“Social settings?”
“Merc’s.”
“Ollie knows a hell of a lot of stuff about people and computers. And he doesn’t ask for legal advice. Sure, he’s got a spotty past, but we all have secrets that we don’t want everybody else knowing.”
Frizz didn’t reply. Instead, he returned to examining the ring. Eventually he said, “No use trying to lift prints off it now.” He studied the ring one more time. “You and Ollie are probably the only ones who have left prints here. I’ve almost dismissed you as a suspect, even though you were the first one on the scene by sheer happenstance.”
Rosswell hung his head. “I picked it up without thinking and stuck it in my pocket. It’s not often I discover two corpses.” Rosswell’s body language must’ve showed remorse to the point that Frizz didn’t blast him with any more sarcasm.
Father Mike marched through the door, letting a blast of hot air into the air-conditioned semi-comfort of the station. “Sheriff, may I speak to you, please?” Always the gentleman.
“Rosswell was just leaving,” Frizz said.
Father Mike waved his hands in a dismissive gesture. “Oh, no. This isn’t private.” He focused on Rosswell. “The judge can stay.”
Not wanting to miss anything, Rosswell propped his bad arm on the desk behind the counter, relaxed, and listened.
“What is it?” Frizz verged on sounding brusque. Rosswell fought back the urge to tell him that maybe the priest had important information. About what he didn’t know, although you should never brush aside people who may have information.
“Do you have Candy Lavaliere locked up?”
“Yes, I do.” Frizz closed his eyes and shook his head. Rosswell could tell that the sheriff longed for a catnap. Frizz said, “I should say that I have her locked up in a manner of speaking. Why do you need to know that?”
“I’d like to post her bail.”
“Father Mike,” Frizz said, “she’s not been charged with anything yet. That means there’s no bail. She claimed she committed the murders. Right now, she’s writing a confession. I think she’s loony.”
Candy wasn’t loony. Arguing with Frizz about that in front of the priest wasn’t going to happen. In fact, arguing with Frizz about anything in front of anybody wasn’t going to happen. Rosswell kept his mouth shut.
Father Mike said, “If she’s not been charged, then can she leave?” Apparently, he wasn’t going to argue the loony charge either.
“No, she cannot.” Frizz stood. “I wish she could leave.”
“Then I want her.”
“You can’t have her.”
The priest’s eyes widened. “I want to talk to her.”
Frizz strolled to Candy’s cell.
Although Rosswell couldn’t make out the words, Frizz and Candy engaged in a lengthy conversation. After a moment or two of silence, the sheriff returned with Candy in handcuffs. Frizz was playing this by all the rules.
She took a gander at the priest. “What do you want?”
Rosswell decided that covering his mouth with his hand to hide any smiles seemed advisable in case there were a fight between Candy and Father Mike.
Father Mike said, “People are worried about you. I want to take you home.”
“What people?”
Father Mike said, “Sheriff, could I talk to her in private?”
“Yes. Lawyers and clergy get that privilege.” Frizz showed them the room adjacent to the dispatch area that was divided by a heavy glass partition with a grille for speaking. Each side had a passage door. Candy sat on one side and Father Mike sat on the other. Rosswell didn’t think either one of them looked pleased with the situation. Each side had a call button. “One of you press your button when you’re through.”
Candy said, “I can’t do that with my handcuffs on!”
“Sure you can.” Frizz shut the doors.
Rosswell said, “You’ll have to charge her and get another judge to set her bail.”
“Already in the works,” Frizz said. “The prosecutor’s taking care of it. Now, what about this ring?”
“Maybe the killer left it. Maybe it belonged to one of the victims. Maybe someone lost it there years ago and it has nothing to do with anything.”
“Do you have any idea whatsoever who could own this?”
“I don’t know who owns that ring.”
Frizz paused a moment before he continued. “EJD. Do you know anyone with those initials?”
Frizz caught my equivocal answer.
Rosswell said, “I searched the phone book. Nothing there.”
“Maybe EJD doesn’t have a phone. Or maybe he has a cellphone.”
“Why do you say he?”
“This is a man’s ring. And you said Ollie told you it was a Mason’s ring.”
“Maybe it’s a Mason’s ring.”
“What else could it be?” Frizz said. “If it’s not a Mason’s ring, then what could it be?”
“Maybe it’s a gang symbol, although I don’t know of too many gangs who have Latin mottos.”
Frizz grunted. “Nothing surprises me these days.”
“One of my language professors at Mizzou told us that if you learned Latin, you wouldn’t become a criminal.”
“Do you believe that?”
“No. He’s serving time for embezzlement.”
“Studying Latin must actually lower your morals.”
“I’m not sure this ring is evidence.”
“You’re not on the case, remember?”
“What case?”
“Damn it, ANY case!” Frizz removed his hat, mopped his brow, ran the handkerchief around the inside of the hat, and then punched it back on his head. “I need some rest.”
“Yeah, and a happy pill.”
That made Frizz chuckle. “Yeah. If only a pill could solve my problems.”
A loud clunk signaled that the air conditioning system had failed. Again. Frizz had fought with the cooler for the last two years. The system was held together with bailing wire and pink bubble gum. Humidity and heat began rising inside the sheriff’s station.
Rosswell watched Frizz go outside and stomp to the air conditioner where he kicked it. When he came back, the uncooperative machine, subjected to the sheriff’s magic foot, returned to service. Frizz said, “Works every time.”
Rosswell said, “Did you know that Candy had the keys to Johnny Dan’s car?”
“She had keys when I arrested her. How do you know they were Johnny Dan’s?”
“Ollie told me. Candy told him on her way in to jail.”
“Shit.” Frizz consulted the phone book and then punched in a number on the phone. Rosswell could hear an answering machine click on and a voice deliver a message. Frizz hung up. “At least he left his cellphone number.” Frizz punched in the number. “Johnny Dan? Sheriff Dodson here.” Frizz picked up a pen and scribbled on a legal pad. “Yeah. Did you loan Candy Lavaliere your car?” Frizz wrote something. “Okay. I’ll wait.” He covered the mouthpiece and said to Rosswell, “He said, hell, no, he doesn’t loan his car to anyone. He’s going to check it out.” Johnny Dan came back on the phone. “Thanks. I’ll call the Highway Patrol and report it stolen.”