Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 01 - Courting Murder

by Bill Hopkins

  Rosswell wrote down the car’s tag number. They walked to the door and Rosswell knocked. The curtain on the front window drew back about an inch. Someone was checking them out. After a moment, a tall man with close-cropped bright red hair answered. He didn’t appear to be an albino. Nonetheless, he was one of the whitest men Rosswell had ever seen.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Dahlbert?” Rosswell asked.

  “The same. And whom might you two be?”

  Rosswell introduced himself and Ollie. Nathaniel invited them in. After all, the two visitors didn’t appear to be common burglars. Rosswell thought that he himself looked like a vacuum cleaner salesman, maybe, but not like a burglar. Ollie looked like a hoodlum. The star-shaped purple tattoo on his bald head must not have bothered Nathaniel.

  Rosswell said, “I’m trying to track down the driver of a silver car that was out at Foggy Top the other day.”

  Nathaniel tilted his head, a sign of curiosity. “Sit down.” If he thought the question was odd, he gave no indication.

  Ollie and Rosswell sat on the long, green couch in his living room. Nathaniel commandeered the tartan La-Z-Boy recliner.

  Nathaniel picked up a cup of steaming black tea, squeezed a lemon slice in it, and asked, “Join me in a cup of tea?”

  There were several white cups, thin enough to read a newspaper through, snuggled next to a silver tea set.

  “Sure,” said Ollie. “Plain.”

  “Make mine six lumps,” Rosswell said. “No milk. It dilutes the sugar taste.”

  The end table next to Nathaniel’s chair held the telephone and the answering machine. Every inch of the room was crammed with books, categorized by their Library of Congress number. His house was neater and cleaner than Rosswell’s, who was anal about house- keeping. The thought that maybe there was a Mrs. Dahlbert flitted across Rosswell’s weary brain, and then he dismissed it with the realization that no woman would allow a man to keep all his books in the living room.

  Ollie drank half his cup of tea in one gulp. “Mr. Dahlbert, have you been in the vicinity of Foggy Top lately?”

  “I don’t believe that I’ve ever been in that vicinity.” His puzzled appearance seemed genuine. “Or if I’ve been close, it was by accident. I’m not sure where it is. I’m not even sure what Foggy Top is.”

  What was Ollie expecting? That the guy would break down crying and confess to being the murderer? The man had never even heard of the park.

  “It’s a state park,” Rosswell said, and explained how to get there. Then he said, “Have you loaned your car to anyone recently?”

  When Nathaniel folded his hands together, Rosswell spotted an exact duplicate of the ring that he’d found at the crime scene. Nathaniel wore it on his right hand. There wasn’t a wedding band on his left hand.

  “No,” he said. His voice sounded strained.

  “That’s a nice ring,” said Rosswell.

  “Virtus junxit mors non separabit,” Ollie said.

  Nathaniel sipped from his cup. “That’s the motto on the inside of the ring.”

  “Are you a Mason?” Rosswell asked Nathaniel.

  “Yes, I am.”

  Ollie said, “Do you know a Mason around here with the initials EJD?” Nathaniel chuckled. “Those letters aren’t the initials of a person. A breakaway group from the Masons kept a lot of the rites and symbols, but they added EJD to the motto you just spoke.”

  Rosswell stirred his tea before drinking it. “What’s the translation of the original motto?”

  “‘Virtue unites us, death won’t separate us’. That’s a loose translation. A lot of Latin scholars cringe when they hear the motto translated that way.”

  Ollie said, “What’s with the EJD then?”

  “Those are the first letters of an English motto: Even Just Die. The just in that motto is a noun, meaning ‘just ones’. Sloppy English, but you get the drift.”

  Nathaniel stood and retrieved a thick volume from a shelf. “You gentleman are investigating the murders.” He leafed through the book. Its cover was brown.

  Neither Ollie nor Rosswell answered. They didn’t have to. They were that obvious.

  “Maybe,” Nathaniel said, “you need to buy this informative book on forensics.” Always the salesman, he handed the book to Rosswell.

  Rosswell declined the book. “Thanks, but right now I don’t need that.”

  “I’ve got books on every aspect of criminal investigation, from how the mind works to talking to suspects to how to do autopsies.” He swept his arm around, pointing to all the shelves. “And if there’s a title you need that I don’t stock, I’ll get it for you at the lowest cost anywhere.”

  “I’m his research assistant,” Ollie said. “Maybe I’ll come back and we can go over a few things I need. I’m sure you’ll give the judge good credit terms.”

  Rosswell stood. “We need to go before Ollie mortgages my house.”

  Rosswell slipped the key into Vicky’s ignition. “Do you think it’s a coincidence that the only guy in the county—at least the only guy in the telephone book—whose initials are ND has a ring like the one I found at the scene?”

  “To quote a snarky friend of mine, ‘I don’t believe in coincidences’.”

  Nathaniel peered through his curtains. Good detectives shouldn’t sit in front of a suspect’s house and discuss the interview they just had with the possible bad guy. Not only is this bad form, it makes the suspect nervous. Nervous suspects do stupid things.

  Ollie said, “That guy looks like a clown. White as a ghost with screaming red hair.”

  “You’ve got a bald head with a—”

  “Stop right there. Please. Judge.”

  “Change of subject. Why were we pointed in Nathaniel Dahlbert’s direction?”

  “The murderer pointed us in his direction? Or maybe it is coincidence that the arms of the corpses were signaling the letters D and N?”

  “My guess is that there are more people involved in these murders than we suspect.” Rosswell’s mouth savored the memory of the drink they’d been served. “Damn good tea.” He started Vicky but didn’t put her in gear.

  One of Nathaniel’s neighbors, an elderly woman dressed in a black pantsuit, walked out of her house and began sweeping her sidewalk. She was probably part of the Neighborhood Watch, memorizing the description of two men in a bright orange Volkswagen parked in front of the nice book salesman’s house.

  Ollie said, “Nathaniel poured from a Reed & Barton pointed antique tea set. Sterling silver.”

  “They sell those at Wal-Mart, right?”

  “The cheap ones on eBay sell for two thousand dollars.”

  “Selling used books must be quite lucrative.”

  “If they’re full of dope.”

  “You noticed the answering machine.”

  “My eyes notice everything. I’m the research assistant.”

  “The missed-call light was blinking. That can mean only one of two things.”

  “Judge, you’re giving me all the easy ones. He either genuinely missed the call or saw who it was and didn’t want to answer.”

  “But—”

  “Let me finish. I vote for genuinely missed the call. If he’d seen who it was on the machine, then when he peeked out the curtain and saw us, he would’ve erased the call before he let us in.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And he’s the only one in the county with the initials ND. Or at least the only one we know about.”

  “There’s someone else with the initials ND.”

  Ollie said, “Who?”

  “The murderer.”

  “That’s crap. Candy is the murderer and she’s in jail. It’s time for us to close up shop.”

  “Let’s just talk about this as an intellectual exercise.”

  Ollie made a sound low in his throat, suggesting he’d just stifled a squeak. “The murderer is the woman who bribed Bobby.”

  “They’re one and the same person.”

  �
��Agreeing here.”

  “Ollie, check out Nathaniel, top to bottom.”

  Rosswell’s phone rang.

  Frizz said, “I got good news and I got bad news.”

  Rosswell said, “I’ll bite. What’s the good news?”

  “Purvis Rabil says he wants to meet us at the station. He says he’s got mighty important info for us about the murders.”

  “I’ll bet. And the bad news?”

  “Ribs hired a fancy attorney out of Saint Louis who filed papers to keep Candy out on bail. The lawyer says Candy didn’t commit a crime by going to Tina’s room. She was just visiting a sick friend.”

  “No judge is going to buy that bull crap.”

  “One already did. Candy never went back to her cell.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Thursday noon

  At the station, Rosswell eyeballed Purvis while Frizz greeted the big motorcyclist when he came through the door.

  Before Purvis had arrived, Rosswell had said to Frizz, “If Candy’s running loose, then I’m headed for the hospital.”

  Frizz said, “I’ve got Junior guarding her door and a female reserve deputy inside her room. Candy’s nowhere in town. I checked myself. Ribs told me she’s in Saint Louis talking to her lawyer.”

  “I’m going to the hospital.”

  “Rosswell, damn it, you’ll just be in the way. You’ve got to talk to Purvis. He insisted you be here.”

  Now, Purvis nodded in Rosswell’s direction. “We need to have a talk about a ring that the honorable judge found.” Rosswell wondered where the hell Purvis learned about the ring. Like Ollie had said, there were no secrets in Bollinger County. That, however, didn’t satisfy Rosswell as a good answer.

  Purvis’s shirt was drenched with sweat and his face was redder than when Rosswell had seen it before. Scooby’s hair was wilted and she panted incessantly.

  Frizz motioned Rosswell over. “Take my gun and lose Ollie.”

  Rosswell looked first at his own gun and then at the sheriff’s. Rosswell said, “You want me to shoot him?”

  “He doesn’t belong here. He’s not law enforcement.”

  Rosswell ordered Ollie outside.

  Ollie never peeped, scared as he was of Frizz. Good thinking, Ollie.

  Frizz said to Purvis. “I’m patting you down.”

  Rosswell aimed Frizz’s gun and his own gun at the motorcyclist’s head. If Purvis tried hurting anyone, Rosswell could get two shots at the hog rider. Purvis grasped his hands behind his head in a prisoner of war stance and stood with his legs far apart. He knew the drill. Frizz patted him down so thoroughly that it made an airport screener’s groping look like a limp handshake. Satisfied that the man wasn’t armed, the sheriff took back his gun from Rosswell but didn’t holster it. Rosswell held his gun down at his side, finger outside the trigger guard.

  Frizz ordered Purvis, “Spill it.”

  “Sheriff, if you don’t mind. Before we go any further, I need you to verify who I am. I’ve got info in an envelope on the inside pocket of my vest.” Purvis Rabil pointed as he spoke. His hillbilly accent had mysteriously disappeared, replaced by the speech of a cultured Southern gentleman. “Let me retrieve it and then you call the numbers I’ve written on the paper. All my identification is there also.”

  Frizz nodded, and Purvis handed the envelope to the sheriff. He dumped the contents, read the information, and scoped out the identification cards. “Holy shit.” Riffling through the info once again, he let out a low whistle. “I’ll do the calling in private.” Frizz disappeared into headquarters and shut the door. Apparently, the sheriff wasn’t scared that Purvis would murder Rosswell while he skedaddled to make a phone call.

  Rosswell asked Purvis, “What’s your story?”

  “I’ll tell you when the sheriff returns.”

  “There’s a killer loose. Three victims—three that we know of—are dead. Earlier, a woman we think is the killer visited Tina in her hospital room. Fortunately, we stopped her before she could hurt Tina. I suggest you be very forthcoming with the sheriff.”

  “I’m sorry, but I will not speak until Sheriff Dodson returns.”

  “How did you know about that ring?”

  Purvis hooked his thumbs in the belt of his jeans and said nothing. His silence scared Rosswell. Scooby lapped the air with her tongue and yapped. The dog’s bark wasn’t as loud as a baby’s fart.

  “Judge,” Frizz said when he came back to the dispatcher’s area, “meet Special Agent Purvis Rabil of the ABI.”

  Purvis made a slight bow from the waist. “Glad to meet you.”

  Rosswell said, “What’s the ABI?”

  “Alabama Bureau of Investigation,” Purvis said.

  “Alabama?”

  “That’s right, Judge.”

  “You’re using your real name?” Rosswell said. “I take it that your apparel is not a standard uniform for the ABI. That means you don’t want anyone to recognize you. Why are you using your real name?”

  Purvis said, “I use my real name because no one could ever connect me with any law enforcement agency.”

  “An attempt at deep cover,” Rosswell said. “Anyone can hide with the right hacking of a couple of different databases.” Ollie had taught him that. “Sounds like a spy novel.”

  Purvis said, “Judge, it is a spy story. But a true one, not a novel.”

  Frizz said, “Purvis, tell the judge everything but, Rosswell, remember that it’s confidential.”

  Scooby farted. The rotten smell of dog gas dissipated quickly.

  Rosswell said, “I’ll never tell anybody anything about what you tell me. I’d be kicked off the bench and disbarred for violating a confidentiality.”

  Not true, but the lie should work.

  “Let’s start with Johnny Dan Dumey,” Purvis said. “I’ll give you the short version. Johnny Dan buys and sells cars—mostly old muscle cars— all over Missouri, Illinois, Tennessee, Arkansas, Alabama, Kentucky, and Mississippi.”

  Purvis fished around in one of his pockets, came up with a new package of Big Red, and stuffed five sticks of the gum in his mouth.

  He continued around a big wad, “On one of his trips to Alabama, Johnny Dan went after a car in Birmingham. The fellow selling it had the vehicle stored in a meth lab. Johnny Dan came to the ABI headquarters in Birmingham, and I talked to him. Thanks to his info, we busted a huge meth operation. One of the biggest in the Southeast.”

  “That’s great,” Rosswell said. “But Alabama is a long way from Missouri. What does it have to do with the murders here in Bollinger County? And what’s that got to do with someone trying to kill Tina and me?”

  Frizz said, “Give the agent a chance to tell the whole story.”

  Purvis said, “The meth lab in Birmingham was backed by interests in St. Louis and Kansas City. We recruited Johnny Dan. He signed on as undercover. His car business gave him the perfect camouflage. Add to that Johnny Dan’s acting ability and he was a natural. He’s been in several little theater productions. And the guy keeps the best notes of any snitch I’ve ever had. Most of my informants can barely read or write.”

  “Purvis,” Rosswell said, “this is interesting and all, but someone tried to murder Tina and me. Can you help us on that?”

  Frizz said, “You interrupted the man’s explanation. He’s fixing to shed light on the crimes we’ve been suffering during the last few days.”

  Rosswell said, “I think he’s an overgrown hippy riding a motorcycle.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Purvis said. “That was what I intended to look like. Glad it worked.”

  “So far,” Rosswell said, “you’ve not said anything interesting.”

  Purvis said, “Johnny Dan Dumey witnessed the murders at the state park.”

  Frizz curled his hands into fists. “Just why in the hell did you and Johnny Dan forget to tell us that bit of information? I should arrest you both for withholding evidence. In fact, I should arrest you for impeding an investigation since you didn’t rep
ort to me the second you got in this county.”

  A gaggle of motorcyclists sallied down the street in front of the sheriff’s station. Purvis’ motorcycle was parked out front. The hog riders no doubt wondered what one of their own was doing talking to the sheriff. They revved their engines, flooding the area with the strange Harley engine sound.

  “The reason for not telling?” Purvis said. “The ring.”

  “You,” Frizz said through clenched teeth, “couldn’t tell me about an eyewitness to two murders because of some fricking ring?”

  “Let’s talk about the term ‘eyewitness’,” Purvis said.

  “No, let’s talk about the fricking ring,” Frizz said.

  “As far as an eyewitness, there’s nothing to talk about,” Rosswell said. “The term ‘eyewitness’ is well defined. It means the person was at an event, saw what happened, and can testify to it.”

  “The first part about being there is correct,” Purvis said. “But the next part about seeing what happened is not correct.”

  Frizz said, “You’re playing word games. Tell us who the murderer is so we can go after her.”

  Scooby furiously licked Purvis’s neck. Without breaking stride, Purvis pulled a small cup and a bottle of water from a pocket, poured Scooby a drink and set her down to enjoy the break. Until she finished, every three seconds she’d growl and bark at Purvis. When she belched, obviously a signal that she was through, Purvis stuffed her under his shirt.

  Purvis said, “I can’t guarantee that your killer is a woman.”

  Rosswell said, “That’s a load of crap.”

  Frizz said, “Rosswell caught Candy in Tina’s room.”

  “And,” Rosswell said, “a woman tried to plant a false clue at the street fair.”

  Frizz looked at Rosswell for a moment with an unspoken question.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Rosswell said.

  Purvis clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the ceiling, reminding Rosswell of professors he’d known long ago. A lecture was aborning.

  “What,” Purvis said, “did this woman at the street fair look like?”

  “She looked like Candy,” Rosswell answered. “At least that’s the description we got from an eyewitness.” Rosswell didn’t mention that the eyewitness was an eleven-year old Tenderfoot Boy Scout. “Baggy blue jeans. Gray sweatshirt.” Something else. What was it? “Oh, yeah. Her hair tucked under a John Deere cap. Dirty blonde hair. And sunglasses. Big sunglasses. She wore big bracelets on each wrist.”