A Killing at the Creek

by Nancy Allen

  Madeleine held up the motion. “Chuck’s name appears once in this document. Exactly one time. Whereas your name, Elsie,” and she commenced flipping the pages, “pops up on every page.”

  Story of my life, Elsie thought, slumping in the chair. Story of my fucking life. She took a deep breath and blew it out before asking, “So what are we going to do?”

  Madeleine tossed the motion across her desk. “What you always do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Madeleine’s face twitched, then she laughed without mirth. “What you always do. Storm in like a bull in a china shop and hope for the best.”

  Chuck reached over and picked the crumpled motion off the varnished top of Madeleine’s desk. “Do you want me to handle this, Madeleine?”

  “No.” Madeleine’s cell phone buzzed and she picked it up, a clear sign that the meeting was at an end. Before she answered the call, she said, “Elsie made the bed. Let her lie in it.”

  Chapter 28

  ELSIE SHIFTED IN her seat at the front desk of the battered women’s center, wishing that someone would see fit to donate a decent office chair. Her job, one Sunday morning each month, involved manning the phone at the front desk, which she was glad enough to do. But the rickety chair, which might have been part of the old building’s original furnishings, was well beyond its golden years, and had been designed for a smaller posterior than Elsie’s.

  She’d begun volunteering regularly at the Battered Women’s Center of the Ozarks since the close of the State v. Taney case, a hard-­fought trial where Elsie secured a life sentence for a man charged with sexual abuse of his daughters. Her work at the desk was not difficult. She was essentially a doorman. While sometimes the hours dragged, she found insight and inspiration when she talked to the residents about their problems and met their children.

  Gazing idly about the lobby of the old hotel, she was struck again by the beauty that remained in the crumbling building. The walnut stairway leading to the second floor still gave an air of grandeur, and the porcelain tile, though cracked and missing in places, showed the painstaking workmanship of the century before.

  The lobby was empty that Sunday, because the director had loaded most of the women onto a van to attend a nearby church ser­vice. Those who remained were either sleeping or caring for their children. At 9:00 A.M. it was unusually quiet. Elsie wished she had thought to bring a Sunday newspaper. Or a magazine. Or maybe a paperback romance novel with a lurid cover.

  Rattling the remaining ice cubes in her McDonald’s cup, she stretched her legs and propped them up on the desk. Elsie had just found a comfortable position when the front door opened, and a woman in sunglasses, her brown hair cut in a shiny bob, strode up to the desk.

  “You’re Elsie Arnold,” the woman said with surprise.

  “Yes,” Elsie said, a little guardedly; the woman seemed familiar, but with her Jackie O sunglasses blocking much of her face, it was hard to tell. “What can I do for you today?” After a beat, Elsie added, though it seemed unlikely, “Are you checking in with us this morning?”

  The woman laughed. Pushing her glasses atop her head, she said, “Heavens no, Elsie; I’m Caroline Applegate. Bob Ashlock’s friend.”

  Elsie didn’t need further introduction. She remembered Caroline Applegate, a family law attorney from a nearby county, who had dated Ashlock before he and Elsie got together. Covertly checking her out, Elsie was discouraged by what she observed. The woman was dressed in a crisp sleeveless blouse, and shorts that displayed a good pair of legs. Bet she works out, Elsie thought, grudgingly. Shit.

  Conjuring a polite voice, Elsie said, “Nice to see you again, Caroline.”

  “I’m here to see a client,” Caroline said confidingly, with a regretful expression. “So sad.”

  “Yeah,” Elsie said dryly, “everybody here is pretty sad.”

  The woman plucked a tiny speck from her immaculate blouse. “I know I’m not properly dressed. But I’m going to Branson with Bob today, so I thought I’d swing by here and get my client’s signature on her divorce petition. It just worked out,” she said, in a manner that was decidedly perky.

  “Client’s name?” Elsie said, deadpan, phone in hand. She did not want to hear about Caroline Applegate’s jaunt through the hills with Ashlock. The wound was too fresh.

  “Sammie Phillips,” Caroline whispered. As Elsie spoke into the second floor intercom, Caroline looked around, relaxed, adjusting her handbag on her shoulder.

  Elsie hung up the phone. “She’ll be right down. In a minute,” Elsie added; Sammie Phillips had sounded like she was brushing her teeth when she acknowledged Elsie’s call.

  “Good,” Caroline said, “I need to wrap this up and hit the road. Bob and I are taking the kids to Branson.”

  Elsie looked up, shocked and hurt, despite herself. “You’re going to Branson? With the kids?”

  “To the Titanic exhibit. They are so excited.” Making a wry face, she added, “Bob suggested that we take them to Silver Dollar City. But I talked him out of it. I think the Titanic is much more educational.” Leaning into Elsie, she added, in a confiding stage whisper, “And much cooler.”

  Tears pricked in Elsie’s eyes; she bit down on the inside of her cheek to dispel them. For a terrible moment, she feared that Caroline Applegate would see the tears shining in her eyes, so she tried to devise a fitting retort, but nothing came to mind. All she could think of was that Ashlock had offered Caroline Applegate the Silver Dollar City trip with his kids that Elsie had wanted; Elsie should be in the car, driving through the green hills en route to southwest Missouri’s hokey tourist wonderland, not Caroline Applegate. Caroline didn’t even want to go to Silver Dollar City. She thought it was too hot.

  Elsie rubbed her nose, hard, thinking: Fucking Ashlock, stupid fucking Ashlock, fuck you.

  Looking back at Caroline Applegate, the woman appeared to be awaiting a response. Elsie bared her teeth in an artificial smile. “So, how’s Ash doing these days?”

  Caroline rolled her eyes. “Oh, that poor man. I ran into him at the farmers’ market on a Saturday. He wanted to pick up some tomatoes, but didn’t seem like he knew what on earth to do: red or pink or yellow or green. I gave him a hand.”

  I bet you did, Elsie thought.

  “And then I came onto the most beautiful white peaches, just luscious. So I made a pie, and I ran it by the house.”

  Yellow peaches make a better pie. My mother says so. But Elsie pinched her lips together.

  Caroline set her handbag on the desk and unzipped it, rooting inside. “Those poor babies. You’d think those kids had never seen a homemade pie. Bob was so grateful.” She smiled at Elsie, with triumph reflecting off each shiny tooth in her head. “He was so sweet. So sweet! And the kids begged me to stay for supper. You know.”

  You’re gloating, Elsie thought. Rubbing salt in the wound and having fun doing it. “Wow, what a great story,” Elsie said, shaking her head. “But I have a ton of stuff to get back to here. So, you have a great time in Branson.”

  “Oh, I will. Can’t have a bad time in Branson. It’s got everything.”

  Elsie nodded her head sagely. “Branson can be very educational.”

  “Want me to tell Bob hi for you?”

  Bitch, Elsie thought. “Sure. Whatever.” In a light tone, she added, “Eat a funnel cake for me.”

  Caroline Applegate laughed in response as her client appeared on the stairs. Watching as the women crossed the room to a furnished corner of the lobby, Elsie decided: If Ashlock could move on, so could she. It was over. Completely over.

  Except for the aftermath. The motion to suppress hearing was set for next week.

  Chapter 29

  ELSIE’S GUT TWISTED into a knot. Her legs were shaking; with a false show of poise, she crossed them tightly at the knee to still the quivering.

  Judge Callaway cleared his t
hroat. “Mr. Yocum, you may proceed.”

  Yocum rose, standing tall, the overhead light glinting on his spectacles and his gray hair. “Your honor, now this may seem unorthodox. But in support of defendant’s motion to suppress, defendant calls Elsie Arnold to the witness stand.”

  No no no no no, Elsie thought. Jumping to her feet, she spat: “Objection!” before the judge cut her off.

  “Where is Mrs. Thompson?”

  Elsie and Chuck exchanged a look. Chuck was seated beside Elsie at the counsel table, due to a last-­minute change of heart by Madeleine. “Someone has to be a witness to this train wreck,” Madeleine had said as she buttonholed him outside Elsie’s office. “And it won’t be me.”

  Chuck stood at the prosecutor’s counsel table. “In her office, your honor.”

  “Why isn’t she in court?”

  Chuck replied, “We’re here on behalf of the state. Me and Ms. Arnold.”

  The judge waved a paper copy of the motion with an impatient gesture. “Your names are included in the allegations. Repeatedly. Is this her case or isn’t it? Does she only make her appearances before a camera?”

  Elsie felt an unanticipated surge of appreciation toward the judge, glad to learn that they were of a mind about Madeleine’s work ethic. Hiding a smile, she looked out the open window near the counsel table and watched a line of pickup trucks pass as Chuck defended Madeleine.

  “Your honor, due to scheduling conflicts and conflicts of a personal nature, Prosecutor Thompson thinks it’s best to hand the case over to me. I’ll be representing the state.” After a pause, he added, “Assisted by Ms. Arnold.”

  “That puts us in a pickle this morning, Judge Callaway,” said Yocum, drawing out the words in a drawl. “Because I’m here to tell you: both Mr. Harris and Miss Arnold are witnesses for the defense.”

  Callaway closed his eyes. “Are they under subpoena?”

  “Why no, your honor. Didn’t think it was necessary to ensure their appearance by subpoena. I assumed they would be here. And as you can see”—­extending his arm with a flourish—­“here they be.”

  Judge Callaway sat with his eyes closed for some minutes while the attorneys stood before him. Elsie’s knee began to jiggle again. She pressed her leg against the counsel table to stop it.

  At length, the judge opened his eyes. “Billy, how about you call a witness who’s under subpoena?”

  “But your honor, the purpose of subpoena—­”

  “Billy. Call your witness.” And the judge leaned back in his massive chair, breathing in a deep breath of the fresh, hot air blowing through the open windows.

  Billy Yocum turned to the juvenile and bent to whisper in his ear. Tanner Monroe didn’t show any reaction. Picking up his notepad, Yocum announced in a stentorian voice, “The defense calls Lisa Peters to the witness stand.”

  The door opened and Lisa Peters entered. She walked into court with the determined step of one who was facing an unpleasant duty. After being sworn, she scooted into the witness chair, glancing at Elsie sidelong and looking quickly away.

  “State your name,” said Yocum.

  “Lisa Peters.”

  “What’s your occupation?”

  “Deputy juvenile officer of McCown County.”

  Yocum sat and draped his arm over the back of his client’s chair. “Let’s go back to the fourteenth day of June of this year. Were you a participant in an interrogation on that date?”

  The young woman frowned, her brow puckering. “No,” she said after a moment.

  Yocum sat up straight. “Beg pardon?”

  “No—­I wasn’t a participant. That’s not accurate, because I didn’t interrogate Tanner myself. But I was present, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Yocum laughed. “I’ll have to be careful, won’t I, Miss Peters? Or we’ll be splitting hairs in here.”

  The Peters girl is smart, Elsie thought. She won’t let him push her into a corner.

  “Who all was present—­as you put it—­at this interrogation on June 14?”

  “Detective Ashlock. He asked the questions, took the statement. And Chuck Harris and Elsie Arnold from the Prosecutor’s Office. And Tanner Monroe; he was in juvenile custody, at that time. And Tanner’s guardian ad litem, Maureen Mason. And me.”

  Yocum whistled. Shaking his head, he said, “That’s a houseful, isn’t it, Miss Peters. Were Mr. Monroe’s parents there?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “They hadn’t been contacted.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Tanner didn’t provide the contact information, at first. He did later, though—­tell us how to reach his mother.”

  “So he was questioned, without a parent present. Tell me, Miss Peters: What was the purpose of having those two prosecutors sitting in?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Were they there at your invitation? Did you request it?”

  “No. No, I didn’t.”

  “Isn’t it true, Miss Peters,” said Yocum, warming to the task and getting into his theatrical mode, “that you openly voiced objection to the presence of Miss Arnold and Mr. Harris?”

  Lisa Peters nodded. “I did.”

  “In fact, Miss Peters, did you not say that the detective and the prosecutors were ‘dog-­piling the poor kid.’ ”

  Elsie tried to keep from slumping in her seat. Those were the very words Lisa had used. And they sounded pretty bad for the prosecution, when repeated in a court of law. Why hadn’t Elsie listened to her gut that day, and excused herself?

  Lisa didn’t answer right away. Yocum left the counsel table and approached her like an old mountain lion cornering his prey.

  “Weren’t those your very words, Miss Peters?”

  Lisa sighed, but before she could speak, Yocum added, “Need I remind you that you’re under oath?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t recall my exact words. But that sounds like something I’d say.”

  “Well, let’s go about this another way. On that occasion, did it seem to you that they were ‘dog-­piling’ my fifteen-­year-­old client? Ganging up on a young juvenile, a mere boy? And taking advantage of him on that occasion?”

  Please don’t please don’t please don’t say it, chorused through Elsie’s head, but it did not prevent the inevitable.

  Lisa Peters took a deep breath and said, “Yes. That’s what I thought.”

  We’re in trouble, Elsie told herself.

  Billy Yocum actually bowed to the witness, as if they’d finished a square dance set. “No further questions.”

  Chuck stood. Elsie watched him, praying that he would undo the damage.

  “Ms. Peters, how old are you?”

  What a stupid bullshit question, Elsie thought.

  Apparently, Lisa Peters thought so, too. She cocked her head, eyeing Harris with a look of disbelief. “Why?”

  “Just answer the question,” he said.

  “Twenty-­two.”

  “Twenty-­two,” Chuck repeated. “And how many years of experience do you have in juvenile work?”

  “Objection,” Billy said. “The prosecutor is acting like we’ve tried to qualify the witness for an expert opinion, a matter of expert testimony, your honor, which the defense did not do. This line of questioning is irrelevant.”

  “Overruled.” Judge Callaway picked up the court file and waved it back and forth before his face, a makeshift fan.

  “How many years, Ms. Peters?”

  “This is my first year at the juvenile office. But I have a degree—­”

  “Just answer the questions I ask, Ms. Peters, thank you. Do you have a legal background?”

  Lisa looked at Harris, her face tense. “No.”

  “Have you had any experience in police detective work? As a law enforcement
professional?” Harris paced before the stand, chest thrust out like a rooster.

  “No. Like I said, I’m a juvenile officer.”

  “A deputy juvenile officer, you said. So please tell the court, Ms. Peters,” and he stopped pacing, pointed a finger at her, and raised the volume of his voice, “where you got the idea that you are qualified to sit in judgment on the McCown County Prosecutor’s Office? And the Barton Police Department?”

  “I’m just answering the questions—­” Lisa said, as Yocum rose and shouted, “Objection! Badgering the witness!”

  Ignoring Yocum, Chuck stepped closer to the stand. “What qualifies you to second-­guess an attorney?”

  Oh shit, Elsie thought.

  Yocum cried out: “Objection! I have raised an objection, your honor. Does the prosecutor not understand that we are under a duty to hear the ruling of the court? Boy, what did they teach you about proper court procedure up in Kansas City?”

  The judge rolled his head backward, cracking his neck. “Sustained.”

  Chuck turned on his heel. “No further questions.”

  Watching Lisa step down, Elsie saw her make eye contact with Chuck. When Elsie glanced Chuck’s way, she caught him shooting a wink at the juvenile officer. Elsie almost choked. What a dick, she thought; was he trying to cut their throats at the prosecution table?

  Yocum interrupted her thoughts; he announced, “The defense calls Detective Robert Ashlock.”

  Elsie’s head jerked around to look through the courtroom door. Through the chicken wire embedded in the glass, she could see that his face was grim.

  After Ashlock was sworn, he took his seat on the witness stand, his back stiff. His eyes were flinty as Yocum approached the stand.

  “State your name for the record, Detective.”

  “Robert Dean Ashlock.”

  “Occupation?”

  “Chief of detectives, Barton Police Department.”

  “How long have you held that position?”

  “Nearly ten years.”

  “Ten years as chief of detectives,” Yocum repeated, sounding impressed. “That’s a long old time.”