A Killing at the Creek

by Nancy Allen

  There was silence, not broken until Yocum added, “Wouldn’t you say, Detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “I expect you’ve conducted a lot of suspect interrogations in that time.”

  Ashlock nodded. “Yes, sir. I have.”

  “How many, you reckon?”

  Ashlock paused, his brow wrinkling as he calculated. “Hundreds. Hard to give a precise number.”

  “Well then, let’s say ‘many.’ Would that be accurate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Among all those ‘many’ suspect interrogations, did you ever question a juvenile suspect?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  “From time to time. Less serious offenses, generally.”

  “Many juvenile interrogations. Less serious offenses. This the first time you’ve questioned a juvenile suspect in a murder case?”

  “It was. Is.”

  Yocum made a show of walking back to the counsel table, digging through his worn briefcase for a pen, checking off an item on a legal pad. Then abruptly, he swung back to Ashlock; peering over his glasses, he asked, “Is this the first time you brought your girlfriend along for custodial interrogation?”

  Sweat dampened Elsie’s armpits as her heartbeat increased. To her surprise, Chuck jumped from his seat with heroic zeal.

  “Objection!”

  Judge Callaway had not given signs of his ordinary somnolence throughout the testimony. He turned his attention to Chuck. “What grounds?”

  “Assumes facts not in evidence.” In response to the judge’s quizzical look, Chuck added, “She’s not his girlfriend.” Deflating under the judge’s scrutiny, he added, “Anymore,” and sat back down.

  Billy Yocum smiled, his teeth shining like ivory keys on an old piano. “I appreciate Mr. Harris’s candor, Judge, I surely do. But he is not under oath. I prefer to obtain the information from the witness on the stand.”

  “Objection overruled. Proceed, Billy,” said the judge.

  “Detective Ashlock, let me put the question another way.” Billy offered Ashlock a cordial nod. “Do you customarily bring your girlfriends—­your ladyloves—­along when you interrogate suspects?”

  “Ms. Arnold was a professional colleague,” Ashlock said.

  “Well now, Detective, that’s not what I asked. I didn’t ask you whether Miss Arnold is a professional.” Turning to the bench, Yocum said, “Judge, could the court reporter read back the last question, so the detective can answer?”

  The court reporter pulled the strip of paper from the machine. “ ‘Do you customarily bring your girlfriends—­your ladyloves—­along when you interrogate suspects?’ ”

  Elsie watched Ashlock as he focused on Yocum. She tried to read his face, but it was a stoic mask.

  “No,” Ashlock said.

  “Specifically—­murder interrogations? Custodial interrogation of murder suspects?”

  “No.”

  “How about interrogation of a juvenile suspect in a murder case? Did you bring your girlfriend along on that one?”

  “I was accompanied by two members of the county prosecutor’s office, Chuck Harris and Elsie Arnold.”

  “And?”

  “At the time, Ms. Arnold and I were socializing, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “What exactly does that mean—­‘socializing’? Does that refer to an exclusively social relationship?”

  When Ashlock didn’t respond, Yocum zeroed in. “Romantic relationship? Sexual relationship? Come on, Detective, you were dicking Miss Arnold, weren’t you?”

  Elsie’s heart palpitated; I’ll never live this down, never.

  All the air seemed to be sucked out of the hotbox of a room. Elsie looked around in slow motion; no one moved. The judge wore a sour look. Ashlock’s face had turned a shade of red bordering on purple. Chuck sat with his mouth agape. Billy Yocum leaned against the jury box, waiting.

  The juvenile caught her eye. He was watching her. He pursed his lips and sent her an air kiss.

  The kiss jolted Elsie from her trance. She jumped from her seat, shouting, “Jesus Christ!”

  The judge swung his gavel in Elsie’s direction. “Is that an objection?”

  “Yes, your honor; oh yes it is,” she said, recovering her wits in a rush. “Mr. Yocum’s tactics are underhanded and unethical. He is badgering the witness, intentionally inciting him with questions designed to inflame the witness and the court.”

  Yocum raised his hand, preparing to respond, but Judge Callaway cut him off.

  “Sustained.”

  Billy looked like he’d been delivered an electric shock. “Your honor!”

  “Now Billy, I gave you some leeway with this, let you make your point. But you’re going into territory that’s best left alone.”

  “Your honor, I can demonstrate bias—­”

  “Hold off, Billy. You’re done here. And you won this round.”

  Elsie, who had half risen from her seat, sat down again. Chuck leaned in to whisper something to her, but she only listened with half an ear. She waited for the judge to continue, clutching her pen in a tight grip.

  The judge said: “I’m not going to ask you all to prepare written suggestions, because my mind is made up. I’m suppressing the statement. The state cannot submit it at trial as part of the state’s case in chief.”

  Billy straightened his tie before he spoke. “Judge, I respectfully request that the state also be barred from using the statement for purposes of cross-­examination in the event the defendant testifies.”

  Elsie was busy calculating the damage that the judge’s decision would do to the state’s case when she heard Ashlock speak up.

  He was still in his seat on the witness stand. “Judge, we got all the forms signed, read him his rights—­did it by the book, from A to Z. And you’re throwing it out? I don’t understand.”

  “And I’m not obligated to defend my ruling to you, Detective. But this once, I will.” The judge cut his eyes at Elsie, then turned his chair toward Ashlock. He spoke so softly that Elsie could barely make out the words: “I don’t much care who you’re fooling around with. But I don’t like you interrogating a boy that age without a parent present. Doesn’t sit right with me.” He tossed the file folder to his clerk. “Court is adjourned.”

  Chapter 30

  AFTER JUDGE CALLAWAY left the bench, Elsie followed Chuck out of the courtroom, holding herself so tightly that her jaw hinge locked up. Rounding the rotunda on the second floor, Chuck pointed to the back entrance of the Prosecutor’s Office and said: “First stop: Madeleine.”

  Elsie ignored him. She dodged into the stairway and tore down the steps, nearly tripping over her own feet. On the ground floor, she made for the exit, pushing the ancient oak door open wide and letting the sun blind her. For a moment she stood, sucking the hot air into her lungs, with her eyes squeezed shut and her face turned up to the sky.

  Jeanette, the court reporter, brushed past her.

  “That was some hearing, huh?” the woman asked with a laugh.

  Elsie nodded, her head bobbing like a toy on a string.

  “I’ve got to get back in a hurry and work up the transcript for the court file. Wouldn’t want to be you today. You’re going to be famous.”

  Elsie stared at the woman’s back as she marched away, her heels clicking a beat on the hot concrete. She tried to summon a surge of anger toward the reporter, but it wouldn’t come. The words she’d spoken were the Lord’s own truth.

  A weathered pair of park benches rested on the edge of the courthouse lawn where it met the street. I’ve got to sit down, Elsie thought, making her way toward them. I need to sit and think.

  She lowered herself onto the planks, taking care to keep her bare skin from touching the peeling slats of wood. All she needed to make the day com
plete was a splinter in her ass.

  A distinctive stink registered, and she looked around warily, to find the source. It was near at hand; a trash receptacle beside the bench was topped by a metal ashtray wriggling with maggots.

  “Jesus.” She groaned, scooting away from the odor; but as she thought the afternoon couldn’t be more uncomfortable, she saw Lisa Peters coming toward her on the walk.

  Lisa walked toward Elsie at a determined clip and planted herself in front of her, as if daring her to leave. Elsie looked up into her face, but the sun was so bright she had to squint.

  “What?” Elsie said.

  “It wasn’t personal.”

  “Shit,” Elsie said, her voice almost a sigh.

  Lisa stood rooted to the spot, clutching a big white Sonic Drive-­In cup to her chest. “Really, I want you to know: I think you do a good job. I understand the prosecutor’s role, what you do. And Chuck. But I was under oath.”

  Elsie rubbed her eyes; the sun was too bright. “Yeah.”

  “I swear to God,” Lisa said, dropping onto the bench beside her. “I wouldn’t throw a rock at you. I’ve come to have a lot of respect for you.”

  “You didn’t have a choice,” Elsie said.

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Lisa said, as if Elsie hadn’t spoken.

  They sat in unhappy silence until Elsie pointed at the storefront across the street.

  “Do you remember the old Ben Franklin? Or are you too young?”

  “Kinda. It was a craft store, right?”

  “No, that was just at the end, before it closed down for good. It was a five-­and-­dime before that, the real thing. Great candy. And weird shit. Random stuff.” The women gazed at the porcelain tiles that still covered the two-­story structure. “Somebody should do something with that property.”

  “The square is dead.”

  “Don’t tell the Chamber of Commerce.”

  “Chamber of Blow Jobs.”

  For the first time that day, Elsie laughed out loud. It felt like a tonic. She turned to Lisa and said, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to stick pins in a voodoo doll because you did what you had to do.”

  “Really, I want you to know: I think you do a good job. But I was under oath.”

  “I know.”

  “I was; I had to tell the truth. I’m sorry you had such a terrible time in there. But I did the only thing I could do. You knew I didn’t like the way that statement went down. I was straight with you about it.”

  Elsie started to speak, but thought better of it.

  “I just told the truth. That’s all.” Making a face, Lisa said, “It smells like death,” then took a long pull on a Sonic Drive-­In cup.

  Elsie settled back on the seat, scooting back far enough to feel the wood warm her thighs. She knew Lisa didn’t have a choice. She’d been under subpoena; when questioned, she answered truthfully. “Apt description. It’s maggots.” She nodded toward the offending trash can.

  Lisa leaned in the direction of the can, appearing to examine the vermin. Nodding, she said, “It’s the heat. Flies love the month of July. Nothing you can do about it.”

  The women sat in silence, side by side, until Elsie roused herself from her inertia and said, “There’s always something.”

  Lisa sucked on the red straw. “How’s that?”

  “About maggots. My mom told me. Her family didn’t have a garbage disposal when she was a kid, so maggots were fierce in the summer. But my grandmother sprinkled 20 Mule Team Borax in the garbage cans. Flies don’t like borax.”

  Lisa nodded, looking genuinely impressed. “That’s good to know.”

  Elsie let out a short laugh. “Honest to God, my mother knows some crazy shit.”

  “Okay. Give me another one.”

  Elsie lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “Sunburn.”

  “What about it?”

  “Apple cider vinegar for sunburn. She’d pour it on me in the tub. I bitched about the smell, but it works like magic.”

  Lisa nodded. “That’s a good one. But I’ve heard it before.”

  Taking the challenge, Elsie inched closer to Lisa. “What about leg cramps? Charley horses? Mom puts a bar of soap under the fitted sheet. I never had trouble with muscle cramps in the night when I lived at home.” To herself, she added, “I ought to do that now.”

  “That sounds like an old wives’ tale. There could be a million other reasons to explain the phenomenon.”

  Elsie did not deign to reply.

  Lisa went on, “I always heard gin and tonic is good for muscle cramps.”

  “Gin and tonic is good for what ails you,” Elsie said, but remembering the cocktails that led to her casino war with Ashlock, she fell silent.

  Lisa sighed. “I can’t help it, I worry about him.”

  “Tanner Monroe?”

  “Oh yeah. Tanner Monroe. My first assigned juvenile case. What a kickoff.” She held out her Sonic cup. “Have a drink.”

  Elsie shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  Lisa ignored the refusal; she put the drink in Elsie’s hand. “It’s cherry.”

  Elsie stared at the cup. She had no desire to share the cherry slush; she was not a germophobe, but she wasn’t ready to smoke the ceremonial peace pipe with Lisa, if that was what the cup represented.

  “I’m not thirsty,” she said, but Lisa snorted.

  “If you don’t suck on that straw right this second, you ain’t got a hair on your ass.”

  That caused Elsie to crack a smile; she’d always liked that expression. Obligingly, she sucked on the straw.

  Fire poured down her throat and made her eyes water. “Shit,” she choked, “you should’ve warned me.”

  Lisa cut her eyes at Elsie with a conspiratorial look. “Vodka. I needed a big dose of something after that court hearing.”

  Elsie shuddered, the aftereffect of the unexpected shot. “Do you think you’re okay?”

  “I’ll survive.”

  Narcissistic little shit, Elsie thought. Maybe you should try to survive being the Hester Prynne of McCown County.

  “Lisa, what I meant was—­are you okay to drive?”

  “I’ve got a ride. I’m waiting.”

  Elsie rested against the back of the park bench. The vodka must have deadened her sense of smell; the maggots were more bearable. “Give me another bite of that snake.”

  Lisa offered the cup, saying, “You’re sure you’re not hating my fucking guts?”

  “Just a little. Less than I was.” At the sight of Lisa’s anxious face, Elsie laughed. “Aw, shit, hon; he had you in a spot. I can’t hate a girl for telling the truth when she’s under oath.” Elsie hand back the cup. “Because I’m not like that.”

  “I finally figured that out.” Lisa lifted the lid and showed Elsie the icy remains. “We’re down to the slushy stuff.” She tipped the cup and took a mouthful.

  Looking away, Elsie said, “Sometimes I wish I’d never heard of Tanner Monroe.”

  Lisa choked and gagged. After spitting a chunk of ice on the sidewalk, she said. “Hey, sista. I’m thinking that every single day.”

  A voice cut across the courthouse lawn. “Peters! Petie!”

  Both women looked around to see Chuck Harris standing under a shade tree near the side entrance of the courthouse, loosening his tie. He jerked his thumb toward the employee parking. “Ready?”

  “Gotta go,” Lisa said, tossing her Sonic cup into the maggoty waste can. She strutted up to Chuck, and as they walked off together, Lisa’s hand slipped around Chuck’s waist.

  Elsie’s jaw unlocked and she stared at the pair, openmouthed. “Fuck me running,” she whispered.

  Chapter 31

  WHEN ELSIE OPENED the door of Billy Yocum’s storefront office on the town square, a chime jangled to herald her arrival. She l
ooked up and saw a tarnished brass bell dangling overhead.

  Elsie heard a toilet flush, and a moment later, an ancient secretary appeared. The woman shuffled toward Elsie, squinting through tortoiseshell glasses.

  “It’s Elsie, isn’t it? Little Elsie Arnold.”

  “Hey, Veda.” Elsie gave her a smile. Veda Wilson had served as Yocum’s secretary for decades.

  The woman shook a finger at her. “I used to babysit your mama.”

  Elsie nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I know. You’ve told me.” Veda Wilson reminded Elsie of the babysitting connection each and every time Elsie encountered her.

  “She was such a nice girl. And smart! Why, she could read the newspaper in first grade.”

  “She’s still reading that paper, Veda. Every morning. Say, Veda, is Billy around?”

  “Yes, indeed. Let me stick my head in his office.” Veda stepped over to a closed door; without bothering to knock, she literally stuck her head inside. “Billy, she’s here.”

  His voice boomed into the outer office. “And who’s this ‘she’?”

  “Billy, it’s Elsie. Elsie Arnold. Marge’s girl.”

  “Have her take a seat. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Elsie dropped into a chair of mustard yellow vinyl, thinking that the delay was a power play on Billy’s part. She stretched her legs in front of her, settling in for a long wait, and started to simmer. She did not intend to waste her afternoon in Yocum’s office; he was at the very top of her shit list, even over Madeleine and Ashlock. Elsie hadn’t deigned to look at Yocum since the motion to suppress hearing a fortnight ago, much less speak to him; but he’d surprised her with a phone call that morning, demanding in a curt voice that she come by his office after lunch. He said he had important news to share. And before she could protest, he hung up.

  Elsie picked through the magazines on the table beside her chair. They were Mrs. Yocum’s discarded issues of Good Housekeeping and Southern Living, with the address labels still intact. On a lower shelf of the side table, she saw a stack of old yearbooks: Barton High, Home of the Mountaineers! She picked up the one on top, bearing a worn green cover with the year set forth in faded gold: 1960.