A Killing at the Creek

by Nancy Allen

  “ ‘Hey, this is Cammie. I’m not here right now. Leave me a message, okay? I’ll get back with you.’ ”

  Elsie sighed. She hung up the phone without comment; she’d learned from hard experience that it was unlikely she’d get a callback if she left a message to call the Prosecutor’s Office. Too scary, she supposed. She would try again later.

  The second McDonald’s witness was male: Jeff Bartlesby. When she dialed his number, an electronic robot voice informed her that it had been disconnected.

  She slammed the receiver down. “Well, that’s just great. Shit.”

  Her coworkers were leaving; Elsie heard their voices in the hallway. Stacie was bickering with the traffic clerk about their carpool.

  Breeon appeared in the doorway of Elsie’s office with her purse dangling from her shoulder. “Are you hanging around? You should know by now: they don’t pay us any overtime.”

  Elsie pointed at the open file. “Monroe case. Trying to line up my out-­of-­state witnesses.”

  Breeon said, “Go on home. Give yourself a little downtime. You can make those calls later, after you’ve had something to eat.”

  Shaking her head, Elsie sad, “Chuck wants me to get right on it.”

  Breeon’s face took on an expression of mock sobriety. “Then you get to work, girl. Chuck knows best.”

  Elsie and Breeon exchanged a look. They had privately exchanged notes on the new chief assistant’s skill set.

  “Hey,” Elsie said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “I saw Chuck going off into the sunset with the new juvenile officer. Lisa Peters.”

  “The one who testified at the suppression hearing?”

  “Yeah. Red hair.”

  Bree shrugged. Elsie said, “Well? Doesn’t that seem strange?”

  “Why? She had to testify.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean.”

  “Then what? They’re both single, both working for the county, new to town. Makes sense they’d hook up.”

  “But they couldn’t stand each other. They acted like mortal enemies when they first met.”

  Breeon laughed. “Then it was bound to happen. Tale as old as time. I’ll see you tomorrow, sis.”

  After Breeon left, the office felt empty as a tomb. The only sound was the white noise of the air-­conditioning unit under Elsie’s window, masking the traffic on the square.

  She checked her next witness: Jewel Winston, the cocktail waitress at the Jackpot Casino. With a wry smile, Elsie remembered her coup when she discovered the woman’s story; but the smile faded. “Fucking Ashlock,” she whispered.

  The witness’s phone picked up on the first ring. “Who’s this?” a voice demanded.

  Elsie grabbed a pen. “Ms. Winston?”

  “Who wants to know? What area code is this? Where’s 417? I don’t know a soul with a 417 number.”

  “This is Elsie—­”

  “If you’re selling something, you can forget it.”

  “No no no—­not selling a thing, honest. Ms. Winston, this is Elsie Arnold; we met at the Jackpot. I’m the prosecutor from Missouri who took your statement, remember? About Tanner Monroe, the young man in the bloody bus.”

  There was silence on the other end. Elsie said, “Ms. Winston? You remember?”

  At length, the woman responded. In a reluctant voice, she said, “Yeah. Back in June, I think.”

  Smiling into the phone, Elsie said, “That’s right. You gave me excellent information; and you identified the photo of Tanner Monroe. He’s been charged with the murder of the bus driver.”

  “But he’s a kid, isn’t he? Is this a juvenile thing?”

  “No, it’s a criminal case in Circuit Court. Because of the serious nature of the crime, Mr. Monroe has been certified to stand trial as an adult.” She started speaking in a rush, afraid she might be interrupted. “And the case is being set for trial—­soon. So I’m touching base to let you know you’ll be called to testify.”

  Silence again. While Elsie waited, she tapped her pen in a nervous rhythm.

  “I don’t know.”

  Elsie closed her eyes. Dragging reluctant witnesses to the stand was a common prosecutorial chore, but it never grew easier. “Ms. Winston, you’ll be under subpoena. It’s an important responsibility, a civic duty. This is a murder case. You know, the victim was a woman about your age.” She paused for a moment, to let the last statement sink in. “It’s crucial that the jury hear what you know.”

  “I don’t think I can get off work.”

  Elsie’s voice was brisk, her tone positive. “Not a problem. Your employer has to let you off; they don’t have any choice. A subpoena is an order of the court.”

  Ms. Winston dropped her voice; Elsie had to strain to hear. “Okay, here’s the thing. I don’t trust that kid. You say he’s a murderer. What if he gets out? He’ll come after me, cut my throat next. I’m just not going to take that risk.”

  “He’ll be in prison, Ms. Winston.” I hope, she added to herself.

  “He could escape.”

  “Well, that’s unlikely.” With her pen, Elsie made rapid notes by Jewel Winston’s name: RELUCTANT WITNESS—­get her back in the fold.

  “Plus I can’t afford it. The gas will break me. And I don’t have anyplace to stay.”

  “Don’t you worry about that. The county will pay for your transportation”—­and she added another note: Get deputy to drag her ass down here—­“and we’ll provide hotel accommodations. We have a real nice place on the highway: the Motel Rancho. It’s like a Hampton Inn.” Liar, her conscience whispered. The Rancho was an old mom-­and-­pop strip motel, a survivor of the Route 66 era. “It has a pool,” she added cheerfully.

  “If I want to swim, I can do it at my apartment. Right here in Oklahoma.”

  Elsie changed tactics. “Ms. Winston, I don’t want to fuss with you. You’ll be such a fantastic witness—­the jury will love you. Because you’re glamorous, and you communicate so well.”

  Flattery worked sometimes when reassurance failed.

  Ms. Winston warmed up a shade. “I’d like to help out. Really. I’m just thinking it’s not in my best interest.”

  “Ms. Winston, we’re going to take good care of you. Are you still working at the Jackpot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And your contact info: I know I have the right phone number; how about your address? Still on Will Rogers Drive?”

  Elsie heard the sigh: resignation. Acceptance. “Yeah. Still there.”

  “Excellent. I’ll be back in touch when I have the firm date, so you can put it on your calendar.”

  Grudgingly, Jewel Winston said, “Okay, I guess.”

  As they rang off, Elsie made stars by Jewel Winston’s name in purple ink, reflecting that she’d need to get the woman into the courtroom even if she had to hogtie her. Because Jewel had a role even more important than establishing the juvenile’s solo presence at the casino.

  Jewel Winston would have to rehabilitate the victim.

  Elsie knew Billy Yocum would zero in on the DNA evidence and use it against them. He would bludgeon the victim with the evidence, use it to portray her as a pedophile, a woman who preyed on boys.

  She had to get Jewel up on the witness stand, because Jewel could help to minimize the fallout. “Jewel,” Elsie said to the phone, “you’ll need to paint a picture for the jury. That Tanner Monroe would fuck any old gal in granny panties.”

  She just hoped that the jury would buy it.

  Chapter 34

  A HORSEFLY INVADED Judge Callaway’s courtroom through one of the screened windows. Elsie heard the buzz before she saw it; twisting around in her chair, she looked up and watched it zigzag around the room.

  Judge Callaway was seated at the bench, flipping through the pages of Billy Yocum’s motion. “Billy,” he said, “what are you thin
king about this?”

  “Your honor,” Billy said, rising to his feet, “my client is only fifteen years old. The county jail is a perilous environment for him. He is in danger of attack from all sides. I could elaborate, but”—­with a courtly nod at the court reporter—­“there is a lady present.”

  At the prosecution table, Chuck leaned close to Elsie and whispered, “He doesn’t mean you.”

  “Shut up,” she said.

  The judge said, “Billy, this is a change of tune. The defense generally pleads for more time.”

  Billy nodded. “Your honor, that’s true. But we have an uncommon case here. My first concern has to be the safety of this child.” He pointed at Tanner Monroe, who sat cuffed at the counsel table.

  Elsie glanced over at Monroe and heard him mutter: “I’m not a child. Jesus fucking Christ.”

  Billy put a hand on the young man’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze; the gesture looked supportive, but Elsie guessed that Yocum’s fingers were digging in hard enough to deliver a message. Yocum then walked around the table and blocked Monroe from the judge’s view. Elsie smiled, in spite of herself; Yocum was a smart old dude.

  “So we entreat the court, with all due respect, to try the case without delay. In the interest of my client’s safety. And the interest of justice. And you know, Judge Callaway”—­Billy grinned, baring his piano-­key teeth—­“I’m not getting any younger.”

  The horsefly had targeted Elsie. It buzzed in angry circles around her head. She ducked, an involuntary response, but it dive-­bombed her. She waved a frantic arm to shoo it away.

  “Ms. Arnold?” Judge Callaway said, as Chuck hissed, “What are you doing?”

  She dropped her hand to the table. “There’s a fly in here,” she said.

  The judge tuned back to Yocum. “So Billy, what are you asking for, time-­wise?”

  “Your honor, the court knows I’ll be unavailable in the fall, due to Peggy and my anniversary celebration. But I think I can see my way to freeing up some time before then. In the summer, Peggy and I generally spend time at our place on Table Rock Lake. But she and I had a talk, and she is willing to make a sacrifice on behalf of my client. Peggy can’t sleep at night for worrying about that boy.”

  The horsefly moved to the defense table. It circled before it landed on the file in front of Yocum’s empty chair. Elsie watched in fascination as it walked along the varnished surface of the tabletop.

  The juvenile’s hand moved so swiftly that it made her blink. He caught the fly in his hand and looked over at Elsie. Cocking his brow, he lifted his fist in triumph.

  Elsie watched his hand, curious to see what he would do next. Monroe squeezed his fist; she could see his fingers clench. Then he opened his hand and let the fly drop onto the tabletop.

  It wasn’t quite dead. It flopped around, its buzz muted to a death rattle. Monroe toyed with it, pushing it with his index finger.

  He had new letters tattooed on his fingers, and she could almost make them out. She leaned toward the defense table, scooting her chair in his direction.

  “Ms. Arnold?”

  She jerked back, sitting up straight. Judge Callaway was looking at her with a disgruntled expression. “Ms. Arnold, could we have your attention? You’re representing the state of Missouri here today, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, your honor.” She offered the judge an apologetic smile, resisting the urge to glance back at Monroe’s hand. At her side, Chuck looked at her with disbelief.

  “Are you high? Pull your head out of your ass,” he hissed.

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  “Get your shit together.”

  “I’m fine. Hush.”

  Judge Callaway was leafing through his black leather-­bound calendar. “Billy, if I move some things around, I can give you four days in August.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Chuck jumped up. “Judge, that’s awful soon. We’ll have to check and see whether the state’s witnesses can be available on such short notice.”

  “Get them here. You’re set for trial.”

  Chuck walked up to the bench, holding papers from the file. “Judge, the defense just sent me a mental evaluation of the defendant, claiming he has a personality disorder. We’ll need to have a doctor examine him on behalf of the state.”

  “Then do it. I expect Mr. Monroe has plenty of free time for the appointment.”

  “Judge, it will take some time to arrange it.”

  “Mr. Harris, we have a fifteen-­year-­old in lockup at the McCown County jail, and the defense is ready to proceed. Get your case in order.”

  “Judge Callaway,” Chuck said, his voice bordering on a whine, “We need to know whether the defendant is changing his plea from ‘Not Guilty’ to ‘Not Guilty by Reason of Mental Disease or Defect.’ ”

  Yocum ambled up to the bench, chuckling. “Thinking about it,” he said.

  Elsie glanced back at the defense table, anxious to see Monroe’s reaction to the insanity discussion. He was holding the fly by a broken wing. When he saw her looking, he said, “I’m not crazy.”

  But she didn’t respond. Because over Monroe’s head, she saw a woman’s face pressed against the glass panel of the courtroom door. Elsie recognized the hat with the crushed orange flowers: it was Cleo, the fortune-­teller. She was staring at Elsie.

  “Shit,” Elsie whispered. Before she could look away, Cleo pointed a finger at her.

  Chapter 35

  WHEN JUDGE CALLAWAY left the bench, Elsie didn’t hesitate. Without waiting for Chuck, she bolted for the door, nearly colliding with Emil as the bailiff fumbled with the keys to truss Monroe.

  “Whoa,” Emil cried, but Elsie didn’t pause. She shot through the courtroom and ran to the Prosecutor’s Office.

  At the reception counter, she found Stacie, toying with a lip-­gloss wand. Without looking Elsie’s way, Stacie said, “I can’t do anything for you. I’m going to lunch.”

  “Stacie. I cannot let that woman have an appointment. Did she come in here? To see me?”

  “I’m not making appointments for anybody. I’m out of here. Madeleine said I could lock up the front office till one o’clock today.”

  Elsie glanced over at the door. Stacie had taped a CLOSED sign with bold numbers: 12:00–1:00.

  Elsie let out a grateful sigh. “Okay, then. That’s good. But did that woman with the crazy hat come by? The homeless woman? She’s stalking me. Seriously.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? You’re the receptionist.”

  “Hey. It’s a public office. All kinds of nut jobs come in.”

  “But did the hat lady come in? Today?”

  “I don’t think so. Unless I was in the bathroom. I do have the right to go to the bathroom, don’t I?”

  Elsie searched the counter, lifting Neighborhood Watch Committee pamphlets and citizen complaint forms. No tarot cards had been hidden, nothing to jump out at her.

  “Stop messing that stuff up,” Stacie said. “I have to get over to the Wagon Wheel for the reunion planning committee. It’s our five-­year.”

  “Great.” Since Elsie turned thirty, she tossed the annual Barton High School reunion notices. She was tired of looking at baby pictures and warding off old lady jokes. “See you at one.”

  She headed to the inside hallway with her keys in hand. A note was taped to her door, a piece of paper that looked like it had been pulled from a waste can. She ripped it down and carried it to her desk.

  She stared at the wrinkled paper with trepidation. Maybe it’s from Bree, she tried to convince herself; maybe she was in a hurry and grabbed a piece of waste paper to write on. But it wasn’t likely. Elsie delayed confronting the note for another minute. Turning away from it, she stepped over to her miniature refrigerator. Once she had a Diet Coke in hand, she s
ettled in her chair, picked up the note, and opened it.

  I WARNED YOU,

  QUEEN OF SWORDS

  “Ohhh,” she breathed out in a moan. The capital letters were written in a spidery hand, so faint that it looked like the pen had run out of ink. With a reflexive gesture, she dropped the paper, as if it had burned her fingers.

  Her stomach twisted as she examined it, thinking it was a cowardly, chickenshit gesture to send anonymous messages. “Show your face, motherfucker.” Then she paused, rethinking the challenge; Elsie didn’t really want to see the person who left the note. She had just tried to dodge the obvious author, Cleo.

  And why had Cleo promoted Elsie to queen? She was not a bit happy with the title of Queen of Swords. She had been more comfortable with the Fool. The mention of swords made her nervous.

  It was necessary to notify someone higher up, she decided. This game should not escalate; she knew the danger from past experience. The Taney incest case, one of her toughest yet, had involved nasty backlash from a local religious group that took a violent turn.

  She opened a desk drawer for a plastic bag, but the box was empty. She had forgotten to pick more up at the grocery store. She lifted the note by the corner, wishing she didn’t have to touch it. It made her uneasy, sending a shiver down her back, like someone was walking on her grave.

  Chuck was typing at his keyboard and didn’t look up when she walked into his office. “What?” he said.

  “Chuck, look at this.”

  “I’m trying to update Madeleine. Come back later.”

  A flash of irritation sent a buzz through her. “I’m serious. You have to help me.” She dropped the note on his keyboard.

  He recoiled. “Don’t put trash on my keyboard. What’s on this, mustard? Jesus.”

  “Read it, Chuck.”

  He glanced at the note, picked it up with two fingers, and dropped it in his waste basket. “It’s a crank.”

  “It’s a threat.”

  With an exasperated groan, he wheeled his chair to face her. “Don’t make me babysit you. This kind of shit happens in an office like ours.”