by Bill Hopkins
fishing for something.
“I’m not going to apologize for throwing you in jail. You deserved it. That’s irrelevant to this conversation.”
After Ollie was released from jail the first time Rosswell imprisoned him, they’d met accidentally at Merc’s. When they realized they both shared the trait of being nosy bastards, a common bond formed.
“I’ve got to eat and then go see some of my clients.” Ollie pointed to his tuna sandwich, potato chips, and pickle. “You’ll have to excuse me.” The pickle juice had moistened the potato chips, leaving them soggy. Rosswell hated the smell of dill pickles. The thought of eating potato chips soaked in dill pickle juice nauseated him.
Rosswell swallowed the last of the sludge, then rose and grabbed both checks. “Thanks for talking to me.” He drew a dollar from his wallet and laid it on the table for Mabel. Remembering who her father might be, Rosswell added a five. Sympathy may as well be worth a couple of dollars.
Rosswell turned and headed for the cash register where Mabel asked, “Is everything all right?”
Not really. There are some wars going on and diseases that can’t be cured and poverty grows worse. And it appears that a man almost hurt you right in front of your father. That’s what Rosswell thought but didn’t say. He said, “Fine. Everything’s fine,” all the while wondering if there were a minimally invasive way for him to kill Ollie. A way that wouldn’t get him caught.
Rosswell opened his billfold and discovered that the last money he had now lay on the table as Mabel’s tip. He fished in his pocket, hoping to grab some change and froze.
“Mabel, I’ll be right back.”
Rosswell moseyed over to Ollie’s booth, leaned close to his face, and whispered, “Virtus junxit mors non separabit.”
Ollie jolted sideways like Rosswell had broken a watermelon on his head. “Sit down.” Ollie had nearly choked on a potato chip.
“Thanks.” Rosswell sat.
“Where did you hear that?”
“I didn’t hear it anywhere.” Rosswell inventoried the room. Only one or two people were watching Ollie and Rosswell. Rosswell took a paper napkin from the dispenser, drew the ring from his pocket, and then cradled it in his lap. After wrapping it carefully, Rosswell brought the ring up and slid it towards Ollie. “I read it.”
Ollie did his own glance around the room. When he was apparently satisfied that no one was staring, he opened the napkin and read. Ollie choked again, spitting bits of potato chip on the table. Mabel, who’d been waiting on the table next to the pair, whirled around, probably wondering if she needed to perform the Heimlich maneuver. Ollie drank water, then quickly rewrapped the ring, and Mabel turned back to her work.
“Where did you get this?”
“At the crime scene.”
“What makes you think it has anything to do with the murder?”
“I don’t know if it does or not.”
Ollie slid the ring back to Rosswell.
“Keep it,” Rosswell said. “For now. I may need it back.”
“When do we start?”
“Right now, but what about your clients?”
“I can catch up with them later.”
The two men arrowed for the death place.
Chapter Five
Monday afternoon
“Nothing but mud.” Ollie poked his foot into the stinking muck of Picnic Area 3. There were three sewage treatment plants upstream. “If there was any DNA evidence or . . . well . . . any evidence at all, it’s been washed away.” He stared at a single set of tire tracks, turned over a couple of rocks, booted three or four big sticks out of the way. “Nothing. No evidence. No clues.”
“I know that.” Every cloud had fled to wherever it is that clouds go, and the sun boiled the pair. The weather forecast had predicted that the heat wave could last another ten days. A sparkling rock looked interesting. Rosswell picked it up and felt the rough surface of the quartz. “There are still things we could learn.”
“You’re on track.” Ollie lowered his head and fixed his gaze on Ross- well’s eyes. Ollie’s gray eyes always set alarm bells jingling in Rosswell’s brain. In truth, Ollie scared Rosswell. “Judge, what were you doing here in the first place? You just happened to stumble upon two corpses by accident?”
“I was searching for mushrooms.” Rosswell had set himself up for what he knew was coming next. The running jab was beginning to wear his patience thinner than a muslin dress on a fat woman. All right, Ollie, get it over with. Hit me with it.
Ollie said, “Mushrooms?”
“Yes.”
Wasn’t Ollie going to tell Rosswell that it was illegal to pick mush- rooms in a state park? He didn’t. Instead, he asked, “When did you start searching for mushrooms?” No surprise showed in his voice. He was used to Rosswell’s oddities.
“Since I bought my camera, earlier this year. It was a Valentine’s Day present to myself.”
“You’re taking pictures of mushrooms?” His demeanor hadn’t changed, indicating that he didn’t think taking pictures of mushrooms was all that strange.
“I’m taking pictures of lots of things. When I finish my mushroom collection, I’ll take pictures of frogs or wild flowers or fish or rocks. Something. I print the pictures and keep them in an album. A real world album, not something online.”
“How about people?”
“Holy crap. I can’t believe I forgot about the pictures on my camera.” Rosswell avoided Ollie’s eyes while he slunk to the car, doing his best to keep his hands from slapping himself silly. When he returned with his camera, they reviewed the 738 photos Rosswell had taken of the bodies earlier in the day. Ollie snatched the Nikon from Rosswell and again studied each shot without a word. Not even a squeak. Ollie paced and stepped, moving around like an actor trying to find his marks on the stage. Often, he’d hold the camera at ground level. Other times, he inspected the surrounding area and compared it to what he saw in the camera.
Ollie straightened to his full height after finishing his analysis. “These people,” he tapped the viewer on the camera, “knew the murderer.”
“The corpses knew their killer?”
“What I said. They’re the only people on your camera.”
Rosswell clicked through the pictures, also studying them. “How do you know that?”
Ollie crossed his arms and leaned over Rosswell. “There was one wound on the man.” Ollie with his 6'6" six frame tried to intimidate Rosswell, who stretched to reach 5'5". “I think it was a man. You have to get up close and personal to slit someone’s throat. It’s highly unlikely that the murderer was hiding in the bushes waiting for these people to walk by. The two victims and the murderer or murderers probably came out here in the same vehicle. The man’s throat was slit. That’s what killed him.”
“That’s what Neal thought. Someone sliced the guy’s throat open. Neal didn’t get a good look at the woman. There was some blood right where we’re standing.” Rosswell dug at the ground with his foot. “They were probably killed before last night’s rain, so most of the blood had washed away by the time I arrived.”
Ollie circled the scene and studied the ground. Then he circled the other way. “The other one, the female, didn’t have her throat slashed. She wouldn’t have stuck around after the guy bought it if she wasn’t in on it, unless she was under some kind of duress.”
“You get that from looking at the ground?”
“No. Looking at the pictures. The murderer slashes the guy’s throat. The woman is watching. She’s in on it. Or drugged. The murderer kills her second. Why, I don’t know. Maybe they had a fight. Who knows?”
Kneeling, Rosswell wadded up a ball of mud and smelled it. It smelled like a wadded up ball of mud. Nothing special. He wouldn’t taste it if the fate of the universe depended on it. It felt squishy, full of leaves, sticks, and who knew what else. From knee level, he again surveyed the whole area. A bald eagle flew loops high in the air. Rosswell hoped the bird wouldn’t mistake Ollie’s bald head for a tas
ty purple treat.
Ollie’s reasoning made sense. Rosswell stood and rephrased Ollie’s conclusion. “The female helped the guy kill the other guy. That means there were at least three people out here. Could be more, but definitely three.”
“You’re making assumptions.”
Across the river, Rosswell watched an armadillo clawing into a mound of dirt, apparently searching for tasty grubs. Armadillos were supposed to be nocturnal. Had the scent of death awakened the critter?
“What assumptions?” Rosswell said, turning his attention back to Ollie. “Name me one.”
“You think the third person was a man.”
Rosswell thought about that. Ollie, damn it, was right. “The female helped the male or female suspect kill the male. Is that fair?”
“Fair and clear.”
“Maybe we need to be looking for a big woman? The dead woman wasn’t all that big. It would’ve taken a big woman to help the dead woman hold the guy so they could slice his throat.”
“Not if he was drugged. Or perhaps shot.”
“You just pointed out that his throat was slit.”
“Maybe his throat was slit.” Ollie sounded like he was about to bray that fricking squeak of his. “Do you have the autopsy reports? No, you don’t. You lost the body. Bodies.”
Rosswell thought about that too. He recalled why he consulted Ollie often. Ollie was pissy, yes, but the rodent could think. Although now Ollie could be running down the wrong track.
Rosswell said, “What if the guy and the other person killed the woman first? Maybe one of them shot her. Then