The Defendants: Crime Fiction & Legal Thriller (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 1)

by John Ellsworth

  At 1:12 he lifted his arm slowly, slowly, and checked the time. Perfect. She had been sleeping without moving and no other sounds had reached him from inside the house. In slow motion he sat upright and then moved his feet over the side and back down inside the cowboy boots. They immediately slipped on and he stood up, keeping pressure on the mattress until he was upright and only then slowly releasing the inner spring. If she suddenly awoke he would say he was looking for the bathroom. Simple enough. He made his way over to his parka and felt inside the inner pocket. It was all there: gun, knife, gloves. He soundlessly shrugged into the coat. Then he removed the latex gloves and gradually slipped them on both hands. He removed the gun, followed by the knife. With these items exposed he crept around the foot of the bed and gently stepped up beside Ermeline’s hands. With the greatest of care he slipped the gun barrel under the fingers of her right hand and ever so gently placed her fingers on the barrel. Just enough, just so, just capturing fingerprints along the smooth portion of the gun. Then he did the same thing with the closed switchblade. With his gloved hands on both weapons he slowly crept back around the bed and went to the bathroom door. He waited while his eyes adjusted to the inner darkness, to lessen the chance of stumbling over something there and giving himself away. Satisfied after several minutes that he knew where things were located inside, he entered the bathroom and opened the top cabinet above the towels. He felt around and felt nothing metallic or hard plastic that might rattle against the weapons. He then placed them on the top shelf of the cabinet and slowly closed the door.

  Back in the bedroom he paused to listen to her breathing. He satisfied himself that she was still asleep—very asleep. She had worked a long, hard shift and her body was tired and resting deeply. So he crossed to the dresser, found her purse, and stuck his hand inside. Instantly he located the clip of 65 $100 bills with his fingers, and eased them out. Still wearing his gloves he inserted the money back inside his own coat pocket. Then he stopped and smiled. Why not? he thought, and put his hand back inside her purse. Just as he thought: her wallet. It felt like it was stuffed with bills, although he had no idea how much. It was from her tips for the night and would come in handy once he was back on the road. He pulled the wallet out and put that in his other outside pocket. He had been told to take nothing but the $6500, but no one had to know about the wallet. Then he did his inventory: he had left fingerprints only on the bedspread where he had placed his hands and there was no way they would ever lift prints there. He had touched nothing else since entering the small house. With the greatest of care and caution he eased himself back down the short hallway and into the kitchen where they had come in through the back door. He slowly twisted the knob and let himself out, closing the storm door all the way as gently as possible behind him.

  * * *

  Earlier that day Hector had met with Johnny Bladanni at Moe’s Aces, a Springfield watering hole on the south side of town. Moe’s featured a huge sign out front comprised of four aces peeking from a deck of cards. Inside the joint there was sawdust on the floor and peanuts in baskets along the bar and on all the tables. They were salted, of course; studies showed that by simply offering free salted peanuts a pub owner could expect to sell 35% more drinks and beer. For Moe (there was no Moe, there was only Arnold C. Goldsmith, Jr.) the peanuts were a no-brainer. So were the very dim lights and the feeling of anonymity enjoyed by the denizens of the dive.

  They met just after four, while an NBA game was blaring over the flat screen. Johnny entered and limped by several regulars at the bar; he didn’t know they were regulars, but it was a strong guess, for they had that settled-in, comfortable look that regulars always have. The limp was a hoax, but if anyone remembered anything about it, it would be the limp. He passed by them and beyond the bar, averting his eyes and face, wishing to enter, meet, and leave without being remembered. He found an empty booth along the back wall, just off the bathrooms, where a strong odor of urinal cake and vomit held on. Johnny slid into the booth and partway unzipped his black leather coat. He was wearing a nondescript black baseball cap pulled low over his eyebrows and when a sturdy little man wearing a white apron approached and took his order, Johnny kept his eyes fastened on the table top, as if preoccupied with his cellphone to where he couldn’t be bothered to look up. He ordered a Scotch and water and kept poking cell keys. The little man disappeared and Johnny put the cell away. Five minutes later he was joined by Hector.

  “Know anyone here?” were the first words out of Johnny’s mouth.

  Hector turned around and eyed the other patrons. “Naw. First time here anyway.”

  “Okay. Now listen up. You been drinking today?”

  “No, sober like you said.”

  “Any drugs, crack, speed?”

  “No, Dude, you said sober and here I am.”

  Johnny studied Hector’s face. He looked into his eyes and studied the pupils. Satisfied at last that he had a sober co-conspirator, he launched into the plan. Johnny went on for a good five minutes, explaining to Hector how Hector would drop in at the Silver Dome no earlier than nine p.m., talk with Ermeline and get her on board with the Christmas Eve plan. Hector would leave there by 9:25. He would then leave his truck unlocked while he went inside the Phillips 66 on the west end of Orbit around 9:30 p.m. Johnny would be filling the Escalade also at the Phillips 66 and Johnny would walk from his Escalade over to Johnny’s truck and leave the gun and the knife on the passenger seat. By then, Victor Harrow, of course, would be lying face up in a pool of his own blood inside his mobile office, shot once between the eyes by the same nickel plated snub nose .38 caliber. Hector would handle the weapons only with the napkins he would bring with his coffee. He would wipe them down totally and drop them in his inside coat pockets. Hector would give Ermeline the $5500—which Johnny slipped to Hector under the booth—in order to enlist her participation. They wanted to prove to her that Hector’s intentions were only good. Hector would accompany her home just after midnight, place her fingerprints on the gun and knife, and plant the weapons in an obvious place of hiding where, “even the stupid butthole cops could find them,” as Johnny put it. Hector would then retrieve the money out of Ermeline’s purse and quietly leave. “Take nothing else,” he was warned. After that, Hector was free to keep the $5500 and go wherever he wanted, just not back to the Gulf Coast. Johnny preferred L.A. or New York where Hector could get lost for at least a year, working at some menial job for cash. Then they would be even. “Even?” Hector asked him. “How does that make us even?” Simple, Johnny told him, you get the cash and you get to keep the foot—in return for helping us dispose of Victor Harrow. That makes us even. Hector could only shrug. $5500 was better than nothing. He was glad he had packed his things in the suitcase under the F-150 bed cap. He had enough jeans and flannels to make it through the winter. He would be okay.

  * * *

  Charlie Altiman received the call from deputy Dale Harshman at 4:30 a.m. Christmas morning. Deputy Harshman was so excited he was stuttering.

  “Victor Harrow’s dead, Charlie. You-y-y-you’d best come to the bus.”

  “Calm down, Dale. Secure the scene. Touch nothing.”

  Sheriff Altiman’s next act was to call the Illinois State Police and talk to the desk sergeant. “There’s been a shooting,” he calmly told them. “I need the crime lab in the next thirty minutes. Victor Harrow’s office-bus. Two miles east of Orbit, Washington Street. Purple monstrosity.”

  The State Police beat him to the crime scene. By the time Charlie arrived Dale Harshman had encircled the bus with yellow crime scene tape and one of the crime scene techs was scouring the parking lot for any evidence that might even resemble a tire track. Evidently there was nothing obvious, as she soon disappeared inside the bus. Charlie Altiman put the squad car in park and went inside. He found Sergeant Mel Himmelmann inside with a photographer and two crime scene technicians. Photographs were being taken and measurements made. Plastic bags had been taped over the victim’s hands. Evidently
Vic Harrow hadn’t been moved. They all acknowledged each other and Sergeant Himmelmann said, “Notice anything about Vic?”

  “I notice he’s deader than hell.”

  “Look closer. Use your light.”

  Charlie shone his flashlight along Mel’s body, toes to head. At the forehead he paused. “What is that? Somebody scratched him?”

  “Look closer,” said the sergeant. “Step over here by me and bend down so you can see.”

  “Okay. I’m looking. What the hell? E-R-M?”

  “I guess she ran out of space.”

  “She carved her name in his forehead?”

  “Like I said, she started to. But she ran out of room.”

  Charlie looked again. Dried blood outlined the deep cuts across Victor’s forehead. There was no doubt; someone had carefully engraved E-R-M in large, blocky letters. His mind reeled. It couldn’t be. Nobody would be that stupid. “Ermeline didn’t do this,” Sheriff Altiman finally said. “This isn’t something she would even think of doing.”

  “You’re the Sheriff,” said the female tech. “Your job is to do the sheriffing now, right?” she laughed a dry laugh and Sergeant Himmelmann scowled at her. “Well—“ she exclaimed, “someone did it.”

  “You’d best go straight over and talk to her,” the state policeman said. “You know how this looks. And if anyone asked me, I would have to say that would be my first item on my list. Talk to Ermeline.”

  “Of course I’ll talk to her,” Sheriff Altiman said. “Take plenty of pictures.”

  He went to the door and jumped to the ground. “Dale, have you notified Betty Anne Harrow?”

  “Thought I’d wait for you, Sheriff.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  Sheriff Altiman returned to his squad car and placed a call. However, the call wasn’t to the new widow; he was calling District Attorney Killen Erwin, Jr.

  “Killen, Charlie. We’ve got a situation here.”

  “Damn, Charlie, it’s not even five. Couldn’t wait?”

  “Victor Harrow’s been murdered. We need your direction.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You ain’t gonna believe this. Somebody carved E-R-M in his forehead.”

  “Ermeline? No way! Ermeline wouldn’t shoot Vic Harrow in a million years.”

  “Totally agree.”

  “But we’d better make a record. I’ll call Judge Prelate and get a search warrant for her place. You swing by and pick it up then pay a visit to Ermeline. Then report back to me.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  Sheriff Altiman hung up and called the new widow. It went about like they always went. Shock, disbelief, anger, depression—all within about three minutes.

  13

  While judges usually didn’t prepare search warrants, the Honorable Nathan R. Prelate was the exception. After serving four terms as Hickam County District Attorney, and having served for ten years on the bench, he knew the recitations of the common residential search warrant front to back. When Charlie Altiman called him early Christmas morning, he promised Charlie that he would have the warrant ready and signed, waiting for him, by the time Charlie arrived at Nathan’s house. Judge Prelate lived in a white saltbox with a sea blue roof, right on Washington Street four blocks west of the square. He was the father of two college age girls who threw outrageous parties and caroused with young men—and women—no end, all to the Judge’s ongoing embarrassment and mortification time after time. While Judge Prelate himself was no goody-goody—he did like a beer or two every now and then—his daughters were beyond the pale. When he got up out of bed that morning to go downstairs to his office and print out a search warrant he peeked inside the girls’ rooms as he went by. One girl was asleep with the bare arm of some unidentified individual—man or woman?—across the daughter’s T-shirted chest; the other daughter was missing from her room, evidently deciding to spend Christmas Eve “away.” She was MIA, Judge Prelate thought to himself. All in all he had given up trying to control them while they were yet in high school. Now he only hoped and prayed that they didn’t commit some horrendous crime or kill someone while they were driving under the influence. So far—he crossed his fingers for the umpteenth time—the girls had avoided those plagues and poxes. In pajamas and bathrobe he stole into his office and turned on the computer. He hit the printer switch. Both machines kicked into their startup routines and Judge Prelate went to fix two Keurig coffees while he waited for Charlie to show. They had done this often enough that he knew Charlie liked his coffee black, two Sweet N’ Lows, in a to-go cup. He was always in a hurry at these moments and this morning would be no different.

  Just before dawn Charlie swung into the Judge’s driveway and pulled even with the back door. He leapt up the concrete steps and knocked on the porch. A white plume of air escaped his mouth as he waited, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. This wasn’t going to be fun. They all liked Ermeline. They all felt sorry for what had happened to her at Victor’s bus.

  “This is going to be a sad Christmas morning,” Judge Prelate said as soon as he opened the door for Charlie. It was almost as if he had been reading Charlie’s mind.

  “Not for a second do I think she was involved, Nathan,” Charlie replied. “Got the coffee ready?”

  “C’mon in the office. We’re all set.”

  In the office—a small, mahogany paneled room with a trestle table desk and a computer desk—they took a seat on either side of the table. Judge Prelate raised his right hand and Charlie copied him. “Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you’re about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

  “I do so swear,” Charlie replied, and reached for his steaming Styrofoam coffee.

  “Please proceed. There will be no record.”

  “My name is Charles M. Altiman and I am the duly elected sheriff of Hickam County,” Charlie began. He then went into a long recitation of what he had heard that morning and what he had seen. He believed there was probable cause to believe a crime had been committed—a murder—and he believed there was a reasonable suspicion to search the premises inhabited and controlled by one Ermeline Ransom in an attempt to locate evidence of said crime. He described the single gunshot wound between Victor Harrow’s eyes, and the strange carving embedded in his forehead E-R-M. He described how Ermeline had been earlier attacked by Victor Harrow, who had made a similar carving—it was alleged—in her breasts, when he carved his name in her breasts one night while she was drugged inside the same bus where Victor Harrow’s body was found just this morning. Based on all the foregoing, he believed there was reasonable suspicion to search her home located at 323 Sycamore Drive, Orbit, Illinois.

  Judge Prelate listened attentively. When Victor finished he nodded and removed the cap from one of his many Mont Blanc pens. With a great flourish he signed his name boldly at the bottom of the search warrant, stamped it with the Clerk of the Court’s seal—he kept one at home just for such occasions—and signed and stamped a second copy, which he handed to the sheriff, along with the pink return. The return was the sheet on which Sheriff Altiman would enumerate the items seized, if any, from Ermeline’s residence. The sheet would then be returned to the Clerk of the Court for filing, which would close the loop on the search warrant process.

  “If you see Leona,” Judge Prelate said, “lying dead alongside the road somewhere, please tell her her Dad’s looking for her.”

  Charlie winced. He was glad he had no daughters.

  Back inside the squad Charlie radioed Dispatch and asked for two city cops and two deputies to meet him at 323 Sycamore Drive, 6 a.m. Dispatch acknowledged and Charlie sat in Judge Burrow’s driveway, sipping his coffee and killing ten minutes while the troops assembled for the search. At 6 a.m. they converged on Ermeline Ransom’s home and Charlie Altiman rapped his gloved hand sharply against the front door. “Ermeline!” he called out, “Sheriff Altiman. We need to talk to you.”

  * * *

  At nine o’clock Thaddeus arrived
at the Hickam County Jail. It was the earliest he could get in to see Ermeline, who had been instructed not to say one word to the police. This was hours earlier. Charlie Altiman had honored that—went beyond honoring that, in fact, making sure that none of the peace officers spoke with her—in order to keep her from saying anything she might later regret. Upon his arrival at the Sheriff’s Office he was immediately ushered into Sheriff Altiman’s office, where he found Charlie waiting to meet with him, a very grim look on his face. He scowled at Thaddeus, shook his hand, and said, “Helluva way to spend Christmas morning, Thad.”

  Thaddeus nodded. “Poor girl. Please tell me what we know so far.”

  They had converged on Ermeline’s house at six that morning. The warrant team consisted of Sheriff Altiman, Deputy Michael Smith, and patrolmen Stafford and Arnot of the Orbit PD. They had met no resistance to entry. The door had been answered by Georgiana Armentrout, Jr., the mother of Ermeline Ransom. Evidently she had been asleep on the davenport. Mrs. Armentrout had asked them to wait while she summonsed Ermeline. Ermeline was still getting into her robe when she came into the living room. Ermeline’s heart thumped in her chest when she saw them. This couldn’t be good—four police? In her house? At six a.m. Christmas morning. Which was when Jaime leapt from bed to see what Santa had brought with his reindeer. The Sheriff asked Mrs. Armentrout, Ermeline and Jaime if they would please wait on the couch. He explained to Ermeline that he had a search warrant to search the premises. It had been signed by Judge Nathan R. Prelate just an hour before and was all “legal and adequate.” Ermeline took the search warrant and started reading. Her hands were shaking and the paper rattled as she read. Tears came to her eyes. “Fruits of the crime?” She asked Sheriff Altiman. “You’re looking for fruits of the crime? What crime was that?” she wanted to know.