Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 01 - Courting Murder

by Bill Hopkins

  Rosswell thought about that exchange. Hadn’t Ollie said that Johnny Dan and Mabel had gone somewhere in Mabel’s car? Of course, it was possible that Mabel was close and drove Johnny Dan past his shop to check on the car.

  Rosswell said,

  “All this excitement has worn me out.”

  “Do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Go home. Rest up. Heal.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Sheriff.” He grew weary at Frizz always telling him to go home. An inferiority complex would sprout next if Frizz didn’t treat him better. “You don’t want me to wait around until Father Mike gets through talking to Candy?”

  “No. Take care of yourself before you keel over dead.” The sheriff patted Rosswell on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t know what to do with all the peace and quiet if you weren’t around.”

  “That’s what I’ll do. Go straight home and go to bed.”

  I hate lying to the sheriff.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wednesday morning

  The first thing Rosswell thought when he woke up in the chair next to Tina’s bed was (again) that Frizz had no one else to help. Except for me and my duty is clear.

  Junior Fleming showed to up to start guard duty. “Judge,” he said in a whisper. “Come here.”

  Rosswell followed the cop into the hallway.

  “Is that ugly nurse here?”

  Rosswell said, “I haven’t seen her.”

  “She’s so ugly, anybody who’d try to get in her pants is too damned lazy to jack off.”

  “Junior, just keep your mouth shut, your eyes open, and your zipper zipped.”

  Rosswell returned to Tina, who was groggy but awake.

  “Go away,” she told Rosswell.

  “I just need rest.”

  Rosswell left the hospital and called Frizz from the parking lot. “Did Candy finish her confession?” Rosswell unlocked Vicky the Volkswagen and got in.

  “No, she did not.”

  “Crap.”

  “Candy’s gone.”

  Rosswell grabbed the steering wheel with the hand that wasn’t holding the phone, sending pain up the arm he’d accidentally cut. “What happened?” The other hand, the one holding the phone, felt like it could crush the device.

  Frizz told him that the prosecutor had filed charges and another judge from two counties away had set bail. “Then,” the sheriff continued, “she posted bail. Or, I should say, Ribs Freshwater hired a bail bondsman who posted her bail.”

  “Did you find Johnny Dan’s car?”

  “Nope.”

  Rosswell calmed himself. He didn’t want to give this part away. “Okay. Thanks.” He hung up.

  Rosswell knew that if Candy was the murderer, she’d be heading only one place in Johnny Dan’s car. Tina was no threat. She lay on a hospital bed, out cold or, now, groggy. If Rosswell was in trouble with Candy, then he’d take his chances, but she wasn’t heading for him or she’d already have gotten him. There was only one immediate concern. If Rosswell was wrong, Frizz would never know. If Rosswell was right, he’d be a hero, and Frizz would pin a medal on his chest while at the same time excoriating Rosswell for playing detective.

  Hermie Hillsman was in danger.

  Hermie was the guy who’d fingered Candy. Rosswell still couldn’t believe that Candy was the murderer, but she had confessed and Hermie had witnessed her in the area driving the now famous silver car. Rosswell had been wrong before. But not this time.

  Damn it! Rosswell knew he couldn’t withhold the information. He called Frizz again.

  “Hermie Hillsman is in danger.”

  And Rosswell told Frizz’s voicemail why he thought that.

  He hung up, started the convertible, and gunned it for Foggy Top State Park. Unfortunately, he had no blue light to clear the traffic. Motorcycles clogged the streets of Marble Hill. He nearly clipped several, trying to pass them. Once he got out of the town and zoomed onto the Confederate Trail heading for the park, the traffic thinned, but not much. Storm clouds gathered in the sky. The Weather Channel warned of supercells forming yet again over the area. Ozone from lightning strikes to the west tinged the air with a biting odor.

  The motorcyclists clumped into a group on the blind curves of the main highway, a road carved into the side of the hills. Once, in a flat stretch in a small valley, Rosswell passed seventeen bikes at one time, floorboarding his sweet Vicky. Seventeen motorcyclists and each carrying a female passenger. That meant thirty-four birds flipped his way when he and Vicky overtook them. Rosswell waved back. He tooted Vicky’s horn as he boogied through the cloud of stinking Harley exhaust.

  Still in the proverbial one piece, Rosswell eventually arrived at the park, although more frazzled than when he started. No cars were visible and no one occupied the guard’s rock-covered gazebo. That was a good thing. Maybe it was Hermie’s day off. Maybe no one was looking for him.

  Tooling Vicky slowly down the road, Rosswell yelled “Hermie!” several times. No answer from Hermie or anyone else. On the bright side, no one screamed for help. Honking the horn didn’t raise anyone. As they say, no news is good news.

  Rosswell hammered to a stop, jumped out, and vaulted up to where Hermie usually stood guard.

  He rushed to the front of the guard shack and peered inside.

  Too late.

  Hermie lay flat on his back. Dead. The cause of death was unmistakable. Rosswell’s sword pierced the ranger’s heart.

  V

  Frizz and Neal hovered over the body. Rosswell stayed back, waiting for the storm that he knew was coming.

  Neal asked, “Ross, why do dead bodies seem to follow you around?”

  There were several things wrong with that question. Main among the reasons was that his name wasn’t Ross. Next, “dead bodies” is redundant. Finally, nothing “seemed” to follow Rosswell anywhere. Yet he kept his peace.

  Frizz said, “Nothing’s following the judge. I’d say he’s following the bodies.”

  Hermie’s wife and son wouldn’t be celebrating the kid’s birthday next week after all. Instead, they’d be attending a funeral. Poor kid. Poor wife.

  Neal said to Rosswell, “What’re the chances of you finding three corpses in the state park?” The medical examiner’s face burned red and his breath came in gasps. “And one of them’s killed with your sword?”

  Rosswell said, “I’d say the chances are one hundred percent.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  Frizz tugged Rosswell aside. “Neal’s sister is Hermie’s wife.”

  “Now that,” Rosswell said, “is awful. Neal, I’m sorry. My God, who did this?”

  Neal said, “I’m going to find out.” Neal transformed instantly from a grieving relative into a scientific crimefighter. “This crime scene will be documented in more detail than any other scene in history.” Rosswell believed Neal’s words. Neal held up his camera. “I want someone else to back me up on the photos. This one is too close to home. Do you have your camera?”

  “Yes. And it’s at your disposal.”

  After each of them had snapped several hundred shots, Neal motioned Rosswell to stop.

  Neal then started his examination by withdrawing the sword from Hermie and placing it in a long cardboard box. After that, he barked commands to the EMTs who’d arrived after he had. There would be nothing overlooked by Bollinger County’s version of a big city’s crime scene investigation unit.

  Frizz and Rosswell walked to his patrol car. The sheriff said, “You know what’s next?”

  “You’re going to arrest me for murder?”

  “If the evidence is there, that’s exactly what I’ll do.” He wasn’t joking. “But something else needs to be done first. A search.”

  Rosswell said, “Your main priority is finding Candy. I can’t believe that all of us failed to see how violent she can be.”

  “Anyone can hide his plans. Her plans. Anybody can do that when they’re devious enough. It’s not hard to fool
people. That’s what makes my job difficult.”

  Frizz and Rosswell faced off in the grilling sun, Rosswell certain that the sheriff’s brain boiled as fiercely as his own did. The sky to the west had grown a deep gray. Rosswell heard rumbles of thunder and smelled the lightning.

  Rosswell said, “We’d better make sure that this body doesn’t wash away.”

  Frizz contemplated Neal working the scene. “He’ll make sure that he doesn’t miss a thing.”

  “Yes, you’ll need to search my house and car.” The salty taste of sweat dripping from Rosswell’s mustache into his mouth nauseated him. “Probably want to give my office the twice over.”

  Frizz regarded Rosswell without making a motion or saying a word. Guessing the next thing that needed doing was easy.

  Rosswell said, “I’ll have the consent to search ready by the time you get to town.”

  “Vicky?”

  “Search her now.” Frizz scoured the car and, finding nothing, finished only seconds before the storm pounced on them.

  After reaching Marble Hill, Frizz and Rosswell dashed through the rain from their cars into Rosswell’s house. Once inside, Rosswell wrote and handed Frizz the consent to search.

  Frizz said, “I need a deputy here.”

  “Call one. We’re in no hurry.”

  “They’re all still looking for the bodies and controlling traffic.”

  They stood together at the front door and listened to the thunder and the rain pounding on the tin roof. Then, after flicking on every light in the house, Rosswell rejoined Frizz.

  Rosswell said, “Call the Highway Patrol.”

  “They’re swamped. They’re trying to work loose an investigator to come down here and help us.”

  “Listen, Frizz, you search however much you need to. I’ll check into a motel. You can seal the house until you get more help if you don’t think you’ve done a thorough enough job.”

  “Let me do it and I’ll tell you what I decide when I finish.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Frizz searched the kitchen. Nothing unusual there except that Rosswell’s fingertip test revealed that the countertop by the sink wasn’t as clean as normal. There were knives, but nothing that any other kitchen in the whole nation wouldn’t have. As expected, no guns. The only gun Rosswell owned resided in the desk of his bench in the courtroom at the courthouse.

  Next, Frizz prospected the living room. He found nothing until he knelt and peered under the couch. Without turning around or standing up, he said, “You need to make reservations at a motel.”

  As if Frizz’s words had called down an Old Testament sign from the Lord, a lightning bolt struck nearby, filling the air with ozone and damn near deafening Rosswell. Coldness prickled his skin. He felt nausea rising and his vision blurring. Something itchy ran up and down his spine.

  Rosswell said, “What is it?”

  With the barrel of his gun, Frizz teased out the object under the couch.

  A knife that had to be a foot long, covered with blood and gore.

  “This knife,” Frizz said, “is a polycarbonate quasi-resin.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It’s a super tough plastic that’s extremely sharp and a metal detector can’t find it. Terrorists love them.”

  “Terrorists? Are you telling me that terrorists attacked me in my own house?”

  “I don’t know who attacked you.”

  “Of course you do. Candy. When she tried shooting Tina and me, she couldn’t pull off a kill shot because it was dark. After we got carried off to the hospital and everyone cleared the scene, she came back and planted that knife. It’s a message that she cut the throat of that poor guy out at the park. Then she probably shot the woman. After that, she killed Hermie, which makes three. I’m going to the hospital to make sure it’s not four.”

  “I’ve put a twenty-four hour guard on Tina,” Frizz reminded Rosswell. “Candy is after Tina. And me.”

  “Candy never mentioned one word about trying to shoot you two. Her confession is so full of holes it looks like a hunk of Swiss cheese after Ollie the rat got through with it. Why would she confess to two murders but forget about two attempted murders? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It doesn’t have to make sense to Candy. She’s nuts.”

  “If there had been trouble at the hospital, we’d already know about it. Rosswell, you act like I don’t have a stake in Tina being safe. She’s going to be fine.”

  “I’ll call you if you’re wrong.”

  The ugly stick, sitting on duty behind the desk of the nurses’ station, didn’t greet Rosswell’s appearance with streamers and confetti. Instead, she glanced up from her People magazine, giving him a glare that would’ve killed Samson before he got his haircut. Her portable television was tuned to The Price Is Right. On the small screen, people cheered and clapped.

  “Judge, do you want me to call security?”

  Rosswell, on the drive over, decided the non-cautious approach would be the best. Where else would Candy go?

  “Yes, immediately.” Rosswell galloped past Priscilla. “Tell them to get here on the double. And call Frizz, too.”

  “What?” She sprang from her chair, knocking a plastic bottle of Diet Coke to the floor where it thunked and spewed. “Wait. Don’t go in there.”

  Junior threw down an X-Men comic book he’d been looking at and said, “Judge, what the hell’s going on?”

  When Rosswell reached Tina’s door, he turned and faced the cop and the nurse. “Call security. Tell them it’s an emergency. Tell them to get here right now.”

  Junior said, “There’s no emergency. I’ve been here the whole time.”

  The stick gasped an unprofessionally loud gasp when she followed Rosswell into Tina’s room where they discovered Candy roosting on a high stool by his sweetie’s bedside. Candy, draped over a sleeping Tina, was tangled in the tube going from a hanging bag into Tina’s arm. If Candy moved the wrong way, the needle in Tina’s arm could be torn loose. Above Tina, all the machines purred, giving no sign that there was distress in the room. For that small favor, Rosswell was thankful.

  “How did you get in here?” the nurse asked Candy. “Who are you?” Rosswell said, “Candy, you have to leave right now.”

  Junior said, “Lady, you’re under arrest.”

  Rosswell said, “How the hell did she get in here?” Neither the nurse nor the cop seemed to know. Rosswell suspected Candy had slipped up the stairwell and sneaked in when she saw Junior take a break. Candy was crazy, not stupid.

  Candy didn’t budge.

  The nurse said, “Candy?” Then, to Candy, she said, “He’s right. Get out of here.”

  Candy, dressed in baggy blue jeans, gray sweatshirt, sunglasses, big bracelets, and a John Deere cap, hummed and rocked back and forth. Her clothes stunk of old sweat. She didn’t speak. Instead, she sat stroking Tina’s hair and whispering to her in sounds that didn’t quite form words. Tina lay in a deep sleep. Rosswell hoped Tina wouldn’t remember anything Candy did or said to her.

  Rosswell said, “Nurse, did you call security and Frizz?”

  Junior found his handcuffs and said, “Judge, I can cuff her right now.”

  Rosswell said, “Let’s try the easy approach first. Candy, you need to move away from Tina. Right now.”

  Candy removed the large sunglasses she had pushed up on her head but otherwise didn’t change position. Her big bracelets clanked when she moved her arms. The ugly stick hustled over, unwound the tubing off Candy, then inserted herself between Candy and Tina. Rosswell regretted his nasty thoughts about Priscilla Brewster after he witnessed her brave devotion to a patient under her care.

  Priscilla punched two buttons on her pager that, he guessed, called security. Rosswell’s eyes never left Candy. As far as he could tell, she had nothing in her hands. If Candy had a weapon on her, it wouldn’t be noticeable in the baggy outfit she wore.

  The nurse said, “I’ve called Father M
ike.”

  Rosswell said, “We don’t need a priest. We need security.”

  Priscilla said, “I paged security.”

  Rosswell said, “Junior, radio Frizz.”

  Junior clicked his radio several times. “Battery’s dead.”

  Rosswell said, “Junior, do you know how to use a telephone?”

  Father Mike strolled into the room, not at all hurrying as Rosswell thought he would’ve done had he known the situation he was entering.

  Rosswell said, “Father Mike, call security and Frizz. Tell them we need them right now.”

  “Candy,” Priscilla said, “shouldn’t be here. And I already called security. We’re not going to let anything happen to our patient.”

  “That’s right,” Junior said. “Not on my watch.”

  Father Mike said, “A guard is on her way.”

  Rosswell, at that point, still couldn’t tell if Candy was armed. There was no way of determining if Candy even realized that the priest, nurse, cop, and Rosswell were in the room.

  “Judge,” Father Mike said, “I was a St. Louis City cop until I went into the priesthood at age thirty. I’ve faced down people a lot scarier than a young woman in a running suit.” The priest turned to the cop. “Back me up, Officer Fleming.”

  “Yes, sir,” Junior said.

  The priest wasn’t armed, but his police background would help. He headed for Candy.

  Rosswell said, “After Candy posted bail, she found Hermie Hillsman and killed him.”

  “Candy,” Father Mike said, without the slightest surprise in his voice about Rosswell’s accusation, “did you kill Hermie?”

  Candy said, “Hermie is a bad man.”