Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 01 - Courting Murder

by Bill Hopkins

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Saturday afternoon into Saturday night

  People either died or vanished when Rosswell was around. It was beginning to hurt his feelings.

  But he had a bigger problem on his hands. He had a dead bad guy lying in the road and no way to call the cops.

  “Nathaniel,” he called. In the distance, he thought he heard a car start and then drive away from his location. Probably a brand new Infiniti with a clutch going bad. He doubted that he’d ever see Nathaniel Dahlbert again.

  He’d have to drive into town and fetch the law. That’s the decision he made.

  And immediately after he made the decision, he smelled why it would never happen. Vicky leaked gasoline. If she were going to explode from a stray spark swirling around, he didn’t want to be near her.

  Still pointing his gun at Johnny Dan like the cops do on television, Rosswell approached him with slow yet deliberate steps. The hole in his head told Rosswell that he’d never move on his own again, yet Rosswell couldn’t afford any risks. When he reached Johnny Dan’s rifle, he kicked it off the road, far out of his reach.

  Then he stood over the corpse and stared.

  Rosswell didn’t like killing people.

  He already knew that Neal and Frizz would chew his ass good if he messed up the scene, although he felt an urge to cover Johnny Dan’s body out of respect for the dead. What should he do? Stand there until the mailman or one of the neighbors drove by? No phone. No car. And yelling wouldn’t do any good.

  The fire marshal’s investigator drove up, parking his car far enough from Johnny Dan’s body to avoid contaminating the crime scene. A rumpled uniform that transformed into the man sent from Jefferson City eased out of a state-issued car, an unmarked maroon sedan with black-wall tires plain enough to be conspicuous. There may as well have been COP CAR painted on the side in bright orange letters.

  The marshal held a silver Colt .45 at his side, ready if Rosswell raised his pistol.

  After the marshal glanced from side to side, he said, “You alone?”

  “Yep.”

  The man matched Rosswell’s short stature, but topped him by at least forty pounds. The investigator’s thinning, straight black hair unbalanced his shiny mustache, onyx, curled, and heavy. How Rosswell envied those handlebars.

  The man said, “Are you peaceable?”

  “Yep.” Rosswell knew enough not to spook a cop who’d arrived on a scene where a fresh body lay in the road. Especially if the cop had a big gun.

  Rosswell watched him dip a wad of chewing tobacco out of an open pouch on his car’s dash, then squirrel it in a ruddy cheek, all the while holding his pistol. If there’s a habit nastier than chewing an expensive weed that burns your mouth, stains your teeth a dead brown color, gives you the breath of a charnel house, causes your stomach to ache, and makes you hawk slimy gobs of greasy crap, Rosswell had yet to discover it. Who kissed this man? Hadn’t the man read the warning on the tobacco pouch: THIS PRODUCT IS NOT A SAFE ALTER- NATIVE TO CIGARETTES?

  As if on cue, the investigator spit a brown stream and wiped his chin. Abominable. Rosswell tracked the gelatinous lump the man had ejaculated from between his grimy teeth as it landed inches from Rosswell’s feet. He scowled at the filthy gob, vowing to watch where he stepped from that moment on.

  “Jim Bill Evans,” he said. “I’m with the Department of Public Safety. Fire Marshal’s office.”

  “Rosswell Carew.” He doubted that Jim Bill Evans would be impressed that he was a judge.

  Jim Bill’s tongue worked the weed wad around until it collected in his lower lip, and he spit again. “Mr. Carew, looks like there’s been a killing.”

  “Yep. I killed the guy.”

  Jim Bill spit again. “You best be handing that gun over to me. Butt first.” Rosswell complied. Jim Bill handcuffed Rosswell behind his back. “Now you can get in my car. You’re under arrest.”

  Rosswell rubbed his wrists, urging the blood to circulate, after Jim Bill removed the handcuffs.

  Frizz and Neal had arrived shortly after the investigator summoned them by radio.

  Neal said, “Here’s Ross and here’s another body.”

  Frizz told Jim Bill, “He’s our judge.”

  “We’ve met,” Jim Bill said, probably wondering why a judge would go around killing people in public.

  Frizz said, “Take his cuffs off.”

  Rosswell said, “Frizz, I take it you’ve released Candy again.”

  “Not yet.”

  Rosswell said, “Johnny Dan’s the murderer.”

  “I’ve got to agree with you on that one,” Neal said. “Where’s your camera?”

  “It’s in my car but Vicky’s leaking gasoline. I’m not sure I should go over there.”

  Jim Bill appraised the VW and the gasoline dripping from it. “Let’s

  roll it into the road to let the gas soak in the road.”

  Rosswell said, “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  Jim Bill said, “Yes.”

  V

  Vicky had been towed into town without incident and Rosswell sat in headquarters with Frizz.

  The door was shut.

  After a million questions from Frizz, Rosswell said, “Are you through?”

  “Until I think of something else to ask.”

  “You and me … we need to have a serious talk.”

  “That’s what we’ve been doing.”

  “It’s about the money.” Rosswell stood and walked behind Frizz’s desk, where he pointed to the drawer holding the strongbox. “I need to know why you have a box full of cash.”

  “How do you know what’s in there? This drawer is locked.” Frizz pulled on the drawer to demonstrate.

  “Ollie picked the drawer then picked the strong box. After we looked, he locked them again.”

  “Ollie? Hell of a research assistant working for you. I should arrest his ass.”

  “Let’s deal. You tell me why you have the cash and I won’t tell anyone, and I won’t tell you how I know.”

  “About what? How much do you know already?” Frizz unlocked the drawer.

  “You and Nadine are lovers and your wife is a gambler out of control.”

  Frizz plunked the box on top of his desk. “Twenty-five thousand dollars. Not a penny less. I’ve been collecting it for six years. A skim here, a skim there. It adds up.”

  “How much did you spend?”

  “I haven’t spent one hot penny.”

  “Then, legally, you’ve done nothing wrong. You’re the sheriff. You snatched cash as evidence. You have evidence locked in your office. You did what you’re supposed to do.”

  Frizz laughed. “Right. And how do I apportion all that money to however many cases over the last six years? I need to resign. The state needs to investigate me. I need to go to jail.”

  “Unadulterated bullshit.”

  “Are you threatening me with Ollie phrases?”

  “How many cash stashes do you have in the evidence locker?”

  Frizz said, “None.”

  “Okay, then here’s what we do. From now until you get rid of the pile in your strongbox, you slip in a couple of hundred every time you make a legal bust. No one will know but you and me.”

  “That leaves my wife and Nadine.”

  “You’re on your own there.”

  “I’ll do what everyone else does. Bankruptcy and divorce.”

  “I’m going home to clean up. Then I’m going to see Tina.”

  “The evil nurse may try to arrest you.”

  “I can deal with her.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Saturday night

  Rosswell, clean and shiny after his shower at home, answered his cellphone.

  Without greeting, Frizz said, “I found Ambrosia Forcade’s white Cadillac.”

  “Where?”

  “In Johnny Dan’s shop, under a tarp. Neal is processing the scene.”

  “Now what are your odds on it being Babe?”
r />   “Judge, I know how to handle it. I can find Ambrosia or Babe or whatever the hell she’s calling herself.”

  The phone went dead.

  Rosswell fetched the letter Tina had written him.

  It was late and Tina would be asleep. He’d decided to go to her room, sneaking past the nurse guarding the door if necessary, and sit by her bedside. There he would open the letter and read it. What a spot of calm in an ocean of problems. He sitting by his beloved reading what had to be a love letter. That is, if it wasn’t a get-lost letter.

  At the hospital, the door to Tina’s room at the end of the hallway was open, but inside it was dark.

  Junior Fleming stood at Priscilla’s desk, chatting, laughing. Apparently he didn’t find her quite the ugly stick anymore.

  A dark room was a good sign. Tina slept, he assured himself. She needed rest. Tina hated resting, but that was the major thing she needed. He would sit by her bed and watch her sleep.

  Tina was not in the room. Rosswell walked to the nurse’s station. “Junior,” Rosswell said, “where’s Tina? Where’s the deputy?”

  Junior turned to face Rosswell. “Tina’s in there, sleeping.” He pointed to the dark room. “The deputy went to supper.”

  Rosswell went back in the room, knocked on the bathroom door.

  No response. He opened the door. The bathroom was dark and unoccupied.

  “Crap,” he said under his breath. Tina was out gallivanting in the halls, visiting who knew who. She loved talking to people, and she’d perked up enough to be bored, and boredom had finally overcome her. He’d give her a good lecture which, of course, she’d ignore.

  Rosswell stuck his head out the door to her room. Peered up and down the hall. No one in sight but Junior and Priscilla.

  “Junior, she’s not here.”

  The cop bolted for the room and turned on all the lights and checked the bathroom. He radioed security. “I’m on it, Judge.” Junior left, apparently to search the whole hospital by himself.

  Roswell began walking the corridors. After half an hour, Rosswell returned to her room. Still no Tina. The bed was mussed as if she’d just gotten out of it. Nothing appeared to be missing. Except Tina.

  A security guard approached him. “Are you Judge Carew?”

  “Yes,” Rosswell said to the young man he’d never seen before. “But something’s bad wrong. Do you know where Tina Parkmore is?” He pointed to her room.

  “Let me check,” the man said, hunching over a computer. “Says here she’s still a patient.”

  Priscilla frowned. “She’s not in her room. The judge has been looking all over for her and so has Junior.”

  Rosswell said, “Where else would she be this time of night?”

  The security guard said, “I’ve called the sheriff. He’s on his way. I’ll be searching the grounds.”

  The nurse strode to Tina’s room and did a search of her own.

  Doesn’t she think that Junior, the security guard, and I could find one woman in a hospital room?

  “Not here,” the nurse said. She dialed a number and spoke to someone, then said to Rosswell, “My supervisor will be right here.”

  The supervisor was Benita Smothers.

  “Ross,” she said. “How are you making it? You healing okay?”

  Rosswell gritted his teeth. Then he said, “Yeah, I’m doing fine, but Tina Parkmore is not in her room.”

  Benita also searched the room. “Doesn’t look like she took anything so I doubt that she left the hospital. I need to call security.”

  Priscilla informed her that security and Junior were already searching for Tina.

  Benita hung her head and tapped her foot. A thinking position, Rosswell assumed. “Call the sheriff.”

  “They’ve already done that,” Rosswell said. “Benita, please step in here and talk to me.”

  After Rosswell had shut the door to the room, he said, “Have you ever seen anyone have a reaction to anesthesia like Tina had? Ever?”

  Benita said, “You really should be asking the doctor—”

  “I’m asking you.”

  Benita rubbed her hands together rapidly. “I’m not supposed to give my medical opinion about things. Generally speaking.”

  “I asked you one simple question.”

  Benita folded her arms across her chest. “Judge Carew, you didn’t

  hear this from me.”

  “Hear what?”

  “Something was wrong with that girl. Tina. Something was bad wrong and it wasn’t from the anesthesia. At least not at first. I tried to tell the doctor, but he said she was mentally and physically exhausted, that she’d been grazed with a bullet, shock, blood loss, allergy to the anesthesia, on and on.”

  “Are you saying somebody could’ve been doping her?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  An hour later, Frizz made the decision at the sheriff’s station. “Tina’s missing, foul play suspected.”

  “Frizz,” Rosswell said, “there’s no signs of a struggle.”

  “We’ve ferreted the hospital top to bottom. She’s not at her house. She’s not at your house. She’s not at anyone’s house. She’s gone. Her car’s gone. No one she knows has any idea where she is. That’s not like Tina. She wouldn’t leave willingly without telling someone.” Frizz wiped his face with his handkerchief. “She’s gone.”

  “Doesn’t the hospital have surveillance tapes?”

  “Rosswell, that’s the first thing I asked for. They’re on the way.”

  Purvis Rabil shot through the door. “Sheriff, something mighty strange just happened out at the park.”

  Frizz said, “Tell me before I arrest you again.”

  The big man looked from Frizz to Rosswell, then back again. “I saw something that may have to do with Miss Tina.”

  Rosswell grabbed both of the flaps of Purvis’s vest. Scooby, obviously scared, yipped. “Where the hell did you see this?”

  “Like I said,” Purvis answered, “at the park. It was dark but someone drove up to the bank of the river in a car that looked like hers. They got out and jumped in the river. The car’s still there.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  After the memorial service

  Rosswell attended the memorial mass for Tina. He owed that much to Father Mike, Frizz, and, of course, Tina. Yet Rosswell knew something that none of those other people would admit. Tina was alive. Why was everyone in a rush to put her in her grave?

  Tina was gone, he admitted that. The who, how, when, and why she’d disappeared, he couldn’t even begin to guess.

  But not dead. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—accept that. And he had physical proof.

  Rosswell had spent hours reviewing the surveillance videotapes the hospital turned over to Frizz. First, Rosswell watched the tapes covering 12 hours before he got there and then 12 hours after. Then 24 hours before and after. Then 36.

  On one grainy black-and-white tape, he saw a tall man with close-cropped curly hair pushing a laundry cart into the parking lot. Of course, the cameras didn’t cover the area where the man had parked his vehicle. The man—Rosswell was convinced it was Nathaniel Dahlbert—had kidnapped Tina. Why, Rosswell couldn’t fathom. The FBI, the Missouri Highway Patrol, Frizz, and hell, yes, even Junior Fleming had scoured the whole area. Nothing.

  Still, that was physical proof. If Nathaniel had wanted her dead, he would’ve killed her in her bed. Therefore, she was alive. And it was imperative in Rosswell’s mind that Nathaniel must have received help from someone inside the hospital. But again, the who, how, when, and why eluded him.

  Rosswell wandered from the church and stood in the sunshine. Several people shook his hand and muttered platitudes. The scent of the incense and flowers in the church lingered in his nose. Sweat began rolling down his face.

  I need to ask Father Mike for an exorcism. A demon possessed me, and that’s why I’m wearing a black, three piece suit on a sunny, hot, and humid day.

  “Rosswell,” Purvi
s said from behind him.

  Rosswell gasped when he turned around. “You’re wearing a suit!”

  Purvis said, “I couldn’t bring myself to shave.”

  “Thanks for reporting what you saw. And thanks for coming back for the service.”

  “I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”

  Frizz joined them. “Purvis, you did what you could. No one could’ve identified somebody that far away in the dark.”

  Rosswell said, “It wasn’t Tina.”

  Purvis nodded. “If it wasn’t Tina, then who stole her car? And why did the thief jump in the river?”

  Frizz said, “Let’s step over here where we can talk privately.”

  The three men walked to the side of the large brick church where they stood in the shade of a tall cedar tree. A mockingbird, high on the roof of the church, began its repertoire of songs.

  “This isn’t for public consumption, hear?” Purvis and Rosswell murmured their agreement. “We found Johnny Dan’s ledger in his garage. Had tons of transactions listed, but no names. He used a code of some kind. He scrawled at the bottom of one page he was going to kill someone.”

  “Who?” Rosswell asked.

  Frizz said, “Johnny Dan called him Toothpick Chief.”

  Rosswell nodded. “Ribs Freshwater.”

  Frizz said, “That was my first guess.”

  Purvis said, “Who’s he?”

  Frizz said, “He’s a tall, skinny, Native American who, by the way, has disappeared.”

  No one spoke for a long time.

  Rosswell said, “I … uh … kind of checked up on Nathaniel Dahlbert. His house is clean and empty. Must’ve had one hell of a moving crew to come in at night.”

  “We were there way before you were, Judge,” Frizz said. “We couldn’t find clue one. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ribs and Nathaniel are together, somewhere on the run. I’ve sent out a persons of interest bulletin on them both.”

  Rosswell didn’t ask and Purvis probably didn’t know enough to ask what the fire marshal’s investigator had turned up after sifting through Nadine’s house. Rosswell suspected that the investigator had built a bombproof case against her. That could demolish Frizz if it ever got out that he was protecting a dope pusher. Rosswell had also heard through Ollie that Frizz had hired two lawyers: One for divorce and one for bankruptcy.