by Nancy Allen
“I don’t know about judicial. But I’m totally independent.” The boy held up five fingers. “I. Do. What. I. Want,” he said, ticking off the words with the fingers of his right hand. “I crash at my mom’s place if I feel like it. If not, I don’t.”
“Then your mother is still your custodian? Your parent and legal guardian?”
“Man, I don’t know. I guess.”
“What about your father?”
Tanner huffed a humorless breath. “Yeah, what about him?”
“What is his role in your life?”
“His role.” The young man shook his head, and tossed his hair back. “You tell me. Never met him.”
“Never? Does he pay support?”
“If he does, I don’t know nothing about it.”
“Your mother would be entitled to support.”
“I don’t think he’s one of those support-paying types.”
“What type is he, then? What information did your mother give you about your father?”
“We don’t talk about him too much.”
Ashlock sat, waiting for Monroe to say more. After a moment’s silence, the boy said, “Seems like she said he was doing time. That was a while back.”
“So you’ve been in your mother’s sole custody all your life.”
“Yeah. Except for foster care. Does that mean not in her custody? Because they never terminated.”
Elsie made rapid notes as Ashlock leaned closer to Monroe. “By terminated—you’re talking about her parental rights. Is that correct?”
“Yeah. They didn’t do that. She always got clean. Then I’d go back.”
“How many times did this happen?”
“Shit, man, who can remember? But this last time, since she left rehab, it’s been all right. Now that I’m fifteen, we kind of go our own way. It works out okay. We can hang, but we both do what we want. Right now, I’m seeing the country.”
“How’s that?”
“Hitchhiking. Going where the road takes me.”
Ashlock set his pen down and regarded the boy with a level look. “And where has it taken you?”
The boy snorted. “For a ride on that bus, I guess.”
“Tell us about that. Where did you first see the bus?”
“At the Diamonds truck stop. The one outside St. Louis. I figured I could get a ride from there. And there was this woman with a school bus. She was taking it to Arkansas.”
The boy paused. He said, “Can I have one of my cigarettes?”
“No,” said Ashlock. “Tell us about the woman.”
“Old. Ugly. Stupid.” The boy rolled his eyes at Ashlock’s solemn expression. “Okay, not that old. Forty? Thirty? You all look alike to me, old people, I mean. She wasn’t getting by on her looks, though. Tell you that much.”
“How did you get a ride with her?”
“I just asked. She said I could come along. Said I’d keep her company.”
“So you wanted to go to Arkansas?”
“Hell, no. Arkansas blows. But I thought I’d get off at Springfield, maybe go to Branson, go down to the lake. Camp out.”
“So what happened?”
“Everything was cool. With her and me. But she picked up another dude.”
“At the Diamonds?”
“No, at a gas station down the road.”
“Where?”
“I dunno. Maybe Rolla. Maybe somewhere else.”
“Why did you stop again so soon? Rolla’s not even two hours from the Diamonds.”
“Hey, she was driving. Maybe she needed to take a piss.” Turning to Lisa, he said, “When’s lunch? I’m starved.”
Before she could answer, Ashlock said, “Describe the gas station where she picked up the passenger.”
“Gas, man. I don’t know. It was dark. I was kind of dozing in one of the bus seats. Laying down.”
“How did she meet up with the passenger?”
“He asked for a ride. I guess. I wasn’t filming it.”
Elsie shifted on the vinyl couch, trying to hide her growing impatience, as Ashlock asked him to describe the passenger.
“Seems like he was big. Real big.”
“Height?”
“Dude, I don’t know.”
“Approximately, roughly. Compared to you.”
The boy yawned. “I didn’t go head to head with him, man. But he was big, I kid you not. Big and scary-looking.”
“Weight, build?”
“Big. Not fat.”
“Race?”
“White guy.”
“Hair color?”
“Ummm. Black.”
“Eye color?”
“Shit, man, I don’t know. Brown.”
“Distinguishing features?”
“What’s that mean?”
“Tattoos, scars, marks, facial features.”
Monroe rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled audibly. He screwed his eyes shut, saying, “Thinking, thinking, thinking,” then fell silent.
After a pause, Ashlock prompted, “Well?”
His brown eyes popped open. “Scar on his cheek. Right there,” indicating his cheekbone.
The adults all made notations on paper. Elsie shifted in her seat on the couch, unhappily conscious that she was sticking to the vinyl.
“And tats,” the boy added. “Jailhouse tats.”
“Where?”
“On his fingers. Couldn’t make them out, though. He turned to stare at Lisa Peters. “You know what?”
“What?” she responded.
“If you were mine, I’d protect you. I wouldn’t let anybody near you. No fucking way.”
Chapter 9
ELSIE SHUFFLED SHEETS of paper, still warm from the copy machine, which contained Tanner Monroe’s handwritten statement.
At the conclusion of his interrogation that morning, the juvenile had asked for pen and paper.
“I want to make a written statement,” he told them. “In my own words.”
Ashlock advised him that it wasn’t necessary, they had the tape recording of his answers, and if he wanted to add anything, he was free to speak up. But the boy shook his head.
“Somebody could fuck with a tape recording,” he said. “No offense, dude, but it’s the truth. Erase something, add something, switch the questions up. I better put it down in handwriting, so I can be sure it’s my own words.”
Ashlock nodded. “Okay, then.” He instructed Elsie to hand Tanner her legal pad and pen. The adults watched in silence as the boy wrote.
Elsie observed as the boy scratched on the paper with the ballpoint pen, crossing out words and frowning in concentration; then he wrote at a rapid pace, only to pause again. Studying his face, she observed a faint sprinkling of hair on his upper lip, and the scatter of adolescent acne on his brow. Recalling her mother’s words, she pondered, Cutting a woman’s throat: how could he do it? Then she shuddered as a chilling thought followed: Did he do it?
Focusing on his hands as he wrote, she tried to envision them handling a knife rather than a pen. The hands were big enough; though the boy was normal height, he looked strong enough to overpower a middle-aged woman. Certainly, holding a weapon would give him the advantage. But as she stared at the hairless backs of his young hands, she wondered how he could be cold enough, at the tender age of fifteen, to take a human life. Maybe her mother was right; she generally was, Elsie knew from long experience.
Had he confessed on those written pages, her job would be much easier. But the photostatic copy in Elsie’s hands contained no confession, no admission of wrongdoing. She laid the statement before her on her desk, wishing she had a clearer barometer of the events on that school bus than the scrawled paragraphs provided. Still, Elsie thought it might hold a clue, a key to reveal the true events of the murder.
&
nbsp; With a highlighter poised in her hand, she read:
I, Tanner Dylan Monroe, swear this is the truth.
Here is what happened with the bus. The true story.
I was hitchhiking from St. Louis like I said. A woman with a school bus gave me a ride at the Diamonds but there was another dude too she picked up later.
So I was asleep in the back but there was a lot of noise. And I saw them fighting and he had her pinned. Then he had a knife and he cut her throat when he held her down. I couldn’t do nothing because I was in the back.
Anyway after she was dead he took me prisoner. He made me drive and go in the middle of nowhere so we dumped the body there.
Then he made me drive and if I didn’t do what he said he would kill me, too. I couldn’t run or get help cuz he never let me out of his sight. He finally got off somewhere. I don’t know where it was at. I drove the bus but it ran out of gas and I stayed with the bus because I didn’t have money for gas and nowhere to go. The dude ran off.
That’s it except to say I am innocent and I just want to go back to St. Louis. And see my mom.
This is what happen.
Underneath those words, in a cursive scrawl, he signed his name: “Tanner Dylan Monroe.”
ODDI defense, Elsie had immediately thought. Other Dude Done It. It was easy to anticipate what the jury would want the state to provide when the defendant raised that defense; on rebuttal, the prosecution needed to show that there was no second passenger. They needed to prove to the jury that the crime was Monroe’s own act, and they must prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. That was the state’s burden, the prosecutor’s job.
But first, Elsie must prove it to herself. She did not believe in proceeding on any case where she was unsure of the defendant’s guilt, and that was especially true in this instance, where the defendant was a boy of fifteen. Regardless of orders issued by Madeleine or Chuck, she could not present a case to a jury if she didn’t believe in it.
If the juvenile had committed a murder, he would have to pay; Missouri followed the trend in recent years toward certifying minors to be tried as adults for criminal acts. The state legislature had made it clear that the criminal courts would handle serious crimes committed by juveniles. But Elsie needed to be absolutely certain that the crime was his; that the evidence pointed to Tanner Monroe, and no one else.
Elsie toyed with the highlighter, thinking, Let’s see what you were up to when you were on the road, Tanner Monroe.
She tossed the marker on her desk and said, “Oklahoma needs a visit from a big ole Missouri gal.”
Chapter 10
ELSIE WALKED INTO the Baldknobbers bar shortly after five, grateful for the frosty air blasting from the window air conditioner. The bar was an old dive, the type of establishment that kept the windows covered day and night. Upon entering, she peered through the smoky haze for Ashlock, but didn’t spy him. With a wave at Dixie, the longtime barmaid, she headed for a booth. As she dropped her purse on the seat, she recognized a familiar figure at the bar.
Walking up alongside Chuck Harris, she tapped him on the arm. “Happy Tuesday.”
He glanced up, glum, and hunched back over his beer mug. “Right.”
“What’s the matter?”
“She’s gonna dump it on me. I can see it coming.”
“Huh?”
“That case with the kid. What a dog.”
Elsie slid onto the bar stool beside him. “I understand, I’ve been ruminating about it myself. But maybe we’re just borrowing trouble, Chuck. We’re still putting the evidence together; Monroe’s not even certified yet. If the case doesn’t look strong enough to convict, Madeleine surely won’t file.”
“Of course she’ll file. A dead woman in the county, and a kid in the bloody bus? She has to file. And then we’ll have that piece-of-shit case.”
She didn’t respond. Staring blindly at the mirror behind the bar, she struggled with her own reservations.
Chuck continued, “He didn’t confess. No jury will convict a fifteen-year-old of murder without a confession.”
Soberly, Elsie nodded. “It would’ve been handy if the kid confessed. But suspects usually don’t; we both know that. And his statement has holes in it.” She leaned in close to him, and in a determined tone, said, “We need to follow the trail of the bus, to disprove the kid’s story about the other passenger. You and me. And Ashlock.”
Chuck traced the water ring his beer mug made on the wooden bar. “This really isn’t your case, Elsie. Madeleine told me that in no uncertain terms. You’re just the water boy; the case is assigned to me and Madeleine. Which actually means it’s all on me.”
Elsie sat back on the bar stool, fighting a surge of resentment. Madeleine was already creating obstacles. If Elsie was to have a meaningful role in the case, she would have to make it happen.
“Let me go to Oklahoma,” she urged. “I’m good with witnesses; I can establish rapport, start piecing the puzzle together. I’ll be a lot of help.”
“How? How do you prove a negative? How do you show that the ‘mystery man’ never existed?”
Overlooking their conflict earlier in the day, Elsie put an arm around his shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “That’s what we’ve got to figure out. We’ll do it. And if we can’t disprove the mystery man, well, it’s important to find that out, too. We’ll put our heads together. With Ashlock.”
“Do you know what she said to me this afternoon?”
Lord, no telling, Elsie thought, but she kept her voice even. “Madeleine? No, what did she say?”
“She said, if the evidence points to the kid, she’s filing murder in the first degree. In the first.”
Elsie was taken aback. “You mean, she’s made her mind up, even before we see what kind of evidence of pre-deliberation they’ll find?”
“Yeah. She told me that with a bloody school bus and a woman victim and a slit throat, deliberation should be assumed. The jury won’t be caught up on details.”
“Premeditation isn’t a detail.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
Elsie stared down at the scarred wooden bar without seeing it. “Maybe she’s right. The weapon, the method of killing her; it would have to be intentional, require forethought. Anyway, we can always include the option of second degree murder in the jury instructions, if it comes to that.”
Chuck groaned softly into his beer mug. “Here it comes. I’ll be holding the bag, with an overcharged murder case against a fifteen-year-old kid.”
“Lucky for him he’s fifteen,” Elsie said.
“Huh?”
“If he was sixteen on the date of the crime, and he was convicted of first degree murder, he could get the death penalty. Since he’s fifteen, they’ll just lock him up and throw away the key. Life imprisonment without eligibility for parole.”
“I know that,” Chuck said, snappish. “Don’t lecture me. Sometimes you act like you’re the Oracle at Delphi.”
The side door of the bar opened and a flash of daylight blinded Elsie. She shielded her eyes with her hand and made out the outline of Detective Ashlock. “Ash!” she called, with a wave.
As he walked over, she saw he wasn’t smiling. He approached the bar, asking Elsie pointedly, “Aren’t we sitting at a table?”
“Sure. Got one.” With a final pat, Elsie said to Chuck, “Talk to you later.”
Walking to the booth, she felt Ashlock’s hand pressed possessively at the small of her back. When she scooted into the booth, though, he sat across from her.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
“Why do you say that?” Looking around, he signaled Dixie to come to the table.
“You were a little rude to the new chief assistant. Didn’t say hello.”
“I guess that’s because I don’t like him too much.”
Elsie examined him as Dixie came up to take their order. “You’re jealous.”
“You want a beer, honeybun?” Dixie asked her.
“Corona for me,” Elsie said.
Ashlock smiled at Dixie. “Coke.”
Leaning back in the booth, Elsie observed that Ashlock offered up a smile for Dixie, but had not yet spared one for her. A little nettled, she said, “You’re no fun.”
“You’re surely shining a spotlight on all my bad qualities this evening. Rude. No fun. Jealous.”
She slipped her foot out of her shoe and propped it upon his thigh, under the table across from her.
“You’ve got nothing to be jealous of, Ash.”
When he didn’t answer, she slipped her toes under his leg and nudged him.
“Hey,” she said.
As her foot inched its way to his crotch, he grabbed her ankle and cracked a smile.
“You’re incorrigible,” he said.
“Since when do you need to worry about being the focus of my attention? You know I’m hooked.”
He didn’t reply, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. With a devilish expression, she leaned across the table and said in a stage whisper, “Let’s play the game where you’re taking me to the home for wayward girls.”
When he responded with a laugh, she smiled, glad to see him restored to good humor. Dixie bustled up, setting their drinks in front of them. Picking up her beer bottle, Elsie tilted it toward Ashlock.
“First swallow?” she offered, but he shook his head. Elsie took a long drink from the neck of the cold bottle.
“My mom called today,” she said. “She and Dad want to know if we’re coming over for dinner on my birthday. It’s two weeks away, but she’s already wanting to set the table and plan the menu.”
He squeezed her foot under the table with a warm hand. “What do you want?”
“Well, I hate to disappoint Marge and George. They’re chomping at the bit. But I’d really like to go out, just you and me. There’s a new steakhouse in Monett. People are talking it up.”
“Sounds good. We’ll check it out.”
Elsie watched as Ashlock toyed with his glass, turning it in a circle with his fingers. “Hey,” she said. “What’s up?”
