A Killing at the Creek

by Nancy Allen

  “Sustained,” the judge murmured, eyes closed. He looked ready for a nap.

  Elsie studied the witness for a moment. Oozing respectability, the woman was clearly a law-­abiding citizen. She could not be connected to the meth business, or the defendant sitting next to Billy Yocum.

  “Where do you work?”

  “I’m a homemaker.”

  Elsie smiled. Gotcha, she thought.

  “Are you acquainted with Mr. Yocum’s wife? Peggy?”

  The woman flushed. Glancing at the defense attorney, she said, “Yes.”

  “How do you know Mrs. Yocum?”

  “We’re in PEO together.”

  “Ah,” said Elsie, nodding sagely, “that’s a sorority, right?”

  Pursing her lips, the woman answered, “It is a philanthropic educational organization.”

  Elsie knew better. And she knew she couldn’t ask what “PEO” stood for; it was a closely guarded secret of the society. The old gal could tell Elsie, but then she’d have to kill her.

  “Did Mrs. Yocum ask you to appear today?”

  “Yes.” She shifted in the chair, as if the seat had become uncomfortable; she knew the cat was out of the bag.

  “What did Mrs. Yocum say or do?”

  “Well. It seems like she showed me the newspaper article, and asked me to read it. We talked about the case a little bit. We agreed he couldn’t get a fair trial here.”

  “Where did this conversation take place?”

  “At the PEO meeting. During luncheon.”

  Elsie glanced out into the hallway. Two other women waited on the bench that the present witness had vacated. They looked like her clones, from their lacquered silver hair, right down to their pantyhose.

  “Are you acquainted with any other witnesses who will appear today on defendant’s behalf?”

  “Objection! Calls for speculation!”

  “Overruled,” said the judge, with a meaning look at Yocum.

  The witness hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Are they outside?”

  “Uh-­huh.”

  “What are their names?”

  The witness provided the names of two women.

  “How do you know them?”

  “PEO.”

  Elsie leaned against the jury box, smiling at the witness. “So essentially, Mrs. Yocum came to PEO with newspaper clippings, and drummed up three witnesses for her husband’s hearing.”

  The woman opened her mouth to respond, but shut it as Yocum shouted, “Objection! How dare you?”

  The judge said, “Sustained.”

  Yocum waved a dramatic arm in Elsie’s direction. “She has attacked the integrity of my wife. My wife, for God’s sake.”

  “Settle down, Billy.” The judge no longer looked sleepy.

  “I demand that the prosecutor be censured.”

  Elsie rolled her eyes.

  The judge said, “You got any witnesses other than the PEO ladies, Billy?”

  “Your honor, my witnesses are of the highest character.”

  The judge nodded. “That’s true. But if the remaining testimony is going to be a repetition of the current witness, how about if I take judicial notice that you had three witnesses to testify to that effect.” He twirled his gavel. “That suit everybody?”

  “Yes, your honor,” Elsie piped up.

  Yocum didn’t answer immediately. He made a show of consulting with his client. After they huddled together for a long moment, the attorney said, “As a courtesy to those fine ladies outside, for their comfort and convenience, we will accept the judge’s generous proposal.”

  The judge dismissed the witness, and she departed in haste.

  Judge Callaway pointed his gavel at Elsie. “Any witnesses on behalf of the state?” he asked.

  Elsie stood, pulling the damp skirt off the back of her thighs. She wondered what temperature the courtroom would register. The back of her blouse was soaked; she could feel it.

  The judge, cloaked in a voluminous black robe, looked comfortable, cool as a cucumber, she thought. His high forehead bore no beads of sweat, his shirt collar was dry. Maybe it helps that he’s bald, she decided. Or maybe he’s made of ice. The defense attorneys found that pleas for mercy on their client’s behalf almost always fell on deaf ears in Callaway’s court. The nickname they coined for him was “Maxaway,” because he often imposed the maximum penalty and rarely granted probation.

  “The state has seven witnesses outside, Judge,” she said.

  Lazily, he stretched and leaned back in his chair. “Well, let’s hear what one or two of them have to say.”

  Got it, Elsie thought. The judge didn’t want any overkill.

  She called three witnesses. Two of them had never heard of the defendant or his charge. They told the court they could be impartial, if called as jurors for the case. The third witness thought he’d seen something about it on television. He remembered a fire at a hotel. Under questioning, he assured the court that he could put the news coverage out of his mind, and decide the case on the evidence alone.

  By the time her third witness stepped down, the heat made huge sweat rings under Elsie’s arms, and her hair was damp with perspiration. She asked the judge whether she might put on further evidence: he shook his head.

  “I have to wrap this up,” he said. “We have a court en banc meeting at three. Defendant’s motion for change of venue is overruled. Court is adjourned.”

  After the judge departed, Elsie turned to the defense attorney. “Always a pleasure, Billy.”

  His tone was hostile as he said, “I won’t forget that remark about my wife.” Without waiting for a response, he turned to his client.

  Flush with the satisfaction of her victory, Elsie said to his back, “I figured you were going to call her next. Or your mother, maybe. Is your mother out there in the hall?”

  He wheeled back, outraged. “My mother passed away when I was a boy. Have some respect.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Elsie blushed, but her face was already red with heat.

  I never know when to shut up, she thought, as Yocum stormed out with his client.

  Chapter 12

  INSIDE THE HOT cinder-­block room, Tanner Monroe sat on the top bunk of the metal bunk bed, swinging his bare feet over the side, jabbing at his middle finger with a ballpoint pen.

  He looked up. “Don’t move,” he said.

  In the corner facing the wall, Barry Bacon crouched with his arms wrapped around his knees. “My legs are cramping up, man,” he said.

  “That’s too fucking bad,” Tanner said, adjusting his position on the narrow mattress. “I gave you two chances.”

  Barry breathed heavily. His skinny fingers snaked around his calf, and he rubbed the offending muscle.

  “Stop it.”

  Barry wailed in reply. “This is killing me, man. This is bullshit.”

  “I warned you, asshat. Yesterday and this morning.”

  Barry didn’t reply. He rolled over on his back, stretching out his legs. He turned his face, twisted into a grimace of pain.

  Tanner laughed. “Look at you. Pussy.”

  A rap at the door interrupted Barry’s response. Tanner whispered, “Sit up,” as a key rattled in the lock.

  Lisa Peters’s head popped through the open door. “You guys ready for lunch?”

  When she looked at Barry huddled on the floor, a puzzled expression replaced the smile she had worn. “Barry? What are you doing?” With a laugh, she added, “That floor’s pretty dirty.”

  He began to gasp in distress. Lisa hurried to him and knelt at his side. “Barry! Are you sick?”

  “I picked my nose!”

  “Shut up,” Tanner said.

  “What?” asked Lisa, looking from one boy to the other.

  “He said I had to crouch down
here like a dog. Because I picked my fucking nose. Jesus,” the boy wailed, as he began to cry.

  “What’s going on here? Tanner?” She turned on the bunk bed and glared at Tanner, her body tensed like a boxer’s.

  “Oh man, Lisa,” Tanner said, hopping down from the top bunk. “It’s a sick habit, it’ll lose him friends. I was trying to help. Like behavior mod.”

  “He ain’t helping me,” Barry cried.

  “Oh, dude.” Tanner grasped Barry’s arm and pulled him to a stand. “I learned it in psych class. Last year. It’s like, when you want to quit something, you got to reinforce it. Helps you remember not to do it.”

  “Tanner, it’s not your place,” Lisa said, as Barry twisted his arm away from Tanner’s hold.

  “He made me crawl on the floor like a dog,” Barry cried.

  Tanner slipped both hands into the pocket of his jeans. “Shit, girls will never come near you if you can’t lose your nasty habits. You’ll be jerking off your whole life.”

  “Quit it,” Barry said.

  “Stop,” Lisa ordered. Pointing at the folding chair under the window, she said, “Tanner, give us some space.”

  Tanner sauntered over to the chair and sat. Crossing an ankle over one knee, he watched them with an innocent face. Lisa gave Barry’s shoulder a squeeze. “Do you need anything? An Advil? It’s lunchtime. Do you want some private time before you go down to the cafeteria?”

  Barry shook his head. His nose was running, and he swiped at it with the back of his hand.

  “Dude. Barry,” Tanner said in an encouraging voice. “Let’s get some damned food. You and me need to hit it before those fucks get their germs all over everything.”

  Barry nodded, mute.

  Tanner rose from the folding chair, approaching Barry with a grin, slapping him on the back. “Let’s move. Don’t want anybody to sit in our spot.” To Lisa, Tanner said, “Me and Barry sit on the end. Near the food line. We always sit there, across from each other.”

  When Barry didn’t respond, Tanner put an arm around his shoulders and gave him a little shake. “Ain’t that right, man?”

  Barry bobbed his head, slowly. “Yeah. We got a special spot.”

  “Come on,” Tanner said, walking through the door, but Lisa restrained him with a hand on his arm.

  “We’re going to have to talk about this. This isn’t over. You know I won’t tolerate bullying. I won’t put up with it.”

  Tanner Monroe flashed a smile at her, displaying a set of white teeth that were perfectly straight, except for one eyetooth that protruded through the gum like a fang. “Talk with you, Lisa? Hell yeah. Anytime.”

  Chapter 13

  ELSIE BUCKLED HERSELF into the front seat of Ashlock’s car. She’d awakened twice the night before, tossing in her bed with nervous anxiety about the challenges of their mission in Tulsa. But now that they were embarking, she found herself in high spirits. She nearly hooted as she said, “I feel like a kid skipping school. Oh my God. Leaving the courthouse on a Wednesday morning, and hitting the road to Tulsa. This is cool.”

  “Can you turn up the air conditioner any higher?” Chuck said from the backseat.

  Ashlock shook his head. “This is as good as it gets.”

  In misery, Chuck lolled his head on his neck. “Are you a masochist? Get it fixed.”

  Ashlock adjusted his sunglasses with his right hand. “Car doesn’t belong to me. This old sedan is the property of the City of Barton, Missouri. Got to make do with what we’ve got.”

  “I don’t even care,” said Elsie, rolling the window down on the passenger side and letting the hot wind blow through her hair. “I’m on a road trip to Tulsa. Ash honey, pull into the Sonic so I can get me a big old Diet Coke. I love their crushed ice.”

  Ashlock did as she asked, and once Elsie had her Coke in hand, they hit the Interstate and headed west.

  They drove in silence for several minutes. Once outside the city limits, Elsie watched the countryside fly past. The roadside was blanketed with Queen Anne’s lace, dotted with clumps of black-­eyed Susans. Colorful roadside tents, striped green and white, red and yellow, stood empty, awaiting delivery of their seasonal fireworks inventory.

  “Hey, Ash,” Elsie asked, as they zoomed past a bright red and white tent, “why can’t they sell fireworks all year round? Is it state or local?”

  He smiled. “Look at the lawyer, asking for legal advice. I know we’ve got a city ordinance banning them in Barton. There’s county and state regulation—­federal, too. Gunpowder. Serious business.” He winked at her behind the sunglasses. “So who’s running the show at the office, with you and Harris out of pocket?”

  Elsie snickered. “You won’t believe this. Madeleine has to cover one of the courts this morning, since we’re on the road. She’s in Associate Division 1. Handling traffic tickets.” Elsie threw back her head and howled.

  “Why is that so funny?” Chuck asked.

  “Let’s just say it’s unprecedented.”

  Elsie read Ashlock’s case reports as they drove. When the road flattened out and they made their way across the Oklahoma state line, Elsie asked Ashlock, “What’s the plan?”

  “We’ll check out the bus. It’s impounded at the Oklahoma Highway Patrol facility in Tulsa. Then we’ll head over to the casino where the boy left the bus. I’ve set up an appointment to talk to the guy in charge.”

  “What does he know?”

  “He’s supposed to line up ­people who had contact with the kid.”

  Leaning forward, Chuck asked Ashlock, “What if they hold out on us? What if the manager doesn’t line up any witnesses?”

  Ashlock made eye contact with him in the rearview mirror. “Then I’ll hunt them down, I reckon.”

  A McDonald’s appeared, stretching across and over the highway.

  “Pull over at this McDonald’s, baby,” Elsie said. “I gotta pee.”

  “We’re not that far from Tulsa,” Harris complained. “Can’t you wait?”

  But Ashlock was already in the exit lane. Elsie said, “If I could wait, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  To the silence in the backseat, she added, “Aspartame irritates the bladder.”

  Ashlock shook his head. “Honey, why do you drink all that diet stuff, then?”

  Elsie sighed. “Because I love it.”

  They exited the vehicle and trod upstairs to the restaurant, which looked over the highway. Elsie detoured into the women’s room, while Chuck checked out the Cherokee Indian souvenirs.

  When Elsie emerged from the women’s room, she saw Ashlock engaged in conversation with a woman at the ice cream booth. Elsie sidled up to him.

  “Never saw him before,” the woman was saying.

  “Take a good look at the photo,” Ashlock urged, holding it where the woman could see it clearly. “It would have been recently, just a few days ago, that the boy might have passed through.”

  “No,” the woman said, steadfastly refusing to look at the mug shot. “I can’t remember every face I see.”

  Ashlock gave Elsie a sidelong glance, and as they turned to go, she whispered, “What’s up?”

  “Just a shot. It makes sense that he would’ve stopped here. But I can’t get anyone to confirm it.”

  “Your ice cream buddy wasn’t being very helpful.”

  “No ma’am, she was not.”

  “Maybe you should love her up a little.” She squeezed his arm. “Works on me.”

  A chuckle escaped from Ashlock as they surveyed the McDonald’s counter, where a short blond girl stood alone. “Maybe you’d rather work your magic on that little cutie at the counter.”

  “Tried it. No luck.” But he gave the girl a penetrating look. “Knows more than she’s saying, I think.”

  Chuck walked up, breakfast burrito in hand. “This isn’t bad.”

 
He proffered the bag in his hand as they turned to leave, adding, “It came with a hash brown. Anybody want it?”

  “Yeah,” Elsie said, reaching into the bag. Before taking a bite, she said, “Yum. You sure you don’t want it?”

  Chuck shook his head. “Deep-­fried. Processed.”

  Elsie split the patty in half and handed a piece to Ashlock, who ate it in a single bite. “Thanks,” he said.

  When they returned to the vehicle, Elsie leaned back in the seat, drowsy from the morning heat. She dozed the rest of the way to Tulsa, awakening when Ashlock pulled up to the Oklahoma State Highway Patrol building. A state trooper escorted them to the facility where the bus was impounded.

  The bus loomed before them, its bright yellow paint still glistening and new, the black letters stating PUBLIC SCHOOLS OF ROGERS ARKANSAS standing out in bold relief. Ashlock pulled out a camera and began to snap photographs of the exterior.

  Soberly, Elsie stared at the rust-­colored stains on the bumper, forcibly reminded of the woman in the creek bed. She took an involuntary step back from the bloody bus. Was it the juvenile? she pondered. Did he spill this blood? Or was someone else responsible: the mystery man with the jailhouse tattoos?

  Ashlock stood by his bag of equipment, snapping on latex gloves. “Elsie?”

  She looked up at him. “What?”

  “If you all want to go into the vehicle, you’ll need to wear some protective gear.”

  Elsie and Chuck followed Ashlock to the doorway of the bus. When it opened, Elsie was assaulted by the sight of dried blood, saturating the mats, discoloring the floor, and giving off a coppery smell. Elsie recoiled, backing away.

  “I don’t need to go on it,” she said.

  Chuck stood behind her. “Me neither, man. You’re the doctor.”

  Ashlock nodded. As he ascended the steps into the interior of the bus, he said over his shoulder, “This is going to take a while.”

  “We’ll wait,” Elsie said.

  Chuck took a look around. “There’s nothing for us to do here. I’ll hitch us a ride to the casino.” He stuck his head into the doorway of the bus and called to Ashlock, “We’re going on to the casino. We’ll poke around, wait for you there.”