A Killing at the Creek

by Nancy Allen

  Chuck clucked his tongue. With a grimace, he said, “Typical. I’ve been around a lot of cops. They’re not bad guys, they’re just bad for women. Not very good relationship material.”

  Shifting in her seat, Elsie searched for a response to defend Ashlock. “I don’t think you can make a blanket generalization like that. About an entire profession.”

  Troubled, she perused the waitress’s witness statement again. It was a lucky find, because the woman established that she had encountered the juvenile on multiple occasions, and the boy was always alone. No mystery man, no kidnapper, no hulking figure with a knife at the boy’s back. The waitress’s testimony would contradict Tanner Monroe’s claim that he was a prisoner of the “other dude” who purportedly committed the murder.

  Despite the tension with Ashlock, holding the witness statement in her hands gave Elsie a sense of relief. It lessened the anxiety that had been nagging at her, when she wondered whether it was possible that Tanner Monroe was innocent of the crime. She skimmed the casino waitress’s statement yet again. It did not mesh with the story provided by Monroe. And they couldn’t both be telling the truth. Either Tanner Monroe was, as he claimed, the prisoner of the “other dude” who killed Glenda Fielder; or Monroe was the “nervy little shit” that the waitress described, acting alone.

  “So the other casino employees had nothing to say?” she asked Chuck.

  “Got nothing. Zip.”

  The casino employees who met with Ashlock and Chuck in the manager’s office told a different story from the waitress; they maintained, individually and collectively, that they could not identify the juvenile. Although the manager acknowledged that the bus sat in the casino lot for several days, he steadfastly refused to provide further information.

  Ashlock’s search of the bus had netted an important find, however. In addition to blood and hair samples on the bus, he discovered a bloody knife wedged under the driver’s seat. The weapon was bagged and tagged, soon to undergo testing at the Barton Police Department.

  Elsie slipped the waitress’s witness statement into a file folder as she thought about the knife. The knife would tell the tale, she thought. It was surely the weapon used to cut Glenda Fielder’s throat; and the forensic results would determine that with certainty. If that knife could also be tied to Tanner Monroe, through prints or other tests, she would put all her doubts to bed and shut the door on them. She would set herself to the task of convicting the boy of murder, and go after that conviction, whole hog.

  While Elsie and Chuck waited for Ashlock to return from the Oklahoma McDonald’s, Elsie opened the passenger side door, hoping to catch a passing afternoon breeze. Glancing in the backseat, she saw that Chuck appeared to be asleep. She dug ice from the bottom of her Coke cup, and rubbed a melting cube along her neck. It seemed that Ashlock had been gone a long time.

  She considered going in after him, but then he appeared, walking to the car with a leisurely stride. She couldn’t read his face, partially hidden by the sunglasses.

  He opened the car door, slid inside, and put the key in the ignition.

  “Well?” she said.

  He started the car and put it in gear.

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  He nodded. “There’s a little dark-­haired girl, works at the counter. She didn’t positively ID the mug shot. But she said it resembled a kid who was in last week.”

  In the backseat, Chuck roused himself. “Good job, Ashlock. What about a second passenger? The ‘other dude’?”

  “She said the kid she remembers was alone. Hung around after he ate, played video games.”

  Elsie reached over and gave Ashlock’s arm a happy squeeze. “Ash, that’s great. It knocks the stuffings out of his claim. Does anybody back her up?”

  “Her coworker, the blonde I talked to this morning, still claims she can’t remember. The girl acts like a scared rabbit. But I got another witness, a guy who works in the kitchen.”

  “What did he say?” Elsie asked.

  “He identified the bus. He said he was on break, smoking a cigarette in the parking lot, and noticed that school bus had blood stains down the back. Thought it was strange.”

  “What else does he know?”

  “Nothing. Never saw the driver.”

  Chapter 17

  IT WAS DUSK when Ashlock pulled the car into the courthouse parking lot. Chuck Harris hopped out without ceremony and raced off for the comfort of his own vehicle. Elsie and Ashlock sat in silence, watching Harris hurry away.

  Elsie spoke first. “You want to get something to eat?”

  Ashlock frowned, shook his head. “I should log this stuff in right now. I better get my reports written up, too, while everything is fresh. I’m heading straight over to the PD.”

  “Oh,” said Elsie. “You still mad about the casino?”

  He exhaled, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “I’m not happy about it.”

  Unbuckling her seat belt, she turned in her seat so that she could see his face at a better angle. “Are we going to go around and around on this?”

  “I’m still disappointed in you.”

  “You ain’t my daddy, Ash. I get this feeling that you want to punish me for what happened back there. Just stop it. Snap out of it.”

  “You think I can just overlook it?” He turned his head to look her in the eye. “I think what you did was unprofessional. Immature.”

  His words stung, but she affected a careless air. “I know. I have feet of clay. I’ve never deceived you about that.” She leaned against the inside of the door, uncomfortably aware that the armrest dug into her back.

  “I gotta be honest. You’ve got a lot of growing up to do.”

  Her heart hammered with hurt, but she tried to keep her face impassive. “Because you’re so grown up.”

  “I’d say that’s right. I am.”

  “While we’re being so honest, here’s something that has me puzzled. If you’re so grown up, such an old-­fashioned fucking straight arrow, why aren’t you interested in forging a real relationship? That integrates all the parts of your life?”

  He started to speak, but she interrupted him. “Because you obviously are delighted to fuck my brains out every chance you get. But you don’t want to make a commitment. Won’t let me anywhere near your kids.” Her voice broke on the last sentence, but she covered it with a laugh. Mockingly, she added, “That seems pretty goddamned immature to me.”

  She thought she detected a flinch.

  “Cops make bad husbands. Just not good marriage material,” he said.

  “I know you’ve got a divorce under your belt. Not that you’ve ever confided in me about it,” she said. “But you were a kid then.”

  “And you’re a kid now.”

  She fumbled for the door handle.

  “Okay. That’s it.” She managed to unlatch the door and flung it wide open. “You’re not looking for a relationship that’s going anywhere. And you’re not too crazy about me.”

  She struggled to get her papers and purse in one armload. With a ball of rage wedged in her chest, she added, “If I’m just going to have a fuck buddy, maybe I’ll find one who’s more fun.”

  He didn’t respond. Elsie slammed the door, stalking off in search of her car. She didn’t look back.

  Chapter 18

  THE HEAT ON July 4 was merciless. As Elsie pulled her car into the lot adjoining Juvenile Hall, she heard the newscaster announce that the temperature was nearing the record set in the legendary heat wave of 1954. His voice over the radio sounded positively jolly. Elsie assumed it was easy to exult over the blistering temperature while sitting in an air-­conditioned studio.

  In the juvenile facility, she gasped at the stifling atmosphere. Sitting behind the glass enclosure, a woman fanned herself with a manila file.

  “Central air’s on the fritz,” she sai
d.

  Elsie groaned. The woman waved her inside. Elsie passed into the juvenile office, where she saw Lisa Peters sitting in front of a sputtering fan.

  Lisa fixed her with a suspicious look. “What are you doing here?”

  “I got holiday duty. Same as you, I guess. I’m making the rounds to see if any charges need to be filed today.”

  Lisa laughed. “How did you pull Fourth of July?”

  “I live a charmed existence.” Elsie had in fact volunteered for Fourth of July duty. A long-­anticipated holiday with Ashlock at nearby Table Rock Lake was out, since their relationship hit the skids. The holiday duty had fallen to Bree, but Elsie she reasoned that, since she was stuck in town anyway, with nothing to do and no one to do it with, she should let Bree have the chance to enjoy the Fourth with her daughter, Taylor. And Elsie might make headway with the Monroe case while checking in on the juvenile office.

  As a gesture of thanks, Bree had invited Elsie for dinner at her house the night before. It had started out as a pleasant evening, relaxing on Bree’s back porch while she grilled burgers. But Elsie wore out her welcome when she got on a rant about Ashlock, cataloguing his flaws. When Bree’s daughter moved from the supper table to the TV, Elsie amplified her whining; and when Bree let out a yawn, Elsie knew it was time to go.

  She had headed home to her apartment, determined to do something productive: clean out a kitchen cabinet, or cull out the expired bottles of salad dressing from the refrigerator. But when she opened the refrigerator door, she saw a bottle of Chardonnay, three-­quarters full and enticingly cold.

  She drank it down. It was enough wine to fuel determination: she would have it out with Ashlock. She picked up her cell phone and called his number.

  A drunk dial.

  When Ashlock picked up, Elsie had tried to sound cheery. “Happy Fourth of July Eve.”

  A moment’s silence followed, then: “Elsie?”

  “Yeah, Elsie. Sorry I didn’t identify myself. I didn’t figure you’d forget my voice so quick.”

  Another pause. “What can I do for you?”

  The formal tone of his voice made tears sting her eyelids; she rubbed her eyes with an angry swipe, glad he couldn’t see it.

  “Ash, Jesus; what the hell is going on with you? I thought we had something solid, a real connection. I can’t believe that two gin and tonics could make you turn tail and run.”

  “It wasn’t two.”

  “Goddamn it, it doesn’t matter whether it was two or not. The issue—­what I’m talking about—­is, what happened to us? What happened to you?”

  Ashlock cleared his throat into the receiver; she knew that quirk, it meant he was buying time before he answered. “I have a lot of affection for you. And respect. But Elsie—­”

  “Affection? And respect? Am I your grandmother? Your kindly old grade school teacher? It doesn’t sound like you’re talking to me; sounds like you’re talking about someone you haven’t been in the sack with.”

  “We’ve had a lot of fun. But I’ve got more to consider.”

  She pinched her lips together. This was not how she’d wanted the conversation to go.

  “I have my kids to consider. I’m a father.”

  “You were a father last winter, weren’t you? When you were so hot to hook up with me?”

  With that, she had heard him sigh into the phone. “My son is going into high school. Burton, he’s fourteen. He wants to be in Barton with me, full-­time, and his mom is considering it.”

  “And why,” she said, her voice sounding strangled, “why would that mean we can’t see each other?”

  He was silent for a long moment; Elsie knew he was choosing his words carefully. “You don’t know my ex. Don’t know how it is with her. Since she moved back to the Bootheel, she got religion again. If she hears about you, if one of the kids carries back stories, there will be hell to pay.”

  “So she’s got religion. Good god, Ash, I’m a lawyer—­a prosecutor. I’m not a crack whore. What’s she going to hear?”

  “Elsie, she’s Assemblies. Assemblies of God. No drinking, no cussing. No dancing.”

  “Okay. I’ll give up dancing.”

  She waited for his laugh, but no sound of mirth came through the phone.

  When he spoke, she could hear it: that note of finality in his voice. His mind was made up. “Elsie, I have only the highest regard for you—­”

  “Fuck you,” she said, and tossed the phone on the kitchen table.

  By morning, she had a new resolve: true romance was not her skill set. But prosecution was something she was good at, an important job that deserved her full attention. It was time to quit thinking about Bob Ashlock. She would focus on Tanner Monroe.

  At the hot office in Juvenile Hall, Elsie prepared to tangle with Lisa.

  Lisa said, “I don’t have anything for you over here. Things are pretty quiet, considering. Maybe they’re all in a coma from the heat.”

  “Is the air-­conditioning out all over the building?”

  Lisa made a face. “Yeah. God, it’s awful down there in detention. I’ve got to make the rounds in a minute, but I’ve been putting it off. I know they’re going to go off on me, and there’s nothing I can do.”

  Elsie sat in the chair Lisa had vacated. “You’re scaring them straight, baby.”

  “Hey, this isn’t funny. Those kids are going to riot if we don’t cool things down.” Turning to the sweltering secretary, Lisa asked, “Do you think the juvenile judge would consider some kind of break for the holiday? I thought I might try to take the kids to the city swim park.”

  I think the heat is getting to you; you must have lost your mind, Elsie thought.

  However, she didn’t need to voice her objection, because the secretary said, “You won’t be able to get ahold of him today, unless somebody turns up dead.”

  Elsie nodded in silent agreement.

  A dozen grocery store cupcakes sat upon a crowded desk, frosted with garish red and blue icing, and topped with plastic picks bearing the American flag. Lisa gestured toward it. “Don’t let it be said that the judge wasn’t thinking of those kids in detention on the holiday. He brought these in yesterday and said that we’re to deliver a cupcake to each of our detention charges. A little Fourth of July gift from the judge.”

  The cupcakes were suffering from the heat. The icing was melting; drops of red and blue food coloring soaked into the pleated paper holders.

  “He’s all heart,” Elsie offered.

  “I get to play Santa,” Lisa said. Gingerly, she picked up the plastic box, trying to keep the icing off her. “I’d best get going. These cupcakes aren’t improving with age.”

  “Take them picks out first,” the secretary snapped. “You don’t want somebody jabbed in the eyeball.”

  As Lisa pulled the little flags from the cupcakes, Elsie rose. “I’ll keep you company.”

  Lisa paused to scrutinize Elsie, her brow wrinkled. “What for?”

  “For fun,” Elsie said. With a grimace, she wiped a streak of icing that was close to dripping on Lisa’s arm. “I’m not the enemy, Lisa, really. To know me is to love me.”

  Lisa shrugged, heading through the doorway and into the hall. Walking behind, Elsie asked, “How’s your buddy doing?”

  Lisa stiffened. “I suppose you mean Tanner Monroe.”

  “Well, yeah,” Elsie said, following Lisa as she made her way through the labyrinth of converted offices and down the stairs to the detention quarters. “I’m not picking a fight, honest to God. He’s taken a shine to you, that’s all.”

  Without turning to look back at her, Lisa said, “You should know that I’m opposing the certification.”

  Elsie’s brow wrinkled with disbelief. “Even after the trip to Oklahoma? We found the murder weapon. And the blood on the knife is the victim’s, Glenda Fielder; and
the fingerprint expert at the PD says there’s a print on the knife that matches Tanner Monroe. And there’s no mystery man; didn’t you hear that?”

  Lisa paused at the first door in the residence hall. “Maybe you all just heard what you wanted to hear. There could be an explanation; we don’t know everything that went on. That’s what I keep telling Hank, every time we have a consultation here at juvenile.” She rapped on the door and opened it a crack. “Madison? I’ve got something for you and Janelle.” Turning back to Elsie, Lisa said, “You have no authority to talk to these kids.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Elsie said, taking a step back. “I’m just here for the obligatory holiday check-­in. Here to help out.” Here to help straighten you out about Tanner Monroe, she added to herself.

  Lisa ignored her, opening the door just wide enough to slip through. No cool air wafted from inside the room; the temperature had to be as high inside as out. Elsie felt sorry for the kids in detention, in spite of herself; they were doing some miserable time today.

  She heard Lisa’s voice, murmuring something about a treat from the judge, and a clear response from the recipient.

  “Shit! Gross!” one of the inmates cried.

  Lisa reappeared and pulled the door shut.

  “Don’t tell me. They loved it,” Elsie said, and was rewarded by a flash of mirth in the juvenile officer’s eyes.

  “Wouldn’t you,” Lisa responded, lifting the oozing cupcakes up to Elsie’s face.

  Afterward, they walked more companionably down the hallway, though Elsie took care to stand back when Lisa entered the detention cells. As they reached the last doorway, Lisa pulled a key from her pocket.

  “These guys are in lockup,” she explained. With a warning look, she said to Elsie, “No snooping.”

  With a look of innocence, Elsie held up both hands. Lisa balanced the cupcake box in her left hand, turning the key with her right. After a quick rap at the door, Lisa opened it a crack, saying, “Tanner? Barry?”

  Tanner Monroe’s voice came through the door. “Wassup, Lisa?”