A Killing at the Creek

by Nancy Allen

  “Jesus,” she whispered, flipping through the black and white pages of Yocum’s glory days. In the senior class photo, the caption revealed he was president; she spotted him on the basketball team; and the debate team ran a half-­page photo of Billy, a staged pose, with his arms crossed as he scowled at his opponent. Two pages later, she found the prize: Billy sitting on a hay bale beside a girl wearing a gown of layers of tulle: Barnwarming King and Queen.

  Elsie guffawed at the picture, drawing a curious stare from Veda. As she closed the yearbook and slipped it back in place with the others, she nearly upset a huge pottery ashtray. Elsie pushed it back to safety by the magazines. It was a vintage jewel of speckled aqua, with room for a dozen smokers to ash and rest their cigarettes and extinguish butts. It held a matching lighter. Elsie picked it up and flicked it, but it didn’t work.

  “You itching for a smoke, Miss Arnold?” Billy stood in the doorway of his office, regarding her with a raised brow.

  She jammed the lighter back into its spot. “Lord, no, Billy. I’ve never smoked.” The statement was not entirely true. “I was just wondering—­why do you have that thing out here? They just passed that new smoking ordinance. You’re violating city law.”

  “I don’t plan on using it.”

  “Then what’s it here for?” In a mocking tone, she said, “Sentimental reasons?”

  “It was a gift. When I opened my law practice. A gift from my late father.”

  Aw, shit, Elsie thought. Billy Yocum always played the dead family card on her. She had no comeback; she followed Billy into his office and settled into a bloodred club chair that faced his desk. He sat across from her, staring, his right hand toying with a paperweight that sat atop a manila file folder.

  “Billy. What did you call me over here for? I’m busy.”

  “I have a report to share with you.” Billy set the paperweight aside and opened the folder, pulling a stapled sheaf of papers from the top of a pile. As Elsie watched, jiggling her foot with impatience, Yocum scanned the document through his bifocals.

  At length, she interrupted his silent reading. “Billy, you could send that to me. E-­mail me, and attach it. Or fax it. You could send it U.S. mail, if you’re not in a hurry. Or, I don’t know, maybe just drop it off with Stacie. That’s how I got your last important motion.”

  Yocum continued to examine the papers. Elsie stood. Her voice was snappish when she spoke. “I’m heading out, Billy. I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here and watch you read. I’ll tell you the truth: I’m not really in the mood to hang with you, after that hatchet job in Callaway’s court.”

  She nearly reached the door when Yocum’s voice stopped her. “My client suffers from mental illness. Mr. Monroe.”

  Elsie turned, scrutinizing him with a wary eye. “What’s this? What happened to Other Dude Done It?”

  Billy didn’t answer. His eyes were trained on the document.

  Elsie said, “If Tanner Monroe didn’t cut the woman’s throat; if, as you and your client contend, another person did the deed, then what does it matter whether he’s crazy or not?”

  Billy Yocum replaced the document in the file folder and closed it, carefully setting the paperweight on top. “Then you have no interest in the content of my medical report.”

  Elsie edged back to her chair. “I’m interested, sure. What’s the diagnosis?”

  Billy sighed. Shaking his head, he said, “My client is a troubled young man.”

  She smiled in response, genuinely amused. “No shit.”

  “Miss Arnold, could you please refrain from using vulgar language in my office?”

  Resentment washed over Elsie like the tide. “Oh please. Excuse the fuck out of me, Billy. I thought I was talking to the guy who accused Ashlock of ‘dicking’ me in open court.”

  Billy leaned back in his chair with a patient expression. “Miss Arnold, you fancy yourself a litigator. I’d expect you to understand trial tactics.”

  Behind Billy’s head was a shelf containing two prizes: a plaque from the Missouri Trial Attorneys Association, naming him the Trial Lawyer of the Year in 1982; and the trophy for Division 1 High School basketball in 1960. She imagined the satisfaction she would derive from knocking the treasures to the floor.

  “It was personal. You crossed the line, Billy.”

  “Miss Arnold, you have some hard lessons to learn. Not the least of which is how to stand clear of that line. You walk right into the line of fire, you know that?” He tapped the file folder with his index finger. “Antisocial personality disorder.”

  Elsie made a hissing noise, waving her hand in dismissal. “Is that the best you can do? Every inmate in the Department of Corrections can claim that disorder; just means they commit crimes. You were better off with ODDI.”

  Yocum adjusted his glasses, smiling broadly. “I guess you’ll find that out soon enough.”

  She didn’t like his expression. “What do you mean?”

  “At trial. You’ll learn about our defense pretty soon now.”

  “What do you mean? We won’t go to trial for months yet. We’re way down on the docket.”

  “I’m filing a motion. Veda just typed it up. Maybe you should be there when the judge takes it up.”

  Her face flushed; he always kept her off-­balance. “Billy, what’s going on?”

  “My wife and I are taking our fortieth wedding anniversary trip. She wants to see the castles of Europe.”

  “Judge Callaway isn’t going to rush a murder case to trial so you can go on vacation.”

  “Oh goodness, no. He’ll do it for the safety and security of a minor. My client is in the general population at the county jail; did you know that?”

  Elsie felt a twinge of angst; she’d supposed they’d placed Monroe in some kind of protective custody, away from the other inmates. “I don’t know the particulars.”

  “He’s in grave danger, on a daily basis. I’d think such a wrinkle would occur to you. You purport to be greatly disturbed by sex crimes against young victims.”

  She almost winced. “If there’s a problem, you should talk to Vernon Wantuck at the jail. He’d listen to you.”

  “Oh, I think I’ll take it up with Judge Callaway. I believe I will.”

  Elsie’s head started spinning; if they were looking at a trial date in the near future, she needed to start anticipating the defense’s hand. “Hey, Billy, who’s your doctor? Who did the mental eval on Monroe?”

  “Dr. Boone. In Springfield.”

  “That quack?” Elsie recognized the name; Dr. Boone was a psychologist in private practice who was popular with the criminal defense bar, due to his propensity to declare criminal defendants unfit to stand trial and unable to comprehend that their behavior was wrong. “Boone thinks everyone is crazy. He’d diagnose me with antisocial personality disorder.”

  Yocum didn’t reply; he just looked at Elsie with his brow lifted.

  “Don’t you dare,” she said. “Don’t say it. We’re on thin ice as it is, you and me.”

  “Miss Elsie, you can’t read my mind. And you mustn’t be disposed to paranoia. Such an unattractive quality in a woman.”

  She stood in a huff. “Give me the goddamned report, and a copy of your new motion. And I’ll get out of here before you make me lose my temper.”

  He patted the manila folder with a blue-­veined hand; on his fourth finger, he wore a Mason’s ring sporting a large faceted ruby.

  “I think I’ll take your suggestion, Miss Arnold. I’ll send this motion to you and Mr. Harris through the U.S. Postal Ser­vice. It should reach you next week. If Veda gets it in the mail in the next day or two.”

  Elsie didn’t bother to reply. She walked away from Billy and made for the exit. Before she reached the door, Veda called to her.

  “Elsie, honey, hold up. I’ve got something for you.”

&
nbsp; Elsie turned. “Is it the new motion in the Monroe case? I’d like to see that.”

  “No, I don’t have that ready for Billy to see. This is something else.” Veda lifted a stack of envelopes that appeared to hold the morning mail.

  “Really, Veda, I’m in an awful hurry.”

  “Well now, I had it right here.” She opened the top drawer of her desk and began to paw through it. “I had it just a minute ago.”

  “Mrs. Wilson, I’m sorry, but—­”

  “She was just here. Just right here with it.”

  As Elsie burned with impatience, Veda scoured the drawer a second time, breaking off the search with a laugh. Reaching for the blue Kleenex box on her desk, she said, “I put it right on top so I wouldn’t lose it. Sometimes I think I must be getting the old-­timers.”

  Veda extended an open hand; when Elsie saw what it held, she quailed. It was a tarot card. The Fool.

  She didn’t want to touch it, but Veda held it out with an expectant face.

  “A woman was looking in here for you, but she wouldn’t wait. She said to give this to you. Said you’d understand.”

  Elsie examined the worn card, its cardboard edges soft and frayed. The Fool was stepping off a cliff. Because the Fool didn’t look to see where he was going.

  These days, it felt like she was doing the same thing.

  Chapter 32

  “WE’RE GOING TO trial.”

  Chuck had been lounging in his office, his feet propped on his desk, but Elsie’s announcement made him twist sideways in his chair.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Yocum. I just came from his office. He dropped the bomb.” She leaned against the door frame of Chuck’s office, pressing her hot face against the wood. “You want to hear about it?”

  When Chuck nodded, she walked to the air-­conditioning unit under his window and sat on it, grateful for the cold air shooting up her back.

  “It’s too early,” Chuck said. He picked up the receiver of his landline phone, and stared at it; then with a grimace, set the phone in its cradle.

  “Too early for who? Yocum says the defense is ready to go.”

  “So what’s the defense, then? ODDI? Yocum hasn’t even taken depositions. He’d have to notify us.”

  “Maybe he’s not taking depos. Too expensive, maybe; who knows if the state would pick up the tab on the court reporter? He could be taking statements over the phone; he has all the contact information on our Oklahoma witnesses from discovery. Or he might’ve sent an investigator to Oklahoma; who knows? But he’s got a new angle now. MD or D.”

  Chuck gaped at her. “Insanity?” When she nodded, he asked, “Says who?”

  “Billy.”

  “No, I mean—­who’s the expert?”

  Elsie pulled a face. “That quack from Springfield: Dr. Boone. Have you heard of him?”

  Chuck didn’t answer the question, asking instead, “What’s the mental disease or defect? Did Billy say?”

  “Antisocial personality disorder.”

  Chuck spun his chair around and pulled a thick volume from the credenza behind his desk. “That sounds bad. Serious.”

  “Oh, Chuck. Please. Everybody in prison probably qualifies as antisocial personality disorder.”

  “Are you listening to yourself? I think you’re missing a key point. It engenders sympathy for the defendant. ­People feel sorry for a person with a mental disorder.”

  “Where? In Kansas City?” Elsie scoffed in dismissal. “The ­people in this county won’t buy into an insanity plea unless a guy actually thinks he’s Napoleon. Or Elvis. We never see a ‘Not Guilty’ for insanity in McCown County. They consider an NGI verdict to be an easy out for the criminal element. Like getting off on a technicality.”

  Chuck wheeled to the computer and clicked his mouse. “I’ll Google it.”

  While he toyed with the computer, Elsie crossed over to the chair facing his desk. “Chuck, have you ever tried a case with an MD or D defense?”

  He didn’t answer, just continued scanning the computer screen.

  “Chuck, I don’t mean to dog you about this, but I need to know where we stand. Have you done it before?”

  At length, without looking her way, he said shortly: “No.”

  She let out a long breath. “But you’re from that huge Jackson County office. Seems like KC would have had insanity cases—­”

  “There was a woman on our staff: Mary Birmingham. She handled all the insanity trials.” He scrabbled the computer mouse around the pad, as if it would help him uncover the answers he sought. “But it sounds like a major problem. Shit—­we have to prove that he’s sane.”

  “Well, not exactly. We have the burden of proving that he committed the crime—­the murder. But if Yocum and Tanner Monroe claim insanity, they have the burden of proof on that defense. He has to prove to the jury that he was insane when he killed her.”

  Chuck’s face took on a resentful look; Elsie knew he didn’t like to be corrected by her. She was, after all, his assistant.

  Stacie appeared in the doorway. “Chuck, got something for you.”

  He turned a baleful eye on the receptionist. “I’m busy,” he said.

  Stacie’s mouth thinned to a lip-­glossed line. “That’s a nice way to thank me for my trouble. Next time, I’ll just let you come to me. You can wear your shoes out walking down by the reception area.” She slapped a manila envelope on his desk and turned on her heel.

  With an impatient hand, Chuck tossed the envelope onto an in-­box on his desk; but then he gave it a second glance. Picking the envelope back off the stack, Chuck examined it.

  “This is from Billy Yocum,” he said.

  “What the fuck? I was just over at his office. What’s in it?”

  Elsie watched Chuck tear into the correspondence; he ripped the envelope with such ferocity, she worried that he might tear the document it contained. She stood and walked over to his side at the desk, so she could see what Yocum sent.

  “The doctor’s mental evaluation of Monroe. Dr. Boone,” he said.

  She let out her breath with a hiss. “That old shithead. He wouldn’t give it to me. I was sitting right there in his office; I asked him for it.”

  “Maybe he wanted to deliver it to the attorney in charge of the case.” Chuck flipped through the pages. “There’s a second document. It’s a motion. He wants the case set for trial. Jesus.”

  Elsie sat on the edge of the desk, facing Chuck. “Chuck, I think we’ll be okay if he goes with the mental disease defense. I’ve only done it once, but I saved everything; I have the jury instructions and voir dire questions and the doctor’s examination. And I just don’t believe he’ll get off, if his mental disease is antisocial personality disorder. It’s too common. It’s not the kind of defect that will convince a jury that he didn’t know what he was doing, couldn’t control his behavior, doesn’t know right from wrong. I don’t think the jury will believe he’s incapable of obeying the law.”

  “Would you get your butt off my desk? If you don’t mind?”

  Elsie stood; disgruntled, she walked back to the chair, but she pressed on. “Really, Chuck. He may have a personality disorder, but he’s not insane enough to be found NGI. Just not crazy enough.”

  Chuck didn’t appear to be listening; he was studying the report. He threw his head back and groaned.

  “What?” Elsie said.

  “He’s crazy. Batshit crazy.”

  “What? What is it?”

  Chuck snatched up a highlighter and started marking on the page. “He thinks his body has been invaded at the jail.”

  “Oh Jesus,” Elsie whispered, with a sinking feeling in her stomach. “Chuck, has he been raped?” The stomach knot gave way to a tide of panic. Surely, she thought—­surely Vernon Wantuck wouldn’t let that happen. Elsie co
uld hear her mother’s voice: A boy of fifteen is not a man.

  “No, that’s not it. He doesn’t say anything about being assaulted. He says,” and Chuck stopped to run a hand over his face, as if to wipe sweat away, though Elsie couldn’t see a telltale sheen, “he told the shrink that spiders have invaded his body. They crawled up his anus and laid their eggs.” He flipped to the next page. “When he defecates, he sees spiderwebs spinning out of his rectum.”

  Elsie looked away, stunned. “Oh my Lord.”

  Chuck tossed the report onto his desk. “How the fuck will we counter that?”

  Elsie exhaled, her breath coming out in a long sigh. “Maybe he’s faking?” she offered feebly.

  “Spiderwebs out the ass? You can’t make shit like that up.”

  Chapter 33

  ELSIE’S OFFICE FACED the west side of the town square. At five o’clock, the sun beat through the glass with a vengeance, setting her face on fire. She reached up to pull the string that closed the metal blinds, but they refused to close all the way; the blinds were half a century old, and though she fought with the string, stripes of white sunlight peeked through.

  She settled in her chair and opened the State v. Monroe file. With the trial speedily approaching, Chuck had assigned their roles and divvied up tasks. He announced that he would do voir dire and jury selection, Opening Statement, Closing Argument, and examination of key witnesses: Ashlock, the coroner, and the crime lab witnesses who would testify about the forensic evidence. The autopsy, DNA, fingerprints, blood, and hair would be his territory. The glamour jobs, Elsie thought.

  She was assigned the county deputies who assisted Ashlock at the scene, and the Oklahoma witnesses. And Chuck had ordered Elsie to initiate contact with everyone on the witness list, to let them know that trial was approaching.

  The grunt work.

  She picked up the phone at her desk and dialed the first name on her to-­do list: a McDonald’s employee in Vinita, Oklahoma, named Camryn Hornbuckle. When the phone picked up on the other end, Elsie sat up straight in her chair, preparing to speak.