by Bill Hopkins
Chapter Two
Monday morning, continued
Rosswell leaned against his little convertible, still parked by the log, waiting for the squadron of Bollinger County’s finest. Vicky’s Monarch Orange Pearl paint job shone like a beacon for the cops to follow.
The heat, while unbearable, kept the wind down. Without a breeze blowing his way, he hoped he could manage the smell from the bodies, which grew stronger. Tree frogs, crickets, and some other critters screeched in rhythm. Unpleasant background noise to a ghastly tableau. Rosswell’s keen hearing made the scene worse instead of better.
Sheriff Frizz Dodson arrived first, his spotless silver sedan sporting a shiny tag reading: Bollinger County SD #1. Rosswell jumped to the side to avoid Frizz’s splatters when the car fishtailed and slopped through a mud puddle. The sheriff’s sedan suffered glop slung all over the formerly shiny body. Rosswell remained untouched.
“Judge Carew, why were you up here in the first place?” Frizz yelled out the window before the car lurched to a stop, throwing more goop everywhere. Rosswell wondered why the hell Frizz couldn’t stay on the dry parts of the road instead of aiming for every mud hole. Frizz hopped out. When the tall man grimaced, his bright, straight teeth made him look like he had a mouthful of sixty-four pearly whites instead of thirty-two.
Rosswell, shaking his head over the mud bath on the patrol car, pushed his glasses up onto his nose and ambled over to greet the sheriff. “Hunting mushrooms.” Rosswell hooked a quizzical look onto his face. The gesture made him appear innocent and trusting. No one could disbelieve him.
“That’s a load of horse puckey.” Frizz yanked his hat from his head, and the mass of curly black hair on his oversized head that gave rise to his nickname popped out, soaked with sweat. He forked a huge handkerchief from his back pocket, scrubbed his smooth, unlined face, and then buffed the inside of the hat. “You’re standing at a murder scene.”
“I just murdered two people and thought you should know.”
“Stop with the sarcasm.” Frizz sniffed. “What a god-awful stink.”
“You started it.”
“The stink?”
“No,” Rosswell said. “The sarcasm. I’m sorry if I inconvenienced you.”
“Did you get my voicemail?”
Rosswell checked his phone. “No.”
“I was having a nice breakfast conversation with my wife over some personal issues.”
Rosswell said, “A couple of people out here had some personal issues.”
“So you say.” Frizz scratched his nose, the scent of death no doubt insulting his olfactory nerves. “Picking mushrooms on state property is illegal.”
“I’m the judge, remember? I’ve read a statute or two in my time.” Rosswell strode back to his car, snatched his camera off the passenger seat, and thrust it towards the sheriff. “I didn’t say I was picking anything. I was taking pictures, not searching for supper.”
Rosswell clicked through a preview of the sixty or so photos of mushrooms that he’d taken other places, careful not to show Frizz any of the pictures of the bodies. Some of the mushroom snaps showed poisonous ones. Every time Rosswell clicked on an Amanita or a False Morel, he’d say, “If I’d eaten one of those, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Frizz clamped a hand on Rosswell’s arm, signaling him to stop the slide show. “You got plenty of film?” Frizz apparently wasn’t impressed with Rosswell’s mushroom pictures.
“It’s a digital camera. Film died at the end of the twentieth century.”
“Yeah,” Frizz said. “I knew that. What I meant was, can you take a lot more pictures?”
“A couple of thousand.” Rosswell was prepared. Eighty gigabytes worth of memory cards nestled in the camera bag. “That’s an underestimation.”
“Then start shooting. Everything. And when you finish, go back and take more. Every possible angle.”
Rosswell nodded but said nothing. It would only irritate Frizz if he knew that Rosswell had already snapped a few photos of the bodies.
Frizz’s request meant that he needed Rosswell to assist him, didn’t it? And why shouldn’t Rosswell be a sleuth? His leukemia, in remission now, wouldn’t kill him for a long time. Maybe not for another year. Maybe even longer. The only thing standing between Rosswell and his desire to be a detective was common sense. In truth, Frizz didn’t need Rosswell anymore than a goat needs a watch, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Frizz.
Rosswell grinned. He reached up to smooth his red power tie, then realized he wasn’t wearing his customary suit, but a sweaty tee shirt and dirty blue jeans. Catching a whiff of himself, he realized that his body odor hovered just this side of repellent.
Rosswell said, “You’re deputizing me?”
If they caught the bad guy, Rosswell would be a witness, not the judge. This freed him to help in the investigation. Anticipating a Sherlock Holmes role, Rosswell raised his right hand, palm towards Frizz. During Medieval times, people did that to show that they were peaceable and carried no sword. Waiting for the swearing in, Rosswell blinked several times and sneezed twice. Fricking allergies.
“No,” Frizz said. “I’m only drafting you to take pictures.” The big man replaced his hat. “For free. You’re an unpaid consultant. Put your hand down and get to work.”
“You need help. The Harley riders are due on Thursday. Maybe some will be here tomorrow or Wednesday. You have three deputies. There’s one city cop and he’s an idiot.”
“I can handle it, don’t worry.”
“This is a double homicide. You’ll need all the help you can get.”
Frizz said, “I’ve got all the help I can get.”
“But not all the help that you need.”
Frizz’s face turned red. “Rosswell, you’re the judge. I’m the cop.”
“After all, I did find the bodies.” Rosswell sneezed. “And I’m a witness here, not a judge. A judge can’t hold court when he’s the witness.” The argument over whether Rosswell would be an official detective or an amateur sleuth moved into the hold position when a Road Rescue Ambulance equipped to the max with hundred-decibel sirens and supernova lights howled towards the two men. Late last year, Homeland Security had awarded the wicked vehicle to Bollinger County. If terrorists ever targeted the Ozarks, Bollinger County stood ready in uptown style. At least in the ambulance department.
Neal Borland, the medical examiner, lumbered out of the ambulance when it stopped. Red and blue lights swirling, its sirens ripped apart the quiet of the death scene. Two EMTs, one male, the other female, opened the rear door, jumped to the ground, and pulled on clear rubber gloves.
“Dr. Borland,” Rosswell yelled, “can you cut off the sirens? You’re scaring the squirrels and the deer with that racket.” The traffic in this part of the county was nonexistent, leaving no need for sirens, lights, and speeding.
“Standard operating procedure.” Freckles blanketed Neal’s large face, hairless except for pale red eyebrows, two shades lighter than his unkempt hair, which, as always, stuck out in disarray atop his square head. “Saves time when we’re in emergency mode.” He motioned to one of the EMTs who cut off the siren. “Besides, it’s a Federal regulation.”
“Oh?” Rosswell said. “Was there traffic?” Maybe Neal was trying to deafen people so he could garner more patients for his medical practice. The medical examiner position didn’t pay much.
“Where are the bodies?” Neal asked, not even favoring Rosswell with a glance.
Frizz pointed to the corpses, then glared at Rosswell, with a look that he understood meant Shut your trap.
Neal, wiping sweat off his large face, trundled to the bodies while Rosswell snapped pictures. The EMTs blocked his view in a couple of shots, and he told them to move.
“Any ID?” Neal asked. The smell must not have bothered him since he made no expression of disgust nor did he slather the inside of his nostrils with Vicks.
“Didn’t check,” Rosswell said.
“I wasn’t talking to you, Ross.”
“It’s Rosswell. I don’t have an abbreviation for that name. It’s a family name. From way back.” Rosswell sent a silent prayer up, requesting forgiveness for his anal reaction to Neal’s barb while they were at a death scene. Coming to his own defense, Rosswell knew his Scottish forebears would be horrified to hear Neal kicking around the sacred surname.
“Frizz,” Neal said, “you got any idea who these bodies are?”
“These bodies,” Rosswell said, “are people.”
“Not a clue.” Frizz rubbed his face with his handkerchief. “I didn’t search them. I was waiting for you.” Frizz inched toward the bodies. “Besides, they’re unrecognizable.”
“Got that straight.” Neal bent close to what Rosswell presumed was the male corpse and waved the bugs away. The dark swarm of critters buzzed angrily. Maybe they’d bite Neal. “Throat slit.” He clumped around to the other body and knelt beside it. “I can’t see any wounds, but with the way this corpse is puffed up, there’s no way to tell for sure.”
Puffed up? Is that a medical term I’m not familiar with? What’s the next goody Neal would come up with? Smelling like rotten crap? Green as goose grease?
The relationship between Neal and Rosswell wasn’t doused with honey. The friction partially resulted from Rosswell’s penchant for moving court proceedings at a steady pace. Neal’s testimony tended to consist of explaining how a split hair could be further split seventeen different ways.
Rosswell asked Neal, “How about
