by Bill Hopkins
doing an autopsy?” That suffocated any rapport that may’ve been left.
Neal, without averting his gaze from the face of the dead woman, said, “Judge, what’s your official capacity here?”
“I asked him to take pictures,” Frizz said. “He’s got his camera.”
“Yes, you need a camera to take pictures.” Neal eyed the Nikon. “I’ll need a print of all your shots.”
“My prices are quite reasonable,” Rosswell said. “I do insist on the money up front. My bookkeeping isn’t set up for time payments.”
Neal said to Frizz, “Did you call him out here?”
“Nope.”
“I discovered the bodies,” Rosswell said. “I called Frizz out here.
Then he deputized me.”
Frizz said, “I did no such thing.”
“Frizz, you drafted me to do detective work for free, which made me a deputy.”
Neal stood, brushed his pants off, and turned to Rosswell. “You were out here with a camera and just happened to discover two bodies?” His eyebrows shot up in what Rosswell took to be a sign of disbelief. “What a happy coincidence.”
“If you must know, I was searching for mushrooms. I didn’t get far before I found those two.”
Neal said, “You always have a very smooth explanation.”
“You got that from The Maltese Falcon, didn’t you? I love that movie.”
“Never saw it.” Neal stopped brushing his pants. “It’s illegal to pick mushrooms in a state park.”
Rosswell said, “No crap?” Neal frequently generated a one-man cluster. Rosswell again pegged the times Neal testified in court, often wandering into strange territory. Many times Rosswell had told him, “Dr. Borland, if someone asks you what time it is, don’t answer by telling us how to build a watch.”
Neal said, “In my experience, the best suspect in a murder case is the guy who saw the victim last or the guy who finds the body.”
“I don’t recognize that,” Rosswell said. “What movie is that from?”
Neal said, “It’s not movie dialog. It’s fact.”
A streak of lightning knifed across the sky. Another bolt crashed into one of the big oak trees where Rosswell had been searching. The explosion reverberated in the hills for what seemed several minutes and would ring in his ears for what seemed hours. The tree split from top to bottom, yet didn’t fall apart. Daylight shone in places along the oak’s naked wound. Tree bark flew everywhere, a chunk of it missing Rosswell’s head by a millimeter. Thunder boomed and rattled without let up. A rip in the dark sky poured out a deluge worthy of Noah. Mud from the river’s bank fell off in clumps into the torrent. The rain, thick and fast, blinded everyone as they lunged for cover. Frizz scrambled for the patrol car. Neal and the EMTs bolted for the ambulance.
Rosswell headed for his convertible. He struggled to fasten the purple convertible top in place, pinching his fingers several times before he succeeded. He’d kept the car in pristine condition from the time he was sixteen. After his mother died, he couldn’t bear to sell it. Fortunately, there was only about a half-inch of water in Vicky the Volkswagen by the time he secured the top. He loved Vicky, even though she was a machine. Tina loved tooling around in the old car. If Vicky was ruined, Tina would cry and Rosswell would be ready for the grim reaper to come fetch him. Worse than that, Rosswell would be consigned to driving his boring black 1994 GMC pickup truck.
Thirty minutes later the rain slowed to a drizzle.
The noise of the river, now flooding higher than Rosswell had ever seen it, grew louder even as the storm abated. A horrendous volume of upstream water chugged downstream. Rushing past the picnic area, the murky water tore out large trees and ate up the banks. Small trees tumbled down through the water, now darker than he’d ever seen it.
Frizz jumped from his patrol car and slogged to where the bodies had been discovered. Neal followed Frizz. Rosswell followed Neal. The EMTs stayed in the ambulance.
“Damn,” Frizz said when they reached the spot.
“Oh, shit,” Neal said.
“Holy crap!” Rosswell said.
After the storm, Rosswell’s acid reflux and allergies soared to epic proportions, yet his headache had disappeared.
Along with the bodies.
Chapter Three
The killer
The killers planned Eddie Joe Deckard’s murder on a cloudless, starry night, under a full moon. Torturing and blackmailing him hadn’t achieved the result they wanted. Execution was the only way.
“Do you really think we could pull it off?” the killer asked Babe as they sat in the dark woods at the edge of the broad bank leading to the river. Unlike a lot of streams around there, the bank wasn’t gravel but earth, all the way to the water’s edge. The trees stopped and the bank sloped gently for several more feet until the shore met the water. The scent of honeysuckle and rose verbena pervaded the air. Whippoorwills called to their mates.
A beautiful place. A place for lovers. A place for murder.
“It’s spooky out here. Why’d we have to come here?”
As usual, Babe had a problem answering a direct question. The bitter taste of anger flooded the killer’s throat and mouth. “I asked you, do you think we could do it and not get caught?” Repetition shouldn’t have been necessary for the bitch. Her listening abilities were excellent. This wouldn’t turn out good unless she paid attention as she did in her real life. Lawyers listen and pay attention. The killer had spent a lot of time lying flat, working out all the details, and the killer wanted her to listen.
Babe said nothing. She rose and, in the same motion, brushed away the dead leaves, grass, sticks, and small rocks—the stuff that clings to a woman’s butt when she sits on the ground in the woods. She made no move to leave but continued standing, still breathing hard, still looking around, and wringing her hands.
The killer watched the show of nerves as long as was bearable. “God damn it, I asked you a question and I want an answer.” The killer knew Babe had been beat down so much in her life that the only way to get a response was to beat her down some more. She’d done a superb job of hiding that from the public, but the killer had discovered it and used it against her. Besides, the killer liked beating her down.
Babe plopped down beside the killer and collected a new bunch of stuff on her butt. “If I didn’t think . . . believe . . . we could do it, then I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
Just like a woman. The killer knew about being a woman. “Would you listen to the question? Read my lips.” Why can’t women answer a direct question? “Do you think we can do it and not get caught?”
Now Babe pouted. “I can’t see your lips all that good. It’s dark. Or hadn’t you noticed? Spookier than all get out.”
“It’s not that dark. There’s a full moon and lots of starlight.” The killer clenched fists and pounded Babe’s arms. “Do you think we can get away with it?” That got her attention.
“Stop it,” Babe whimpered. She rubbed her arms but didn’t return the killer’s blows. “Mighty testy tonight.”
The killer stayed silent. Sometimes, after getting Babe’s attention, the killer had to give her time to think.
“All right,” Babe said. She started with the labored breathing and worrywart stuff again. “Yes, I think we could get away with it. If we’re careful and nothing screws up the plan, we can escape without them noticing and live happily ever after. A fairy princess story for sure.” Babe laughed and laughed. “Now, that’s pretty funny. A fairy princess story. We’re sure a couple of freaking fairies.” Babe laughed again but the high-pitched whinny wasn’t pretty.
“Good.” The killer moved a hand between Babe’s legs. “We’d fit good in a fairy princess story.”
“And if the plan does get screwed up? What if someone gets on to us? Then what do we do?”
“After the first execution, the second one gets easier.” The killer continued caressing Babe, the feel of her shooting waves of pleasure. “Someone gets in our wa
y, we kill them. Simple.”
“Something else.” The touching didn’t stop Babe’s talking.
“And what would that be?” The killer spoke in a coy, shy, altogether fake voice. The fingers of the other hand moved, exploring the place where the stuff had collected on Babe. Her earlobe tasted salty when the killer chewed on it.
“Why,” Babe said, stifling a moan of pleasure, “did we have to come out here? I hate being in the dark. Outside in the dark.”
“Is that your silly little fret? I never noticed you hating the dark.”
The killer used both hands now, rubbing front and back. Even that didn’t stop Babe from talking. Her moans of pleasure sounded better than her whiny voice.
Between deep breaths, Babe said, “Outside in the dark, reminds me of things. Things that didn’t go too well. He liked the dark. I mean things still have a way of—”
“Shut up.” The killer stopped exploring, taking her face in both hands. Babe appeared to rock on the edge of an abyss. The killer had to stop her from throwing herself over. “Keep your mouth shut tight.”
“I’m shut,” Babe mumbled through clenched teeth.
“I’m not real sure you need to dwell on those things.” The killer stuck one hand down Babe’s pants and the other hand on the back of her neck. “Those things are over and done, and we’ll stamp finished on it. Look at it this way—maybe those things will help you when we carry out the plan. You have to search for silver liners in black clouds.”
“Linings.”
The killer paid no heed. “Yes, think of
