by Bill Hopkins
the third person, the mastermind, was a big guy who slashed the dead man’s throat. That could’ve happened.”
“I doubt that. If the killer shot the woman, then why didn’t he or she shoot the man? Why waste all that energy to slash the man’s throat?”
“The murderer wanted to send a message.”
“Judge, let’s not get mired down in all that unadulterated bullshit pop psychology.”
“Let me get this straight. We’re looking for at least one person, male or female, that could be big enough to kill the guy with the help of the dead woman?”
“That’s a good place to start.”
“And the man could’ve been shot before his throat was slit. Or maybe drugged before.”
“Judge, now you’re thinking like a detective.”
“But there could be another, fourth person, another murderer. The two bodies I found and two other people to kill them.”
“Or a fifth.”
“Maybe not. Even Hermie Hillsman would’ve noticed a killing party that big.”
“Think outside the box.”
Rosswell scratched his mustache. “Let’s not even get ourselves in a box. Keep an open mind.”
“Keeping an open mind here.” The Vaseline on Ollie’s bald head glistened in the afternoon sun. His hand reached for his head, but he stopped before he could follow through with a head rub.
Rosswell said, “What if there were only two people involved?”
Ollie squinted into the sun. “You’re not making sense.” He closed his eyes.
“What if one of the dead ones surprised the other two? The mastermind had to kill them both.”
“She wasn’t planning on coming out here.” Ollie’s eyes flew open. “The dead woman was decked out for a cocktail party. She wasn’t dressed for the picnic area of a state park out in the boonies.”
“The guy lured her out here, tried to rape her, she resisted, he shot her, and the other person came along, didn’t like what he or she saw, and then sliced the guy’s throat. Makes perfect sense.”
“You’re not only thinking outside the box, you’re thinking outside your brain.”
“I’ll bet,” Rosswell said, “the dead female was surprised. Her throat wasn’t slit and there wasn’t much blood around her. The killer could’ve just shot her without warning.”
“UNSUB.”
It still had to be close to a hundred degrees. Rosswell stunk, the place stunk, and he was hungry, tired, and irritated. Every insect within a mile must’ve pledged itself to torment him with its biting and buzzing. The last thing he needed was more of Ollie’s games. “What kind of word is that?”
“You’re being intentionally dense.”
“Dense?” Ollie started to squeak but Rosswell shot up a hand and wiggled his fingers. “Don’t do that again for the rest of the day. Tell me. That’s all, just tell me.”
“UNSUB is an FBI acronym for unknown subject. That’s why we’ll call this person the UNSUB.”
“No, let’s not call anyone that. I hate acronyms. And sometimes synonyms. And I’m not real fond of antonyms.”
“Okay.”
Ollie and Rosswell searched Picnic Area 3 again. Rosswell crouched while Ollie lay face down, giving himself a worm’s eye view. Nothing. Ollie rose muddy. They both walked backward, looking down around their feet as they shuffled. They also walked forward, staring at the area around their feet. Nothing.
“Damn,” Rosswell said after two hours of finding nothing. “This detective business is tiring.”
Ollie grabbed him by the shoulders. Ollie’s tight grip hurt Rosswell. There’s something unsettling in being grabbed by a big guy you’ve thrown in jail. Rosswell made no move. What Ollie thought at that moment wasn’t clear to Rosswell. What the large snitch wanted that caused him to grab Rosswell was a mystery. The fact that Ollie had never beaten him up before was comforting. Not much. But a little.
“You,” Ollie said, “need to learn something.”
“What?”
“We’ve just started.” Ollie dropped his arms. “If you’re giving up, then take me back to town.”
“No.”
The thought that a third murder or perhaps a good thumping was in the works raced across Rosswell’s mind like a scared jack rabbit with a wolf on his tail. A detective slaughtered by his snitch was bad karma.
Ollie pulled out the heavy silver ring Rosswell had given him at Merc’s. “Either take me back to town and keep your ring and your whining to yourself, or show me where you found this.” He held out the ring. Rosswell considered it but didn’t take the ring.
“What’s that Latin phrase mean?”
“Virtus junxit mors non separabit.” Ollie said it with a sepulchral tone, as if he were pronouncing doom on someone. “‘Virtue has united and death shall not separate.’ Or, maybe, ‘Whom virtue unites, death will not separate.’ It depends on your translation.”
“Sounds like something out of a wedding ceremony.”
“Nope. Masonic.”
“Ollie, what in the hell are you talking about?”
“You didn’t see the rest of the inscription.” He pointed to three letters on the opposite side of the inside of the ring. “EJD.”
“Somebody’s initials?”
“Could be. Or it could be the abbreviation for a motto.”
“We need to find a Mason who has those initials.”
“Or,” Ollie said, “someone who knows if that’s an abbreviation for a motto.”
Rosswell, by then tired as a lost dog, pushed himself to walk to where he’d found the ring. Exhaustion hulked down the road towards him like an 18 wheeler on the interstate. The log, following the rules of nature, had sailed down the river along with the bodies. “It was under a log which is probably floating in the Gulf of Mexico by now.”
“Did someone hide the ring in the log?”
“Got me.”
Ollie said, “You’re withholding a clue you found at a crime scene.”
“I’ll show it to Frizz.” Rosswell took the ring from Ollie. “Eventually,” Rosswell added. Every time he touched the thing, it felt heavier. “Let me get this straight. This belonged to a Mason?” Rosswell stuffed the ring into his pocket.
“Got me.”
“That’s my line.” Rosswell tapped his head with a forefinger. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Listening here.”
The only thing to listen to now was a gentle breeze, not what Rosswell admitted to himself was the lukewarm air he spouted. “We need to find the bodies.” That was brilliant.
“Do you expect us to do what the twenty people Frizz called out can’t do?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Whatever. Wait. Something.” Ollie held up his hand and shut his eyes. “Something,” he repeated. Rosswell began to speak, but Ollie shushed him with a wave of his hand. Bowing his head, Ollie covered his ears with his hands, and then covered his eyes. Was he praying for divine guidance? Was he going into some kind of mystical fit? Was Rosswell’s smell bothering him? Ollie had strange—strange to Rosswell’s way of thinking—ideas about the “worlds we cannot see” (Ollie’s words), although Rosswell doubted that Ollie thought those worlds were going to solve a double murder.
“Judge,” he said, his eyes still closed, “we’ve missed the mother of all clues. Maybe. Anyway, I guess we should both turn in our Junior G Men badges, we’re so dense.”
“What are you talking about?”
Ollie opened his eyes and pointed. “Tires.”
“Damnation.” Rosswell whipped out his cell phone. No bars. “Ollie, don’t move.”
Rosswell touched the peace symbol on his car, then jumped in, and raced down the hill to Hermie’s gazebo.
When he got there, Hermie sprinted to his car. “Judge, this morning after y’all left—”
“Okay, Hermie. Thanks.”
Rosswell punched in the speed dial and said, “Come on, come on, come on,” until he heard her answer.
Chapter Si
x
Monday afternoon, continued
“Tina, I need your help.” He’d called on her personal cell number. No sense in calling on the official line, the one recorded for all posterity. If he did that, there would be evidence he was playing detective.
Tina said in a soft voice, “I hope you need my help.” She gave a little growl. She didn’t sound like an official dispatcher for a sheriff’s department. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“No,” Rosswell said. “I mean your help legally. As a cop, I mean.”
Static buzzed in the heartbeat of silence that followed. Then, “What kind of help?”
“You went to the academy and learned all that forensic stuff, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I had to do that for my job as dispatcher.” Rosswell heard the radio crackling in the background. Someone was looking for somebody. He heard Tina rustling papers, then tell someone where somebody was. “I’m not a cop,” she eventually said to Rosswell. “Not in the strict sense of the word. I’m a deputy, but not one who goes out on the street.” Her tone of voice deepened, grew more tense. “You’re worrying me. What do you need?”
“Do you know how to pour a mold of tire tracks?”
“Sure.”
“Then come out here to the death scene and do it.”
He heard Frizz in the background say something to Tina. Why wasn’t he with the search party? She said, “Sheriff, I’ll be right with you.” Then to Rosswell she said, “Let me talk this over with Frizz. I’ll get back with you. We’re hugely busy.” The line went dead.
Hermie tapped Rosswell’s shoulder. “Judge, I was trying to tell you. There was a car out here earlier that drove up to where the bodies were found.”
“I know. I called the sheriff to tell him.” In truth, he’d called the dispatcher
