by Bill Hopkins
you ever seen anyone have a reaction to anesthesia like Tina had? Ever?”
Benita said, “You really should be asking the doctor—”
“I’m asking you.”
Benita rubbed her hands together rapidly. “I’m not supposed to give my medical opinion about things. Generally speaking.”
“I asked you one simple question.”
Benita folded her arms across her chest. “Judge Carew, you didn’t
hear this from me.”
“Hear what?”
“Something was wrong with that girl. Tina. Something was bad wrong and it wasn’t from the anesthesia. At least not at first. I tried to tell the doctor, but he said she was mentally and physically exhausted, that she’d been grazed with a bullet, shock, blood loss, allergy to the anesthesia, on and on.”
“Are you saying somebody could’ve been doping her?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
An hour later, Frizz made the decision at the sheriff’s station. “Tina’s missing, foul play suspected.”
“Frizz,” Rosswell said, “there’s no signs of a struggle.”
“We’ve ferreted the hospital top to bottom. She’s not at her house. She’s not at your house. She’s not at anyone’s house. She’s gone. Her car’s gone. No one she knows has any idea where she is. That’s not like Tina. She wouldn’t leave willingly without telling someone.” Frizz wiped his face with his handkerchief. “She’s gone.”
“Doesn’t the hospital have surveillance tapes?”
“Rosswell, that’s the first thing I asked for. They’re on the way.”
Purvis Rabil shot through the door. “Sheriff, something mighty strange just happened out at the park.”
Frizz said, “Tell me before I arrest you again.”
The big man looked from Frizz to Rosswell, then back again. “I saw something that may have to do with Miss Tina.”
Rosswell grabbed both of the flaps of Purvis’s vest. Scooby, obviously scared, yipped. “Where the hell did you see this?”
“Like I said,” Purvis answered, “at the park. It was dark but someone drove up to the bank of the river in a car that looked like hers. They got out and jumped in the river. The car’s still there.”
Chapter Thirty-five
After the memorial service
Rosswell attended the memorial mass for Tina. He owed that much to Father Mike, Frizz, and, of course, Tina. Yet Rosswell knew something that none of those other people would admit. Tina was alive. Why was everyone in a rush to put her in her grave?
Tina was gone, he admitted that. The who, how, when, and why she’d disappeared, he couldn’t even begin to guess.
But not dead. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—accept that. And he had physical proof.
Rosswell had spent hours reviewing the surveillance videotapes the hospital turned over to Frizz. First, Rosswell watched the tapes covering 12 hours before he got there and then 12 hours after. Then 24 hours before and after. Then 36.
On one grainy black-and-white tape, he saw a tall man with close-cropped curly hair pushing a laundry cart into the parking lot. Of course, the cameras didn’t cover the area where the man had parked his vehicle. The man—Rosswell was convinced it was Nathaniel Dahlbert—had kidnapped Tina. Why, Rosswell couldn’t fathom. The FBI, the Missouri Highway Patrol, Frizz, and hell, yes, even Junior Fleming had scoured the whole area. Nothing.
Still, that was physical proof. If Nathaniel had wanted her dead, he would’ve killed her in her bed. Therefore, she was alive. And it was imperative in Rosswell’s mind that Nathaniel must have received help from someone inside the hospital. But again, the who, how, when, and why eluded him.
Rosswell wandered from the church and stood in the sunshine. Several people shook his hand and muttered platitudes. The scent of the incense and flowers in the church lingered in his nose. Sweat began rolling down his face.
I need to ask Father Mike for an exorcism. A demon possessed me, and that’s why I’m wearing a black, three piece suit on a sunny, hot, and humid day.
“Rosswell,” Purvis said from behind him.
Rosswell gasped when he turned around. “You’re wearing a suit!”
Purvis said, “I couldn’t bring myself to shave.”
“Thanks for reporting what you saw. And thanks for coming back for the service.”
“I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”
Frizz joined them. “Purvis, you did what you could. No one could’ve identified somebody that far away in the dark.”
Rosswell said, “It wasn’t Tina.”
Purvis nodded. “If it wasn’t Tina, then who stole her car? And why did the thief jump in the river?”
Frizz said, “Let’s step over here where we can talk privately.”
The three men walked to the side of the large brick church where they stood in the shade of a tall cedar tree. A mockingbird, high on the roof of the church, began its repertoire of songs.
“This isn’t for public consumption, hear?” Purvis and Rosswell murmured their agreement. “We found Johnny Dan’s ledger in his garage. Had tons of transactions listed, but no names. He used a code of some kind. He scrawled at the bottom of one page he was going to kill someone.”
“Who?” Rosswell asked.
Frizz said, “Johnny Dan called him Toothpick Chief.”
Rosswell nodded. “Ribs Freshwater.”
Frizz said, “That was my first guess.”
Purvis said, “Who’s he?”
Frizz said, “He’s a tall, skinny, Native American who, by the way, has disappeared.”
No one spoke for a long time.
Rosswell said, “I . . . uh . . . kind of checked up on Nathaniel Dahlbert. His house is clean and empty. Must’ve had one hell of a moving crew to come in at night.”
“We were there way before you were, Judge,” Frizz said. “We couldn’t find clue one. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ribs and Nathaniel are together, somewhere on the run. I’ve sent out a persons of interest bulletin on them both.”
Rosswell didn’t ask and Purvis probably didn’t know enough to ask what the fire marshal’s investigator had turned up after sifting through Nadine’s house. Rosswell suspected that the investigator had built a bombproof case against her. That could demolish Frizz if it ever got out that he was protecting a dope pusher. Rosswell had also heard through Ollie that Frizz had hired two lawyers: One for divorce and one for bankruptcy.
Purvis said, “What about DNA, Frizz? You got any tests back?”
“Neal’s taking care of that. He ran a profile on the male corpse that he matched to a sample in Eddie Joe’s car. Also matched up to the knife I found under the judge’s couch. Johnny Dan must’ve slipped in and planted it.” Frizz removed his hat and wiped his head with his handkerchief. “Obviously we don’t have the female corpse, but we have a sample from Ambrosia’s toothbrush and comb from her house. In case she ever shows up.”
Purvis shook his head. “Look on the bright side. You’ve made some progress.”
Frizz said, “Progress. Yeah, progress.” He fanned himself with his hat.
Purvis screwed up his face, or at least the part of it that Rosswell could see. “Candy?”
“A weird girl,” Frizz said. “It seems that the younger generation is getting weirder instead of smarter.”
Purvis said, “Why did Candy confess to the murders?”
Frizz cleared his throat. “There’s a lot of . . . activity going on around here.” He cleared his throat again. “If we can put any stock on what Candy told us, Johnny Dan was screwing Mabel.”
Purvis said, “That’s no surprise, is it?”
“None at all,” Frizz said. “According to Candy, Johnny Dan was also doing her until Ollie interfered. Then Ribs Freshwater started chasing Candy and apparently came out on top—so to speak. Ribs was well on his way to winning Candy all for himself. But Johnny Dan still lusted after Candy even though he was going with Mabel.”
Purvis sa
id, “I missed something. How would all that make Candy want to confess?”
“My guess,” Frizz said, “is that Candy somehow suspected Johnny Dan of the murders. Truth be known, he’d probably knocked her around some. She knew he was violent. If Candy confessed, she’d take the heat off him and then Johnny Dan would take the heat off Ribs, who was her true love.”
Rosswell said, “I don’t believe a syllable that Candy has uttered. There’s not a smidgen of evidence that Johnny Dan smacked on Candy.”
That is, if Ollie’s telling me the truth about his investigation of what Candy did and didn’t do.
Purvis stroked his beard for a few minutes, apparently trying to digest the soap opera without a scorecard. “Mabel screwed Johnny Dan who screwed Candy who then screwed Mabel’s father. Perverted. That doesn’t make sense.”
Frizz said, “A lot of this doesn’t make sense. But Candy’s a couple of beads short of a rosary. She’s liable to think or do anything.”
Rosswell recalled a slightly different version of the Candy story, one supplied by her shortly before the memorial service. She’d called Rosswell over to her golf cart.
“Johnny Dan made me confess,” she said in a voice so low that Rosswell had to strain to hear it.
“How did he do that?”
Candy began crying. “He caught me talking to Elbert.”
“Elbert? Who’s that?”
Candy sniffled. “You remember when I got first place in the pie baking contest at the county fair last year? And the year before that?”
“Uh . . . no. I don’t really keep up—”
“Elbert gave me those prizes. ’Cause I talked to him. Some. Not much. Just some.”
Rosswell completed the thought for her. “Johnny Dan said
