by R.M. Haig
September 9th, 2016. 8:15AM
Garthby, Indiana
The Circuit Court was bustling, attorneys and defendants scurrying around everywhere, making preparations for their cases and their weekends in a frenzy that was familiar to Donnell Hughes. He was amazed as he stood, though, that there was so much activity in this particular building.
Elsmere had always been considered backwoods country, a quiet place with a minuscule population as compared to the neighboring counties of Grant and Howard. The fact that there were so many cases pending was startling to him, as was the nature of those he overheard whispers of.
Prostitution, armed robbery, organized retail crime, home invasion, aggravated assault, assault with a deadly weapon... these were city cases, things that he would expect to hear adjudicated in his home county of Marion, where the decay of Indianapolis exerted its pull to delinquency and called the depraved out to play. He remembered none of these things being major problems during his youth in Burlwood, where it was liquor, meth and The Butcher that ruled the roost of crime.
Those things had been issues, sure -- the murders were certainly an issue -- but they were problems largely dealt with in, and kept confined to, a family's home or trailer. They were certainly not pulled out and brandished in the public light of day, never ended up in court as these people were now. Even The Butcher was only spoken of in whispers within the limits of Burlwood, it was the voyeurs from out of town who had given him so much pomp and circumstance in the past.
Seeing so many accused lingering around this morning, seeing that they looked much the same as the people he'd grown up with, was staggering to him. These were not the faces of crime as he knew them, certainly not of crimes on the scale of those which they spoke of. He saw the faces of single mothers, unemployed or underemployed fathers, outcast siblings, underprivileged youth, the faces of his friends from another life -- from another place in time. They were him, just without the William Fiorvanti suit and Christian Louboutin shoes. Without the Hublot watch or the Jacob & Co. cuff links. Without the drive and determination, without the advanced degree from Purdue paid for with -- well... with things he wasn't proud of.
These weren't the foreign city folk he was used to seeing in court halls, the type that looked as though they'd just as soon shoot you as let you stand underneath their umbrella in the driving rain... the ones he tried so hard to assimilate with, largely at the behest of LeTonya. These were his people, black and white alike, and they didn't look the part of the charges they were facing.
Perhaps most disturbingly, many of them were familiar to him, too... maybe even most of them. They were the ones left behind; the ones who couldn't escape Burlwood Meadows, couldn't escape the liquor, the meth, the spousal abuse, the neglect, the deviance, the shadow of The Butcher and his damning of the town.
He felt pity for them... pity and sympathy both. They were victims as much as they were perpetrators, that much they did share with many of the city folk he'd represented in his career.
The evident spike in their numbers, this increase in crime per capita, wasn't something that had happened overnight or without a tangible cause. It had built slowly, brewed for many years in a stew of depression and depravity, seasoned by their parents -- by his parents -- and held in a rolling boil with the nocuous passage of time until the double distilled hot-load of criminality bubbled over. The malevolence of this generation was no more than a symptom of the sickness that had ravaged the one that came before. The wasting disease that had slowly gnawed away at the notion of taboo until it was absent entirely, toppling the walls of decency and unleashing a torrent of pent-up debauchery that had festered inside for years.
Well, that and the work of Ron Boudreaux, that is...
How apropos, Donnell thought, that he heard no talk of drug-related cases in the chatter of those around him. No possession, no under the influence, no manufacture of or intent to distribute was on the menu.
In Donnell's experienced life, he observed that narcotics generally fuel the engines of crime. Illicit drugs stoke the flames and raise the ante, giving birth -- after limited gestation -- to felonious behavior that results in the listing of an otherwise innocent name after the threatening words The People Of Indiana Versus. All else being equal, drug charges typically go hand in hand with indictments as serious as those on the docket in the quiet town of Garthby this morning.
When it came to the man Donnell had known as Deputy Ron -- now Sheriff Boudreaux, in all his glory -- all else was far from equal. The people of Elsmere County wear blinders, though, not unlike those sported by their champions of the dirt at Burlwood Downs. The shady deeds in the periphery are, and had been, apparently unimportant, so long as the track ahead is clear and fast. Gathered at the wire would be an eager crowd; a frothing electorate, ballots and bet slips in hand, cheering for their hometown hero, their prized stallion of virtue. Each of them gathered there, in their fervor, were either unaware of, or unconcerned with, the dangerous levels of Aminorex in the bloodstream of their victor. They stand indifferent, so long as the payout odds are slanted generously in their favor.
Even the finest thoroughbreds, born of pedigreed blood, are known to shit upon the grass beneath their hooves from time to time. And even as steaming heaps of manure begin to mount, the legacy of a champion is held beyond reproach. A king will not be perceived as any less a god in shitting, even as the flies begin to circle and congregate, even as the odor becomes noxious and suffocating to all who behold it. Such is the legend of Sheriff Ron Boudreaux... such is the blessing, such is the curse.
The fruit of all his labor was in bloom and ripe throughout the court house, plump and juicy and sweet, all prefaced with that immortal and condemning phrase -- The State Of Indiana Versus.
The State Of Indiana Versus Charles Edward Murphy, read the one-sheet indictment provided to Donnell as Chucky's counsel. The Grand Jurors of the state of Indiana, for the County of Elsmere, upon their oaths, present that CHARLES EDWARD MURPHY, on July 24th, 2016, in the city of Burlwood and/or other municipalities within the County of Elsmere, within the jurisdiction of this court, did purposely, knowingly, wilfully and feloniously abduct a minor child, one William Marsh, to-wit, with malice aforethought, in violation of Title 35-42-3-2 of Indiana Code, a Level 4 felony, hereto referenced as count 1. It is further alleged as to count 1, that on or between July 24th, 2016 and July 26th, 2016, the aforesaid did purposely, knowingly, wilfully and feloniously kill William Marsh, a human being, without authority of law, with malice aforethought, in violation of Title 35-42-1-1 of Indiana Code, a capital crime, murder in the first degree, hereto referenced as count 2. It is further alleged as to count 2, that the aforesaid did purposely, knowingly, wilfully and feloniously mutilate the corpse of William Marsh, a human being, in violation of Title 35-45-11-2 of Indiana Code, a Level 6 felony, hereto referenced as count 3. The Grand Jury, taken from the body of good and lawful men and women of Elsmere County, in the state of Indiana, elected, impaneled, sworn and charged to inquire in-and-for said County in said State, in the name of and by the authority of the State of Indiana upon their oaths return this, a true bill, and request and require that CHARLES EDWARD MURPHY, a citizen of Burlwood in the County of Elsmere and the State of Indiana, be apprehended and dealt with in a manner accordant with the law. Presented by the Foreperson of the Grand Jury, in the presence of the Grand Jury, in open District Court of the County of Elsmere, in the State of Indiana, and filed as a record in said Court this 5th day of September, 2016.
The words made his blood run cold, the mere idea that Chucky could stand accused of such a heinous crime sending chills up his spine. He had seemed so gentle, so harmless in the days and years they spent as children and adolescents at large in Burlwood Meadows. When life was new, and the atrocities of The Butcher so difficult to comprehend.
He checked his watch nervously, aware of time more acutely now than LeTonya would believe was possible as he wondered why no one had
come to speak with him yet. No district attorney had appeared, no bailiff instructing him where to find his client. It was eight-thirty and there had been no sign of Jake, who had promised to be there, nor of Louie Rambo, whom he had expected to meet with a half an hour ago. He was frustrated beyond belief that -- on this occasion, when he had finally taken control of his day and exercised a degree of punctuality -- no one seemed concerned with the seconds that were so hurriedly and futiley ticking away into the realm of The Langoliers.
Surely, he thought, it can't be this maddening to LeTonya.
Louie Rambo eventually appeared, shucking and jiving his way through the gathered masses, and met Donnell with a half-smile. Under different circumstances, the grin of reaquaintance would've been complete. The inner satisfaction of laying eyes on an old friend who appeared to be doing so well in life had coaxed the side of Rambo's mouth that was rising, with only the turmoil of the past several days holding the other in paralysis.
There was much more of Donnell Hughes to see than had existed in 2000, when graduation had sent him off to college and Louis to Fort Wood for basic training two years later. The Donnell of old -- Launchpad, as it had been -- was a thin and lanky young man with aspirations that fully dwarfed his stature. The husky definition of his curves at present told a tale of perseverance, and the annihilation of obstacles and limits that demographics had bestowed upon him. Those limits were dead and dismembered, now. Their remains cast aside, left to decompose in the billowing trail of smoke that was his wake. He was larger than life, in stature and in standing, and Louie was proud to behold the man Launchpad had grown to be.
"Louie Fuckin' Rambo!" Donnell chuckled through a wide, full smile.
Watching his old pal approach, he subjected the officer to a similar assessment. There was no surprise on his part, though, as Rambo was exactly what Donnell had always known he'd be. A tall drink of water, thick and solid in his crisp khaki uniform with a glistening golden badge upon his breast, as was predestined from the moment of his birth. His light brown hair was tight to his head, just as it had been in days of old. The only visible difference was that its neatly cropped outline was pulling back from his forehead a bit -- exactly as his father's had. His mustache was standard-issue highway-trooper, a carbon copy of his father's just the same. The rattle of cuffs and keys on his belt announced his authority as he approached, an authority he carried with honor, reverence and distinction.
"Donnell!" Rambo returned, reaching out his hand as he broke free from the crowd. "Or should I call you Launchpad?"
"Do it and die," Donnell laughed, being swallowed up in Rambo's firm and authoritative handshake. "How the hell ya' been, buddy?"
"Been good, man, I'm good," the deputy replied. "How's the murder business been treating you?"
"Killin' me, man, it's killin' me," he quipped. "Say, how's the old man been? Still busting up all the teenaged parties at the park?"
"He would if we let him," Rambo acknowledged with a smile. "He's on a garden detail lately, and God help any weed he catches trespassing since he doesn't have to worry about pulling warrants anymore!"
"Glad to hear it, glad to hear it," Donnell returned, still beaming.
"Did you catch up with Jake?"
"Yeah, I tracked him down -- said he's coming, should be here any minute, I imagine."
"Good! Chucky will be excited to see him!"
Donnell finally lowered his smile, shifting his attention to the business at hand. "So what's going on here, man, how'd Chucky get caught up in this?"
Rambo's face changed immediately and drastically, a flummoxed grunt marking the moment. "I don't know exactly, man, but it's not a good deal... not a good deal at all."
"What's the story?"
"Well," he began, taking a deep and long-winded breath as he gathered his thoughts. "Chucky had been working at Our Mother Of Sorrows, still, with Father Lovett."
"Right," Donnell responded.
"A few months back, we got a call at the office from Sally Marsh -- that's Billy Marsh's mother."
"Billy Marsh, that's the vic -- right?" Donnell asked, pulling a legal pad from his attach? and making a note.
"Right," Rambo nodded. "She and her family are parishioners, been going to Our Mother since they moved here last January. Billy went to Sunday School while the Marsh's were at mass, and they started to notice that Chucky was always talking with him when they went to fetch him from the class."
"What kind of talking?"
"They didn't know exactly, partially because Chucky always shied away when they turned up. They asked Billy about it, and he told them that they talked about cartoons."
Donnell acknowledged this, making more notes. "They thought that was strange, right?"
"Right," Rambo agreed, "they found it hard to believe that a full-grown man had any interest in Phineas and Ferb. Naturally, they wanted to know if Chucky had any kind of record. He's not the cleanest cut guy -- kind of looks like the type that could be trouble."
"Can't blame them," Donnell said, "I imagine I'd be pretty suspicious too -- if I didn't know Chucky."
"They were very suspicious," Rambo emphasized. "I talked to them myself, tried to explain to them that Chucky's..." he paused, struggling for the proper word. "Challenged?" he offered as his first instinct. Donnell nodded, accepting that phrasing. "But they didn't want to hear it. They insisted we do something -- even though I told them there wasn't anything to be done... he hadn't committed any crime, didn't present any imminent danger."
"Then what happened?"
"Nothing, for a while," Rambo continued. "About six weeks ago, there was an incident..."
"What kind of an incident?"
"Well," Rambo winced, as though pained by what he would have to say next. "They claimed that Billy told them Chucky took him to the maintenance room, wanted to show him something."
"Okay?" Donnell asked apprehensively, not sure exactly what to expect was coming next.
"Apparently," another hesitation, "according to the boy, at least," he qualified, "Once he was in there, Chucky closed the door -- and tried to kiss him."
"What?" Donnell gasped. "You don't think he'd do anything like that, do you?"
Rambo considered, his eyes wandering with his thoughts. "I don't think so... but I guess I really don't know. I haven't really talked to the man much since we all went off our separate ways, just in passing... we were never really close like that anyway."
"Did you go talk to him about it?"
"Yeah," Rambo explained, "we had to, we couldn't just let that drop."
"What'd he say?"
"He said he did take the boy to the maintenance room, but insisted he only wanted Billy to watch SpongeBob with him. He said he was lonely, that he didn't have anyone to talk to or spend time with since his mother died in 2012. He thought Billy would be his friend, and he was just inviting his friend to pass some time watching cartoons with him."
Donnell raised an eyebrow.
"Before you jump to any conclusions," Rambo continued, "there was a TV -- and a SpongeBob DVD was in a player connected to it."
"So, what? The kid made the whole kiss thing up?"
"If you believe Chucky, yes... he said Billy skipped the lesson -- which the teacher did confirm -- and spent the hour watching with him. When it was time to go, the teacher saw Billy, so the kid was scared that his parents were gonna be mad at him. They'd told him he wasn't allowed to talk to Chucky, and he thought the teacher was gonna narc him out. I guess throwing in the bit about the kiss could've just been an effort to deflect their anger."
"Sounds feasible," Donnell noted.
"That's what we thought... so we let it go, again. The Marsh's were pissed, they went to Father Lovett and demanded that he fire Chucky. He wouldn't, came to us for advice. I talked it over with him, then the two of us had a conference with The Marsh's to see what we could hammer out. If it were me, if I was concerned about someone at the chur
ch, I think I would've just found somewhere else to go. They didn't want to hear that, though -- said they were good Catholics who refused to be driven away from worship, and there's not another Catholic Church within thirty miles of Burlwood. They also insisted that having Chucky around the other children presented a danger they couldn't turn their backs on, so they kept working Father Lovett until they got him to agree it would be best to keep Chucky away from the Sunday School altogether. So, he told Chucky to keep away from the church until three PM -- when everyone would be out the door."
"How'd he take that?"
"He was hurt, but he agreed... figured it wouldn't last too long, that things would settle down and go back to normal. Then, on the 24th, the shit really hit the fan."
"What exactly happened then?" Donnell asked emphatically, knowing full well that any details he gleaned from his old friend were in excess of what he was owed. The full details of the evidence on which The State staked their case were not due him until the furnishing of a discovery packet, which they had two weeks to deliver.
"I don't know all of the details, Donnell," Rambo prefaced, knowing just as well what the man was after. "All I can really tell you is that when the Marsh's went to fetch Billy, the teacher said she hadn't seen him."
"They didn't deliver him directly to the class?" Donnell asked.
"They say they did," Rambo replied, "but the teacher was running late, so they just left him in the room with the other kids."
"Did you talk to any of the other students?"
Rambo nodded.
"And?"
"They said Billy left to use the bathroom, then they heard the church van start up outside, it's that same old Dodge Ram van, loud as hell. Then, it sounded like it drove away. Nobody knew anything was wrong until The Marsh's were out of mass and went to get Billy, which is when the teacher told them he hadn't been in class. When the other kids told them about him going to the bathroom -- about hearing the van, they called us. We responded to the church when their call came in, and found no sign of the boy or the van. They suspected Chucky right away, of course. We went to check his trailer, but it was almost three by that point and he just strolled into the church -- acting perfectly normal, perfectly fine."
"And the van?"
"Still no sign of it... not at the church, not at his place."
"Did it ever turn up?
"Not yet," Rambo said, perplexed. "We've had a BOLO out on it since the minute it happened, and nobody's seen it, like it disappeared off the face of the Earth."
"What did you do about Chucky?"
Rambo sighed heavily. "Boudreaux had us take him down to the station -- and he interrogated him personally for six hours! Probably gave him the works, you know how Ron is!"
Donnell returned the sigh, his in frustration and disgust. "Any idea what he had to say for himself?"
"Not much, from what I understand." Rambo answered. "Apparently said he was home the whole time, had no idea anything was wrong"
"And how did you get from there to arresting Chucky?"
The officer swallowed hard, as though he were choking back a nauseated urge to vomit his next revelation. "Chucky gave Boudreaux permission to search his trailer... we found the keys to the van on his kitchen table."
"Shit!" Donnell gasped in dismay. "Shit, are you serious?"
Rambo simply nodded again, several times, his eyes closed and solemn faced.
"Fuck me runnin'," Donnell shook his head and reached into his attach? again, retrieving a bottle of Tums this time and chewing several at once. "That's obviously bad news, but not enough to arrest the man..."
"No," Rambo agreed, "and Chucky said it was a spare set that he always kept, with The Father's permission, when Boudreaux pressed him."
"Father Lovett confirm that?" Donnell hoped aloud.
Another set of nods, this time more positively. "Boudreaux couldn't get him to cop to anything, either, so he put him on a 72-hour hold and had us tear the county apart in search of that van -- or for anything else that might link Chucky to what happened. We searched his trailer again, searched the church, searched his Buick, went over his phone records, went over the activity on his bank card -- hell, we spent so much time digging into Chucky we barely had a chance to actually look for Billy Marsh! Then, of course, we found the remains... that's when Boudreaux really lost his shit. He took the whole thing pretty personally, people were starting to point fingers, thinking it was the return of the fabled Butcher -- the one that got away. I've never seen anything like it, Donnell, he was like a rabid dog. He had us working around the clock trying to convict Chucky. He wasn't happy at all about the press -- he was pissed, frankly, that something like this happened on his watch. He wanted this thing squashed, and quickly. He was out to get Chucky, determined to pin this on him. When we couldn't find the van or any other smoking gun, he had to let Chuck go."
"Right," Donnell grunted, "with a perpetual tail from the moment he walked out, if I know Boudreaux at all. What happened?" he asked, as though expecting bad news to come of it.
"Nothing," Rambo said. "He didn't do anything that was remotely suspicious -- until this past Monday. He apparently had a tire blowout on the way to work, and stopped to change it. Some wiseguy private eye claimed he saw some kind of discoloration in the liner of his trunk."
"Through a glass, darkly," Donnell snarked.
"Yeah, basically!" Rambo concurred in frustration. "So, Boudreaux got another warrant for the car -- and of course, lo and behold, they find a patch of fabric that looks like it's been shampooed. Nobody noticed the first time, conveniently." More obvious frustration. "They cut a swatch out, and there were -- stains, I guess, that Boudreaux suspected were blood."
"Dried or wet?"
"Dry."
"They test it?"
"They sent it off, we don't have a lab here in Elsmere."
"Is that all they've got?" Donnell asked, trying to piece it all together in his mind. "The keys and what they suspect is blood? That doesn't seem like enough to charge him if they haven't linked it to the kid."
"I don't know, Boudreaux's playing everything close to his chest, suddenly." Rambo asserted, "I agree, that doesn't seem like enough. I don't know what else there could be, though. Unless, of course, Ron knows what will come back from the lab... it's hard for me to say that, I have my issues with Boudreaux, but I don't know if he'd go that far."
Donnell mulled this over for a moment, tried to read between the lines. "Yeah, I dunno about that either. Do you think it's possible he just jumped the gun on it? Charged him on a whim?"
Rambo shrugged half-heartedly, sighing as he did. "I dunno, maybe, I guess," he admitted. "To get things to quiet down, maybe, you know how these things go -- path of least resistance, right?"
Donnell knew, nodded to show he did. "Chucky's an easy guy to pin it on -- especially since he obviously had a connection to the boy. What else could they have?" he probed, wondering if Rambo was holding anything out on him.
"I wish I knew, Donnell, but I really mean I don't." the officer said convincingly, knowing just what Donnell was hinting at. "And I don't know whether Chucky did this or not -- that's why I called you, why I tried to get in touch with Jake. It sure doesn't sound like the Chucky I know."
"Yeah, it would be a stretch."
"If he did, then justice should take its course. If he didn't, though..." he trailed off.
"You don't want him to be the fall guy," Donnell concluded.
"Right. Boudreaux doesn't seem to care either way, just wants it over."
Donnell scanned his notepad, examining what he'd written and trying to extrapolate anything he could from the words. "Were you able to get me what we talked about?" he asked, nearly in a whisper.
Rambo scanned the entirety of the hall, peering over the heads of the people around them cautiously, before surreptitiously reaching into the pocket of his pants and withdrawing a tightly folded packet of papers. Donnel
l took it, stuffing it into his attach? with practiced discretion.
The deputy was obviously uneasy, even once the transaction was complete. "Donnell, if Boudreaux ever found out I gave that to you..."
"I know," Donnell interjected, fanning him as he often fanned LeTonya when she became agitated. "It's cool, I've got you, don't sweat it."
In a forced whisper, nearly inaudible over the din around them, Rambo elaborated. "I got the coroner's report, redacted versions of the reports from the old murders, the log Deputy Marx took in Booger Woods and a redacted version of the arrest warrant, but I couldn't get anything else -- you'll have to wait for the discovery packet for anything else."
"It's a start," Donnell replied. "I appreciate it."
Checking his watch again, he wondered what was keeping Jake. Past experience suggested he wasn't the type to flake out, especially when it came to matters involving Chucky. He wouldn't be able to wait, though, if much more time ticked by. Preparing himself to go it alone, he asked one final question of his old friend.
"Well, when do I get to see him?"
NINE
