Courting Murder

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 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 way, 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 those things that way. It will help you.

Babe choked back a sob. They keep playing over and over in my head. Those things replay like a YouTube video stuck in repeat mode. They play in my mind where I see scenes of him—

Stop.

Babe stopped. Then summoning a trace of tenderness, the killer spoke, gently explaining the necessity of this death. You know why we have to do this. It’s the only logical and rational thing to do. We went over all the reasons before. No one but us will punish that bastard. He violated both of us and no one cares. Babe scooted close to the killer. We came out here because here’s where it’s going to happen.

Here? Babe’s voice cracked. I didn’t know that was part of the plan. Here?

I’ve checked it out. There are no houses for miles, the road isn’t used much, and it’s a nice place. In fact, except for the camping area, no one is allowed here after sundown. We’re trespassing. The killer smiled and cooed at Babe. There are trees, rocks, birds, streams, plants, and animals. This is nature at its best. A nice place.

A nice place? The wonder at the label for the place was plain in Babe’s voice. All that’s here is a bunch of dirt. Dirt and dirty stuff. Woods are junky places full of green crap. Towns are nice places.

Now that’s where you’ve gone wrong. This is a nice place, a perfect place for the death. Spring is the time of rebirth, a time for new resolutions. The killer gestured at the words, although it’s doubtful that Babe could see the hands moving. Gesturing helped the talk flow. We should begin the new year in the spring, not the dead of winter. It seems more like a new year when new things are budding and new animal babies are being born. This is a good time to bring to life resolutions about death. Don’t you think?

What are you talking about?

The killer reminded her that the question was what she thought about springtime. Hitting her again seemed a possibility.

Babe said, I think often.

You should be more romantic. Thinking too much means not enough action. Thinking is simply thinking. Action is romantic.

Thinking is my job, said Babe. When will we do it?

The execution? The killer felt Babe move her head, and silence fell for a few moments. We’ll have to seize the first chance we get. It could be days, weeks. I don’t know. The killer shook a finger at her, much like a parent scolding a kid who’d raided the cookie jar. "We have to be prepared when opportunity rings the doorbell. We have to be ready at all