A Killing at the Creek: An Ozarks Mystery

COURT WAS NOT yet in session at 8:30 A.M. on Tuesday morning. The first pot of coffee percolated in the courthouse coffee shop; Elsie could smell it as she marched past, exiting the courthouse through the side door to make her way to Juvenile Hall. She encountered Ashlock in the parking lot, and they fell into step, though she had to walk fast to keep up with him.

Treading along the sidewalk, Elsie felt sober. She had awakened early, struggling with the task that awaited.

“Why you looking so glum?” Ashlock asked.

She laughed, embarrassed that her feelings were so easily read. “I’m a little nervous,” she confessed.

Ashlock gave her a quizzical look. “You, Elsie? Why? I can’t imagine that taking a statement would ruffle your feathers. Not sure what would.”

“Aw, come on, Ash. Twenty-­four hours ago, I was barfing in the woods.”

“Oh, that. Ancient history.”

“And this morning, we’re interrogating a juvenile. I haven’t handled a case involving a juvenile suspect before.”

“I thought you wanted this assignment. You’ve been waiting for a murder case.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Didn’t you tell me you came out and asked her for it? And for once, she gave you what you wanted?”

“I know; I wanted a murder case. It’s just that I started thinking last night. I’m not sure that this is the murder case I wanted.” She exhaled audibly, rubbing at her eyebrow. “He’s so damned young. Is it weird, interrogating a juvenile? How do you feel about it?”

“Tell you how I feel,” he grinned reassuringly. “I feel good. I feel a big confession coming on.”

They walked across the lot to Juvenile Hall, converted from an old granite schoolhouse decades earlier. As they climbed the front steps together, Elsie asked, “Did you talk to the Oklahoma guys? Who brought the juvenile in?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ashlock said. “Had a little conflict, I hear. They said he’s a snake. Said the kid was cold as ice.”

Elsie clutched his arm, dismayed. “Oh Lord, Ash, they didn’t question him, did they? Because if they did, we’re in a terrible mess. We have to make sure he’s read all of his rights, that it’s done like the courts require in Missouri. Have those Okies fucked it up?”

Ashlock shook his head. “Just listen to you. They didn’t take a statement, I told them not to. They didn’t question the kid. Good God, honey, settle down.”

Ashlock held the door for her, and Elsie took a deep breath. “I’m doing the government’s job. A woman is dead,” she muttered, like a mantra to equip herself for the undertaking. “Here goes nothing,” she whispered to herself.

When the uniformed officer at the metal detector saw Ashlock, he waved them through, and they walked into the entryway. In the waiting area sat Chuck Harris, surrounded by crying children and anxious adults and teenagers.

He jumped up when he saw them.

“Thank God you’re here. I was about to call Madeleine. I can’t get anyone’s attention. It’s like trying to raise the dead.”

Ashlock walked up to a receptionist sitting behind a glass window which bore the sign, DO NOT KNOCK ON GLASS. He rapped on the glass and slapped his badge up against it, barking, “Barton PD.”

A stony faced receptionist slid the window open just a crack. “You here about the Monroe boy, aren’t you?”

Oh Lord Lord Lord, he’s only a boy; she called him a boy, Elsie thought.

“We’ve come to take his statement.”

Chuck tugged at Elsie’s elbow. “Did you do the research?”

“Yeah, I read up on the Missouri cases last night. How about you?”

“I’m the assistant,” he said with a wink. “Research is the job of the low man.”

Ashlock was still talking to the receptionist. “Before we see Monroe, we’d appreciate talking to the chief juvenile officer first. I’d like him to give me some background.”

The woman shook her head, taking a swig from a large Styrofoam Sonic cup. “Well, you’re out of luck. Hank isn’t here; he’s at the summer teachers’ meeting at Lake of the Ozarks. He’s doing a seminar there, speaking about the mandated reporter law.”

Ashlock’s brow creased. “His assistant, then.”

“He’s at the meeting, too. It’s pretty quiet around here today.”

A shriek from one of the children waiting on the bench nearby made Elsie’s ears ring. She shoved her face into the glass, next to Ashlock.

“Who’s in charge today if Hank and the chief deputy are gone?” Elsie asked.

“Lisa Peters. Hank told me she’ll handle it.”

“Who’s Lisa Peters?” Elsie muttered as the receptionist picked up the phone. She knew most of the county personnel by name or by sight, but Peters didn’t ring a bell.

“She’s a juvenile officer, brand-­new. She’ll take care of you. I’m going to let her know you’re here.”

The receptionist waved them in as she pushed the buzzer to the electric entryway into the juvenile office. As they walked through the doorway, Elsie whispered to Ashlock, “What do you think’s going on? Should we wait and do this another time?”

Ashlock frowned, but didn’t answer. She turned to Chuck and said, “The juvenile ­people are out of pocket, and this is their area. We’re new to this, Chuck. It would be smart to hold off. Don’t you think?”

“Hell no,” Chuck responded.

With a shrug, Ashlock led Elsie and Chuck Harris back into the main hallway of the juvenile facility. A young woman appeared in the doorway. She looked like a schoolgirl, half a head shorter than Elsie, with a heart-­shaped freckled face and carrot red hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Hold it,” the girl said in a no-­nonsense tone. She blocked their procession with her slight frame.

Ashlock paused, but Elsie stuck out her hand.

“I’m Elsie Arnold, from the Prosecutor’s Office,” she said briskly.

“Lisa Peters, deputy juvenile officer,” the woman said. Peters ignored Elsie’s overture; her hands stayed at her sides. Smothering a smartass remark, Elsie withdrew her hand. The juvenile officer had a definite attitude problem, she thought.

Chuck gaped at Lisa. “Jesus, how old are you? You look like a kid out of school.”

“Missouri State U, class of 2013,” Peters said. “You want to come on back?”

As they followed, Elsie said in a conversational tone, “Hey Lisa, I went to summer school at Missouri State.”

“A hundred years ago,” Harris quipped, earning Elsie’s evil eye. Her thirty-­second birthday was fast approaching, and she was sensitive to old maid jokes.

“We’ll have to meet down in the rec room,” Lisa said, ignoring the small talk. “We don’t have an office big enough to hold five ­people. I didn’t know you all were going to dog-­pile the poor kid.”

“That’s not our intention,” Elsie began, as they followed Lisa single file down a narrow stairway.

“Whatever. Two lawyers and a detective going up against a fifteen-­year-­old boy. Call it what you want.”

“Ashlock will be doing the interrogation; Chuck and I are just here to make sure everything goes smoothly. We don’t want any legal issues. I’ve done all the research; I’m on top of this.”

“Wow. Impressive,” Lisa said in a voice that implied the opposite.

Laughing, Chuck asked, “What was your major? ROTC?”

“Social work,” Lisa said, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. Pointing into the rec hall, she said, “Make yourself at home.”

Elsie peered through an open doorway into the dank basement room, dimly lit by a few overhead bulbs covered in chicken wire. No windows provided natural light. A sputtering box fan moved the hot air in the room. The only furnishings were a black vinyl sofa flanked by two matching chairs.

Elsie said, “Detective Ashlock will read him his Miranda rights. I read State v. Seibert, so I think I’m on top of this stuff.”

Lisa dropped onto the black sofa and sat cross-­legged, pulling her sneakers under her on the couch. “Yeah? Well, his parents aren’t here. I don’t even think you can question him without a parent present. Never heard of a case where the cops tried to do such a thing.”

Chuck Harris stood over the juvenile officer, frowning. He demanded, “Why didn’t the juvenile office cover that? Can you get the parents here?”

The juvenile officer shook her head. “I don’t know where they are.”

Ashlock asked, “How about a conference call?”

“I should’ve said: We don’t even know who they are. No contact info. Tanner didn’t provide any family information during intake.”

Elsie wiped a sheen of sweat that beaded on her forehead. It was hot as hell in juvenile detention. “Lisa, does he have a GAL?”

“A what?” asked Harris.

“A guardian ad litem. Surely the juvenile judge appointed one if he’s got no parents around.”

Lisa said, “The judge appointed Maureen Mason. She handles a lot of juvenile cases.”

Ashlock nodded. “I know Maureen. Let’s see if we can get her over here.”

“Call her,” Chuck barked at Lisa, with a kingly wave of his hand. “Now.”

Lisa blinked, but made no other movement. “I don’t take orders from you,” she said matter-­of-­factly.

“I’m just asking you to do your job, Ms. Peters. Do I need to talk to the juvenile judge about you?”

“Talk to whoever you want. I don’t give a shit what you do.”

Chuck Harris gasped in mock outrage, and said, “Is that how you communicate with your superiors?”

Lisa flushed, her face as red as her hair, and jumped out of her seat. “You aren’t my superior. I don’t work for you.”

As Chuck opened his mouth to answer, Elsie held up a restraining hand. “Chuck, for God’s sake, why would we pick a fight with the juvenile office? Now look you all, I’ve got my phone.” Elsie reached into her bag and fumbled for her cell phone. After a brief search, she found it and handed the phone to Lisa. “We can’t proceed without the guardian. Come on, Lisa, call Maureen and ask her to head on over. She mostly does juvenile stuff, so with the whole juvenile staff at the Lake of the Ozarks, she ought to be free today.”

Lisa pressed her lips together in a thin line. Refusing to look at Chuck, she took the phone and walked off to a corner of the basement room to make the call. Chuck got up from his chair and stretched, strolling casually in the opposite direction from Lisa.

Ashlock turned to Elsie. “Good thing I brought you along. The floor would be wet with blood without your ­people skills.”

“Oh, I’ve got skills,” she whispered impishly.

His jaw twitched and he winked at her.

Lisa returned with a report that the guardian would be at Juvenile Hall within a few minutes.

“See?” Elsie said, beaming at them, “this is going to work out. Ash, where do you want to set up?”

He glanced around the basement room; the only other equipment was a much-­abused foosball table.

“Looks like this is it. Miss Peters, do you think we could rustle up a ­couple more chairs? We’ll be a little too cozy, otherwise.”

Lisa pointed at Chuck, where he lounged across the room. “I thought they were stepping out.”

Before Chuck could respond, Elsie spoke up. “That’s not a bad idea. Maybe we ought to scoot out of here. We can be nearby, if anything comes up.”

“We’re staying right here,” Chuck said.

Elsie looked at him, disconcerted. “Seems like we ought to clear out. I think it’s the best thing to do, under the circumstances.”

“I want to talk to you.” With a sidelong look at Lisa, Chuck added, “Privately.”

As Lisa and Ashlock went to find chairs, Chuck said, sotto voce, “This is the first big case Madeleine has put me in charge of. I need to be in here; I don’t want anything to go wrong.”

“That’s why we need to leave. We shouldn’t be present at the interrogation of the defendant. What if we get called as witnesses down the road?”

“That’s not what I’m worried about; I have to ensure that this investigation proceeds like Madeleine wants it to. I’m worried about a small-­town cop bumbling the job.”

In disbelief, Elsie shook her head. “Ashlock? You’re nuts. Ashlock can handle this.”

“It’s not your call, third chair.”

Elsie leaned in toward him, and said in a stage whisper, “You better back off. And watch how you treat that juvenile officer.”

“She’s hot, isn’t she?” he responded conversationally. “I think I saw a picture of her in Barely Legal magazine.”

Elsie reached over and shoved him. “That’s what I mean. That shit is sexist. Stop it.”

He leaned back against the cinder-­block wall and surveyed her with a knowing eye.

“Mm-­hmm, that’s what I heard. You know, Madeleine warned me about you.”

Caught off guard, Elsie stepped back. “What do you mean?”

“Madeleine told me about you when I came to work here. She said you’d think you were in charge. She told me to watch out for you bossing me around, telling me what to do. Yesterday, she said you’d want to take over this case, too.”

Elsie looked at him silently, anger washing over her in a wave that brought a flush to her face.

“You should see your face,” he said, but broke off when Ashlock and Lisa Peters returned, bearing two pairs of folding chairs. Chuck jumped up to offer assistance; switching to a jovial tone, he said, “I’ll take those. Are we ready now?”

“When the guardian gets here,” Lisa said. “Because the juvenile has to have a friend, someone who is here on his behalf.”

Elsie stood, shaking off her indignation toward Chuck, and focusing on the task at hand. Pleasantly, she said to Lisa, “We’re lucky to have you in charge here. Thanks for helping us out today.”

Lisa didn’t meet Elsie’s eye. In a challenging voice, she said, “I can’t believe you all are ganging up on him like this. What is the Prosecutor’s Office even doing here?”

Flustered, Elsie said, “A dead woman was pulled out of a creek bed, Lisa. We’re investigating a murder, for God’s sake.”

“Since when does the prosecutor run the investigation? Tanner hasn’t been charged, hasn’t been certified. It just feels wrong to me.”

This time, Elsie didn’t respond. She was beginning to believe the juvenile officer had a valid point.

Chuck spoke up. “The prosecutor has a legal right to all the information regarding a juvenile suspect. It’s a sensitive case; that’s why Madeleine wants us to keep a close eye.”

Lisa did a count with her fingers. “Three against one. Nice odds. Very subtle.”

Chuck said, “Hey, you’re here for him.”

Lisa shook her head. “I have to tell him that I’m not here to be his advocate, or to stand in like an attorney. But I’m certainly going to ensure that he understands his rights. And to see that this big ole detective follows due process.”

Ashlock unfolded one of the chairs and sat in it, smiling at the group. “ ‘Due process’ is my middle name,” he assured them.

Lisa Peters produced a set of keys and said, “I’m going to get him out of his detention quarters now. If you’re ready.”

“Ready,” Elsie said, hoping they weren’t making a huge procedural error.

Seeming reluctant to proceed, Lisa asked, “Do you need me to go get some rights forms? I could go upstairs and copy the ones we use.”

“The juvenile office faxed the forms to me yesterday. I’ve got them right here,” Ashlock said, flipping open a notebook and showing her the forms.

Lisa nodded, her mouth pressed in a thin line as she left the room.

“What’s her problem?” Chuck Harris asked, shaking his head.

Ashlock ignored the question. He instructed Elsie and Chuck where to sit, so that he could set up the interrogation in the most effective way possible, considering the conditions. Elsie watched as he tinkered with the tape recorder, testing it and playing it back.

Before Lisa returned, Maureen Mason arrived, a stout woman with graying hair pulled into a tight knot. “It’s a lucky thing for you that I came in to look through my mail, or you never would have dragged me in for this,” she said. “I figured the whole juvenile division was shut down today. Thought I’d have a little vacation day for myself. I guess there’s no rest for the weary.”

The door to the detention hallway swung open, and all heads turned to get a look at the juvenile.

He’d had a chance to rest and clean up, and he looked nondescript, a typical teen of moderate height, with dark brown hair in need of a haircut, and a splash of acne on his forehead. If Elsie saw him in line at the convenience store, she wouldn’t look twice.

Maureen patted the spot beside her on the couch. “Come sit by me, Tanner.”

Ashlock intervened, a commanding note in his voice. “Ms. Mason, I believe it would be best if Mr. Monroe sits in this folding chair right here, facing me.” Ashlock placed his hand on the metal seat of the empty chair. “I’ve set the recorder up already, and we need to make sure he comes through loud and clear.”

Maureen shrugged. “Whatever.” She tried to grasp Tanner’s hand as he walked by. “How are you today, Tanner?”

The boy snatched his hand away from her. Turning to Lisa, he asked, “Will you stay by me, Lisa?”

Elsie’s radar went off. Sounds like Ferris Bueller playing sick.

But Lisa was moved. “You bet, Tanner; I’ll set my chair right by you, and I’ll be here the whole time.” Lisa shot an inquiring glance at Maureen, but the older woman ignored her.

Ashlock walked the teen through the rights forms, first reading his Miranda rights. He and his guardian signed off on the form.

“Okay, shoot,” Tanner said.

“Not quite yet,” Ashlock said. Pulling out another form, he advised Tanner again of his right to remain silent and right to counsel. He then said, “The offense you’re being questioned about would be a felony if committed by an adult. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded. Ashlock handed him a ballpoint pen, and he checked “Yes” on the form.

Ashlock continued, reading from the form, “ ‘If you are alleged, at any age, to have committed First Degree Murder, Second Degree Murder, First Degree Assault, Forcible Rape, Forcible Sodomy, First Degree Robbery, Distribution of Drugs, or if you have committed two or more prior unrelated offenses which would be felonies if committed by an adult, a hearing will be held to determine if you should be prosecuted as an adult.’ ”

Ashlock paused. Monroe met his look without flinching.

“Do you understand?”

“You bet.” He marked “Yes.”

When Ashlock finished reading the form, he handed Tanner the pen again. Tanner took it in his right hand, but leaned over to Lisa and placed his other hand on her shoulder.

“What do you think I should do, Lisa?” he asked in a low voice.

She shook her head. “I can’t advise you, Tanner. It’s like that paper says, I’m your adversary, I’m not your advocate. I really wish your parents were here. But you’ve got a guardian, and she’s a lawyer.”

He sighed and cast a scornful look at the guardian. “I’m definitely not taking advice from that fat bitch,” he said.

Maureen blinked, taken aback. “Mr. Monroe. You realize that the Juvenile Court appointed me to look after your interests in the absence of your parents.”

The teen tipped back in his folding chair, rocking it precariously with the toe of his left foot. “I know what you’re interested in. Food.”

“Tanner!” Lisa said.

“She needs to go on The Biggest Loser,” Tanner said in an aside to the juvenile officer.

“Despite your insulting attitude,” said Maureen coldly, furrowing an angry brow over her reading glasses, “I’d advise you that it’s in your best interest to shut up. Don’t answer any questions. In fact, it would be wise if you refrain from speaking entirely.”

The boy gave the guardian a look of appraisal, then shot them all an ironic half grin.

“If Fatty thinks I should shut up, then I’m definitely talking. Abso-­fucking-­lutely. Ask me whatever you want.”

Lisa looked anxious. “Tanner, are you sure?”

“Yeah. Bring it.” He stretched his arms and folded his hands behind his head.

Lisa gestured toward Maureen. “What do you say?”

With irritation still etched in her face, she shrugged. “It’s his decision.”

“Okay, then,” Ashlock said briskly. “Mr. Monroe, we’d like to know how you happened to be on that bus. Let’s start at the beginning, with your name.”

The teen provided his name, age, and date of birth, and told Ashlock that he lived in St. Louis, Missouri, with his mother.

“We need your mother’s information. Why didn’t you provide it at check-­in?”

“Because I’m emancipated.”

“At fifteen?” Ashlock asked with a dubious expression.

“Oh hell yeah.”

“Do you mean there was a judicial determination? A judge declared that you were independent?”

“I don’t know about judicial. But I’m totally independent.” The boy held up five fingers. “I. Do. What. I. Want,” he said, ticking off the words with the fingers of his right hand. “I crash at my mom’s place if I feel like it. If not, I don’t.”

“Then your mother is still your custodian? Your parent and legal guardian?”

“Man, I don’t know. I guess.”

“What about your father?”

Tanner huffed a humorless breath. “Yeah, what about him?”

“What is his role in your life?”

“His role.” The young man shook his head, and tossed his hair back. “You tell me. Never met him.”

“Never? Does he pay support?”

“If he does, I don’t know nothing about it.”

“Your mother would be entitled to support.”

“I don’t think he’s one of those support-­paying types.”

“What type is he, then? What information did your mother give you about your father?”

“We don’t talk about him too much.”

Ashlock sat, waiting for Monroe to say more. After a moment’s silence, the boy said, “Seems like she said he was doing time. That was a while back.”

“So you’ve been in your mother’s sole custody all your life.”

“Yeah. Except for foster care. Does that mean not in her custody? Because they never terminated.”

Elsie made rapid notes as Ashlock leaned closer to Monroe. “By terminated—­you’re talking about her parental rights. Is that correct?”

“Yeah. They didn’t do that. She always got clean. Then I’d go back.”

“How many times did this happen?”

“Shit, man, who can remember? But this last time, since she left rehab, it’s been all right. Now that I’m fifteen, we kind of go our own way. It works out okay. We can hang, but we both do what we want. Right now, I’m seeing the country.”

“How’s that?”

“Hitchhiking. Going where the road takes me.”

Ashlock set his pen down and regarded the boy with a level look. “And where has it taken you?”

The boy snorted. “For a ride on that bus, I guess.”

“Tell us about that. Where did you first see the bus?”

“At the Diamonds truck stop. The one outside St. Louis. I figured I could get a ride from there. And there was this woman with a school bus. She was taking it to Arkansas.”

The boy paused. He said, “Can I have one of my cigarettes?”

“No,” said Ashlock. “Tell us about the woman.”

“Old. Ugly. Stupid.” The boy rolled his eyes at Ashlock’s solemn expression. “Okay, not that old. Forty? Thirty? You all look alike to me, old ­people, I mean. She wasn’t getting by on her looks, though. Tell you that much.”

“How did you get a ride with her?”

“I just asked. She said I could come along. Said I’d keep her company.”

“So you wanted to go to Arkansas?”

“Hell, no. Arkansas blows. But I thought I’d get off at Springfield, maybe go to Branson, go down to the lake. Camp out.”

“So what happened?”

“Everything was cool. With her and me. But she picked up another dude.”

“At the Diamonds?”

“No, at a gas station down the road.”

“Where?”

“I dunno. Maybe Rolla. Maybe somewhere else.”

“Why did you stop again so soon? Rolla’s not even two hours from the Diamonds.”

“Hey, she was driving. Maybe she needed to take a piss.” Turning to Lisa, he said, “When’s lunch? I’m starved.”

Before she could answer, Ashlock said, “Describe the gas station where she picked up the passenger.”

“Gas, man. I don’t know. It was dark. I was kind of dozing in one of the bus seats. Laying down.”

“How did she meet up with the passenger?”

“He asked for a ride. I guess. I wasn’t filming it.”

Elsie shifted on the vinyl couch, trying to hide her growing impatience, as Ashlock asked him to describe the passenger.

“Seems like he was big. Real big.”

“Height?”

“Dude, I don’t know.”

“Approximately, roughly. Compared to you.”

The boy yawned. “I didn’t go head to head with him, man. But he was big, I kid you not. Big and scary-­looking.”

“Weight, build?”

“Big. Not fat.”

“Race?”

“White guy.”

“Hair color?”

“Ummm. Black.”

“Eye color?”

“Shit, man, I don’t know. Brown.”

“Distinguishing features?”

“What’s that mean?”

“Tattoos, scars, marks, facial features.”

Monroe rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled audibly. He screwed his eyes shut, saying, “Thinking, thinking, thinking,” then fell silent.

After a pause, Ashlock prompted, “Well?”

His brown eyes popped open. “Scar on his cheek. Right there,” indicating his cheekbone.

The adults all made notations on paper. Elsie shifted in her seat on the couch, unhappily conscious that she was sticking to the vinyl.

“And tats,” the boy added. “Jailhouse tats.”

“Where?”

“On his fingers. Couldn’t make them out, though. He turned to stare at Lisa Peters. “You know what?”

“What?” she responded.

“If you were mine, I’d protect you. I wouldn’t let anybody near you. No fucking way.”