Unfinished Grave

By Bill Hopkins

In the unlikely event that you're standing under a balcony and a corpse falls on you, it's probably better that it not be someone you have a grudge against. Judge Rosswell Carew's peaceful morning at a campground in the Ozarks is disrupted when the body of Judge Stoneking-Marzetta tumbles onto him. Rosswell becomes the dreaded "person of interest" who must use all his wits and wiles, accompanied by his faithful research assistant, Ollie Groton, to prove his innocence and trap the killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Hopkins
• Release date: Oct 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310051241

Bill Hopkins

Bill Hopkins is retired after beginning his legal career in 1971 and serving as a private attorney, prosecuting attorney, an administrative law judge, and a trial court judge, all in Missouri. His poems, short stories, and non-fiction have appeared in many different publications. He's had several short plays produced. Bill is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Dramatists Guild, Horror Writers Association, Missouri Writers Guild, and Sisters In Crime. Bill is also a photographer who has sold work in the United States, Canada, and Europe. He and his wife, Sharon (a mortgage banker who is also a published writer), live in Marble Hill, Missouri, with their dogs and cat. Besides writing, Bill and Sharon are involved in collecting and restoring Camaros.

Book preview

Chapter One

Summer

Thursday afternoon, a week ago; Marble Hill, Missouri

On the day before the first murder, a blue bubble light perched on the dash of the car following Rosswell began strobing. He whipped out his tri-focal eyeglasses, slid them on, and checked his speedometer. Seventy-five miles an hour. Crap! This doesn’t look good. He pulled on to the next gravel road, cut off the engine, and scrambled out. Now what’s he want?

Jim Bill Evans parked the undercover car behind Rosswell, got out, and strutted up to him, then leaned on his car. The fire marshal’s footsteps crunched on the road gravel. Driving a tad fast there, Judge. Rosswell thought the grin on Jim Bill’s face wasn’t spontaneous but forced. Forced, like a bad actor playing a cop. And the silvered sunglasses added to the impression. A movie cop who stunk of sweat. Let me see your driver’s license.

Rosswell reached for his wallet. Are fire marshals giving out speeding tickets now?

Jim Bill pulled off his sunglasses. Put away your wallet. His face darkened when he turned, blocking the sun between him and Rosswell.

Jim Bill, this isn’t a social call and it isn’t a business matter and it isn’t a traffic stop. I give up. What is it?

Jim Bill remained silent, convincing Rosswell something had happened. Something bad.

Ice critters danced in Rosswell’s stomach. Is it Tina? Jonathan David? What’s the problem? The afternoon sun had heated the humid air to the day’s high temperature. Perspiration trickled down Rosswell’s face and onto his neck, and then down into his shirt. The aroma of his own sweat agitated Rosswell. Sweat meant action, action meant tension, and tension meant danger. Danger might mean death.

Where are you going? Jim Bill spoke softly, although Rosswell noted there were no houses or cars or people in sight. They were surrounded by forest, meadow, and cornfields.

Answer the question. What’s wrong?

Rosswell, answer mine first.

Out.

Who knows where you’re going?

Tina.

Again, where exactly are you going?

Foggy Top.

You have a cabin?

Rosswell shaded his eyes. If you mean have I rented a cabin, yes. Why?

Answer. That’s all I want you to do. Answer.

Why all the questions?

Jim Bill scratched his chin. This is important. Obviously, he’d forgotten to shave for a couple of days.

Can’t you just flat out tell me what’s wrong?

How long will you be there?

A week. Maybe two. Rosswell teetered on the verge of giving Jim Bill a Constitutional rights lecture about cops randomly stopping motorists, and then asking them innocent questions. Such stops weren’t kosher. The purpose of the stops such as this was to trip up innocent souls with trick questions disguised as innocent questions. Rosswell was certain he could find the cases to uphold his opinion. In addition, he was certain that he wasn’t innocent, yet could recognize fake innocent questions.

Jim Bill glanced into Rosswell’s car. Will you be out there by yourself?

Yes. What’s wrong? Tell me.

Do you have food and supplies?

I’ll not tell him about the rake, spade, hoe, and shovel I always carry. The State of Missouri is disdainful of folks digging on the government’s real estate in state parks, although I may find a rock or a plant I need. The state will never miss it.

Jim Bill, I have a month’s worth of food, an LED flashlight that’ll burn a hole in a newspaper a mile away, two kinds of duct tape, plastic rope strong enough to climb Mount Everest, a fully-loaded handgun inside a bag of ammo, a pile of—

He’s escaped.

Rosswell said, Since he’s dead, I’m guessing you don’t mean Shawn Kreisel.

You know who I mean.

Gerry Middlesworth?

Rosswell, stop playing games. She’ll be in prison a long time. Besides, you know it was her brother, not her. Say it. Say his name.

Nathaniel Dahlbert.

Yes.

Rosswell jerked open the driver’s door and fell into the seat. Acid erupted from his stomach into his esophagus and gnawed at his throat. He shut his eyes. That didn’t help. All it did was make Rosswell’s hearing sharper. Now he could hear traffic roaring far away, a flock of doves feeding on the ground frightened by something and taking off with cries of alarm, and cows mooing. He opened his eyes and spotted a deer family on the road at the bottom of the hill. The doe watched Rosswell, while the two fawns munched on plants in the road ditch.

Rosswell said, When did he escape?

This morning.

I’ve been listening to the news on and off all day. There was nothing about him.

Judge, there won’t be anything about him. The media knows nothing about this.

Why didn’t someone tell me?

I am telling you. It took me a while to drive down from Jeff City.

Rosswell started his car. I’m headed back to town.

Stop. Jim Bill finger-combed his mustache. We want you to go on with your regular routine. He laid a hand on top of the car door.

And leave my wife and kid alone? Not a chance in this or any other universe. Good-bye. When Jim Bill didn’t move, Rosswell said, Stand back. I’m leaving.

Give me five minutes.

Get your hand off my door or you’ll fall down when I take off.

Four.

Three. Rosswell pulled out his cell phone and started a timer. Start with how he got out of that escape-proof cell.

Jim Bill said, The easiest way possible.

Rosswell said, He bribed people?

Yes. Two guards needed money, as did a woman driving a delivery truck. We don’t know where he is now, but we’re going on the assumption he’s after you. He might have allies, new or old. We want you to stay in your regular routine.

You said that already. You want me to paint a target on my face? He held up the phone. You have one minute and fifty-three seconds.

We have an undercover agent with Tina, and another one with Mrs. Dodson and your son.

Rosswell checked his phone. Tina hasn’t tried to call me. She would’ve called me if an armed guard showed up.

We asked her not to call you.

You told her to listen to you instead of her husband?

Yes. Jim Bill lowered his head. That’s what happened.

You found people to guard my wife the cop, who’s carrying a gun? And guard the babysitter, who’s the sheriff’s wife who’s also carrying a gun? Where are you getting all this extra manpower?

Womanpower. The guards are women.

Rosswell said, Alessandra Bolzoni? Is she one of them?

Jim Bill shook his head. I can’t answer that question.

Why can’t you answer that question?

"Let me change that to I won’t answer that question."

All right. Now answer the question of where you’re getting all this extra womanpower?

We have lots of volunteers. We make sure they get paid.

‘We,’ being who? Rosswell already knew the answer. He wanted to hear Jim Bill say the words.

Jim Bill lifted his head and moved his body in a complete circle. Then he bent down next to Rosswell. You know who.

You’ve been watching bad spy movies again. Say the words. The timer on Rosswell’s phone dinged. Oops. Time’s up.

The best way to capture him is if you make yourself a target. Plenty of people you won’t see will be guarding your well-being. You’ll never notice them.

Rosswell punched numbers on his phone. I’m calling Tina.

No, you’re not. Jim Bill grabbed Rosswell’s phone. We can’t risk someone eavesdropping on your conversations. Cell phones are easily tapped.

I’ll talk to my wife about it in person.

Jim Bill nodded. You may, when it comes time in your regular schedule. However, you can’t talk to anyone else about this. No one. No law enforcement officers. No lawyers. No judges. No friends. No one.

Rosswell breathed deeply for a few breaths before he spoke. Nathaniel is after me and Tina and my child because I killed his number one dope pusher. I don’t have much time left on this earth. No matter how this turns out, my dreams will be Grade A nightmares, worse than anything I’ve ever had. I’ll never sleep soundly again.

Then give us the chance to intercept him before he harms anyone.

On one condition. Rosswell held up a forefinger. If I see him first, I’m killing him.

Deal. Jim Bill handed the phone back to Rosswell and repeated the visual sweep. In fact, Judge, I’ll help you.

Chapter Two

Early Friday morning; Foggy Top State Park

Standing on the patio in the pre-dawn darkness, Rosswell scanned the cabins neighboring his own. He discovered no lights, no actions, no sounds. Everyone on his side of the valley must’ve still been asleep. Except Rosswell. After the bad news yesterday afternoon, he hadn’t gotten any sleep.

Rosswell reflexively jerked the blue coffee mug a microsecond after a scream pierced the night. Hot coffee sloshed his hand, forcing him to set down the mug. The sound of the scream lasted a long time—years, decades—rolling down one hill into a hollow, and then shooting up the neighboring hill into his ears. No, not years or decades, although it seemed that long to him. The military training Rosswell had received honed his reaction time. Forcing all his senses into high gear, his brain began processing information.

The scream had died quickly in the predawn glow. A smudge of reddish-gray marred the deep blue of the eastern sky. Fog settled into the valleys between the ridges. Soon the heat would clear the sky and erase the white mist on the ground. Humidity hovered around a hundred percent. That, and no clouds, meant a hot day brewed in the last dregs of night. The smell of the forest rose thick and rank. The temperature hadn’t dropped much during the night, leaving the odor of baked green plants in the air. The high humidity had coated thousands of tiny spider webs scattered along the ground in dew, turning them a ghostly white.

Rosswell lowered himself to a chair, his back to the cabin, and picked up the mug from a table beside the chair. He made no noise. His supersensitive ears strained to catch the slightest sound. The scream had stopped the morning birds from calling, but only for a few moments. He heard the birds chattering again. A rustle in the bushes. Maybe a wild pig or a raccoon. The water of the stream at the bottom of the ridge burbling. But no repeat of the scream. No further sound of any kind. At least none made by a human.

Never far from his binoculars, with which he’d spotted lots of interesting wildlife in the park, he grabbed them off the table and lifted them to his eyes, focusing where he thought the sound had originated. In these hills, echoes were common and the abundant growth of trees and underbrush added to a man’s confusion when trying to pinpoint the source of a sound.

Rosswell thought best about problems when he talked to himself, even though about half the time, he knew what he was going to say.

There. Over there. He aimed his glasses at a collection of small cabins on the opposite ridge. There’s the camp where all the female New Agers hang out. He swept the binoculars over the entire area, yet couldn’t make out any living thing in the dimness, much less a woman screaming. Muriel’s over there, on forced vacation. Even so, something had caused someone to issue a loud cry. Rosswell reserved final judgment on the sex of the screamer, although he’d be surprised if he were wrong. No man sounded like that. It had to be a woman. What would cause a woman to scream loud enough over there for him to hear it, yet no one is moving around? A woman yelled and ran away? Or maybe a flashlight beam lit a snake and she hollered? He rechecked the scene again with his binoculars. He couldn’t tell if someone responded to the scream. Odd. Rosswell saw nothing. The dim light didn’t help. There surely would be lights flicking on over there, he thought.

Should I stay or should I go?

Then his cell phone spit out the opening notes of Beethoven’s Symphony Number Five. The text was from UNKNOWN: screaming woman smmcb.

What does that mean? Rosswell waved aside a buzzing insect. "What does smmcb spell? Ah. Initials of Show Me Mystical Crystal Bungalows." The bug flew back and bit him.

Another text landed in his in-box, also from UNKNOWN: muriel n trble. Muriel. In trouble.

An anonymous texter is trying to lure me to the other camp. Rosswell stood and paced. Who knows I know Muriel is in the other camp? And who knows my cell number? Two? Three people? And they never text me anonymously. Nathaniel has called me before. Since he escaped, he’s after me again. Now he’s luring me into a trap.

Rosswell slugged down the espresso from the mug in three gulps. Syrupy thick with sugar and a dash of salt for flavor, the concoction launched a much-needed buzz to fight his fatigue. Sugar and caffeine: his favorite drugs. They always primed his pump, as his grandmother might say if she were still alive.

Rosswell said to himself, I can hear Tina. ‘Salt, sugar, caffeine. Bad. Bad. Bad.’

He answered, Get to the point.

Should I stay or should I go? he asked himself again.

The reply was, Go.

Okay. Rosswell first checked his pockets. A pistol and car keys. Then he picked up his fully charged cell phone and stuffed it into one of the pockets. Slinging the case strap of the binoculars over his shoulder, he hustled off the patio and hopped in his car. After the short drive down one hill and up the other side, he reached the two granite arches twenty-five feet apart that served as an entrance to the Show Me Mystical Crystal Bungalows. Rosswell drove through the first arch, and then stopped next to the second arch at the guard’s gate. Although he’d been born and raised in the county, he’d never been to the bungalows. A skinny wooden pole hung from the gate across the road. An electric golf cart squatted parallel to the guard shack.

Officer Sonya Blanco appeared in the guardhouse, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Good morning, Judge. She followed her greeting with a three-fingered salute that looked like a Boy Scout salute.

He started to return the salute. Wait. Stop. Cops shouldn’t salute judges. That’s what they do in banana republics and Commie dictatorships

Officer Blanco? Rosswell jumped from his car and stood before her.

The same. Not as tall as Rosswell, she tilted her head back slightly and smiled at him. Good to see you again.

I thought you were working as a police officer for the City of Cape Girardeau.

Police officer? You can say cop, and I am working there. Rosswell inspected her hair, which lay in orderly rows on top of her head, the result of a complicated braiding maneuver. He silently admired that every strand kept its place. Even so, he’d learned never to comment on a woman’s hair-do.

You’re awfully far from Cape. Rosswell considered this for a second, doing a mileage calculation. What? Seventy, seventy-five mile round trip?

Around eighty. Being out in the sticks is great.

And your uniform is the wrong color.

This ugly thing? Sonya patted the sleeves of the green uniform. I have to admit, this is more the color of hospital scrubs, but, hey, it’s free. Comes with the job.

Same service revolver? Is it a .40 Glock 23?

Sonya touched the snapped holster. Yes. Why?

I want a cop who’s armed.

What? Why?

You’re moonlighting.

That’s right, Judge Carew. No family. No dog. No cat. All I have to do is work. And save money. I’m going to law school.

Good for you.

Thanks. Now you tell me why you want to know about my gun.

Rosswell ignored her gun question again in favor of something more cheerful. He hoped. Where are you going to law school?

Mizzou. Sonya’s dark-complexioned face turned more serious. She pursed her lips and threw a stink eye at Rosswell, something Tina often did. Listen, I need to ask you something. It’s part of my job. Nothing personal. Sonya moved her head right and then left before she turned in a circle. She looked inside Rosswell’s car. Judge, what are you doing here? Sonya’s face grew even more serious. The kind of look lawyers gave Rosswell when they announced they would appeal his decision. No one’s awake yet.

Rosswell laughed. I’m not trying to sneak into one of the cabins to visit your women. I heard a scream. You didn’t hear that scream?

Sonya stiffened. Scream? She stared in every direction again. I didn’t hear any scream.

Rosswell hesitated a beat then said, I’ll admit the way noises bounce around these hills, it might not have come from here. But it sure sounded like it. I thought I’d drive through the camp and take a look.

No need to mention the anonymous text message. Or a serial killer named Nathaniel Dahlbert. I don’t want to make this more complicated than necessary. If it’s a prank, then all is well. If it’s not a prank, then we’ll talk openly.

You heard a scream from over here?

Yes. Rosswell resisted the urge to slam his fist into his palm, which he considered the male version of the female foot stomping. Maybe. Rosswell pointed across the valley. I’m staying in one of the cabins at Foggy Top. I was watching the sun rise over there when I heard a scream over here.

Male or female?

Sounded like a woman to me.

Perhaps she was watching the early morning news. That’s enough to make you scream.

This was a real scream. A scream of terror, not one of despair. Something—someone—scared a woman over here. That’s not a normal occurrence anywhere, much less here.

You want to snoop around here because you’re a detective now? A headshake. Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that was the only job you could get.

Irrelevant, Officer Blanco. I still have a job. However, if something’s going on over here, I might be a witness since I heard that scream. That’s all. Thought I’d drive around and see what’s happening.

No. Sonya shook her head. It’s private property. I can’t let you on the place without someone—a guest or management—giving you an invite.

Rosswell wrestled with the urge to remind her invite is a verb, not a noun. And won the match by chewing his tongue.

Rosswell smiled. If I don’t find anything, then I leave. Simple as Corn Flakes.

Sorry. That would violate the rules. I don’t want to lose this job. Simple as Corn Flakes.

Perfectly understandable. Rosswell never waltzed into a situation unprepared. My clerk is here. On a retreat. I need to see her. About court business.

Sonya opened a drawer in the guard shack and clicked on a small flashlight. Name? She consulted a clipboard holding a sheet of paper. Rosswell peered over her shoulder.

Rosswell recalled a conversation he’d had about a week ago with a woman when she’d told him where she’d be. He spotted her name on the paper. Muriel Thornmorton. That woman, he assured himself, had a raging crush on him. She called him every time there was the whiff of an excuse. The last time, she told Rosswell she’d made reservations at the bungalows for a retreat from the materialist stresses of an uncaring world. Her exact words. Now, she might be in trouble.

Sonya’s finger stopped on a name. She’s here. Sonya read more. Says she works for the bank.

I’m supposed to interview her this morning. She didn’t want anyone at the bank to know she was looking for a different job. Rosswell pasted his practiced megawatt smile on his face. You’d be doing Muriel and me a favor. She needs the job and I need a clerk.

I wouldn’t hire Muriel to empty the wastebaskets. Among other things, her personality sucks.

Sonya wrinkled her nose as if she’d uncovered a pile of fresh manure. Strange. Yes, sir, sounds mighty strange.

Rosswell plotted a path around Sonya’s obstinacy. Muriel is on one of those mandatory vacations a bank makes you take. Two weeks. That way, if you’re doing something wrong, then surely the head honchos will find evidence while you’re away. That’s the theory.

Judge. Sonya coughed. If I touch, see, hear, taste, or smell something that feels, looks, sounds, tastes, or smells like crap, then I expect it’s crap. Begging your pardon, sir, Judge, but you’re not in any position to hire a clerk. Sonya crossed her arms and locked eyes with Rosswell, her looks daring him to try his shenanigans again.

You caught me. Rosswell scraped the toe of his shoe on the ground. I’m being nosy. There. I’ve confessed to the cops. He took off his glasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket. What’s it hurt for me to drive along an open and public roadway with my eyes open and my ears tuned?

It’s not a public roadway.

Yes, it is. It’s a roadway visible to anyone who is lawfully on land not owned by the owner of the roadway, thereby converting its use into a public roadway.

Right. Crap. Sonya waved. Sounds like a load of legal crap.

Please. Rosswell stared at the ground. Let me pass. He hoped he sounded pitiful. Please. I heard something and it worries me. I won’t upset anybody. No one will ever know I was here.

I’m groveling. Begging and pleading. Pleading and whining. Whining and begging.

No.

There’s more. Rosswell handed his phone to Sonya. Read those texts.

Sonya read and waited a couple of seconds before she lifted the pole off the road. Sounds ominous. Her smile shined brilliantly. Like an icy spot on a stairway.

Chapter Three

Early Friday morning, continued; Show Me Mystical Crystal Bungalows

I may have to arrest you, Judge.

Rosswell fished a large handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his forehead, giving himself time to rethink a new tactic. He knew Sonya was a great cop, although he didn’t trust her. She was a cop. Rosswell also knew he teetered on the verge of irritating her but he didn’t want to be turned in again. Sonya’s boss had turned him in the first time and that still hadn’t been