Dishonest Corpse

By Bill Hopkins

Disgraced and “benched” Judge Rosswell Carew gasps in horror early one morning when he watches the report of a girl murdered under the Mississippi River bridge on the waterfront, a couple of blocks from his downtown office in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. Although this victim reeks of the evil handiwork of Carew’s nemesis, Nathaniel Dahlbert, Carew and his beloved wife, Tina, herself a retired sheriff’s deputy, can’t let themselves become distraught. Their new detective agency is up and running and they convince themselves this murder has nothing to do with them. Later that morning, two different people come to their agency and hire their services. Within hours, the married detectives are involved in a different murder case that not only points to the girl’s killing, but also to a possible third homicide. Rosswell and Tina find themselves caught up in a deadly cat-and-mouse game that’s got only one solution: The capture of Nathaniel Dahlbert—or the death of Rosswell Carew!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Hopkins
• Release date: Jun 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311340702

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 1

Day 1: Monday morning, Offices of Carew & Carew Private Investigations,

Cape Girardeau, Missouri

At first, no one admitted the girl died a prostitute.

Cause of death: Uncertain.

Manner of death: Murder (probably).

Judge Rosswell Carew sipped on his after-breakfast espresso—syrupy after adding the customary dozen teaspoons of sugar and dash of salt.

My favorite drugs. Caffeine and sugar.

Rosswell turned to another of his daily routines. Reading the early morning news report. Not in the traditional sense like his hero Sherlock Holmes, consulting the Daily Gazette of London, but via video, compliments of the cheap Wi-Fi hotspot purchased at Walmart. And the news he sought was nothing as glamorous as news from across the Atlantic. The news he sought was much less romantic. Usually mundane. Except today.

The reporter on Cape’s First News came to life after Rosswell swiped his finger across the screen. Standing upright in a military stance with her feet seemingly bolted to the corner of Themis and Water Streets at the floodwall, the newscaster stood framed by the concrete walls on either side of the opening, leading down to the river.

Murder! Rosswell’s ears perked up and his eyes widened. Rosswell patted his shirt pocket and felt his glasses. Shouldn’t you be wearing your tri-focals? Not necessarily. I only need them to see. He slipped them on.

Listening to the reporter asking the typical lame questions, and the sheriff provide the same sketchy details of a suspected murder, Rosswell sighed. He doubted whoever this Jane Doe was that she ever imagined her fifteen minutes of fame would be with her lying dead under a bridge. Poor girl. And like always, he wondered if she had a family, if she’d be missed. Or mourned.

Rosswell closed his computer, shaking his head, which seemed to jumpstart the caffeine running through his veins. He took the last drink of his espresso. No sense in killing a buzz.

As he set the cup down, he noticed the light on his phone blinking, indicating he had a voicemail.

A quick swipe and a tap on the screen brought up the name—UNKNOWN. Dated last night. After midnight. This reminded Rosswell why he rarely kept his phone on when he went to sleep. After his number had been published on the Internet, and in the newspaper in a bid to attract clients, everyone thought he was fair game. Anytime. But not in the middle of the night. Besides, he said to himself, nothing good ever happens after midnight.

Another tap and the message began playing. The female’s voice sounded scratchy and tinny, as if she’d called from deep inside a barrel.

Judge Carew, I’ve got to talk to you. I need help. He’s trying to sell me. Meet me under the big bridge at 1:30. Please. I have something for you. The line went dead. To the empty room, Rosswell said, Sell you? Surely, the woman didn’t mean selling her in the literal sense. And who are you? Something clicked.

Jane Doe.

Rosswell opened his computer and replayed the newscast video. In the opening shot, a brown and white Ford minivan emblazoned with Cape’s First News across the side panels in two-foot tall orange letters sat near the Mississippi River. Perky reporterette Kelly Davenport posed in front of the truck, her microphone stuck under the chin of the chief of police. The sound crawled from the speakers of his computer like it had been beaten, eaten, then upchucked. Even Rosswell, with his superb hearing, couldn’t make out all of the conversation. As she hunkered down into her trendy scarf, the hot wind tousling her curls, she slid the microphone under her own chin, and gazed directly into the camera, which remedied the garbled words.

Chief Chickardi, what can you tell us about the report of a body found?

The chief straightened to his full height, which wasn’t much, then reached for his Vicks VapoRub inhaler and drew on it a couple of times before he answered. Chickering.

Confusion crossed Kelly’s face. Chickering?

Max Chickering. Chief of Police. City of Cape Girardeau.

He sounded like a politician.

Understanding flickered in her eyes. Sorry. Chief Chickering, what can you tell us about the report of a body being found under the Bill Emerson Memorial Bridge?

Meet me under the bridge.

I found her myself. I was patrolling the downtown streets to see how high the water was getting from all the rain up north. Then, about three this morning I got a call. A phone call. It was an anonymous tip about a dead hook— Chickering coughed. An anonymous tip about a body, a probable female, possibly homeless—beneath the bridge.

What did you find?

The chief closed his mouth and stared at the ground. After a few moments, he said, A body. Max leaned in close to the camera. The body of a young woman, probably all of eighteen or nineteen years old.

How long had she been dead?

He scratched his chin. Couldn’t say for sure. Not very long but I’ll have to let the coroner and the autopsy folks decide the time of death.

Have you made an identification?

No. She had no operator’s license, no voter registration picture ID, no Social Security card, no welfare card. No purse. No billfold. Nothing personal on her at all. Too bad Houdini isn’t still around. He could figure this out. He shook his head. Shame, he said, still shaking his head.

She was known to the police, right? Kelly smiled, looking to Rosswell like she’d been inflated with the hope of a brewing scandal. Her greatest accomplishment in life, Rosswell assured himself, was her coronation as a drama queen. I mean, she wasn’t a stranger, was she?

Kelly is grasping at air, leading poor Max.

Max grimaced. This case is still under investigation.

Has anyone claimed responsibility?

What? Responsibility? No, Kelly.

The newsie’s breathing quickened noticeably. Multiple prior contacts with law enforcement and all that, right?

Max ignored her. Sheriff Talbot Reasoner here of Cape Girardeau County has activated the Major Case Squad. Pointing off-camera, Max crooked a forefinger. Sheriff Reasoner.

Talbot stepped into the shot and, towering over the chief, beamed a megawatt smile at Max.

Those gleaming white teeth, Rosswell knew, were unlikely for anyone over thirty. Chiclets, Rosswell said. Guess that’s all the craze these days. Whitened, buffed, and polished. Perfect little white squares.

Onscreen Kelly turned her attention and her microphone toward Talbot. Sheriff, what can you tell us?

His politician-smile never receding, Talbot said, I hope to have more answers soon, Kelly.

Soon, Sheriff? Can you give us a better idea?

Yes. I hope to have more answers soon.

Repeating yourself never hurt, especially with the media.

Kelly continued, Is it true the dead woman was known to the police?

Talbot removed a wide brimmed Stetson that perched on his head, then finger-combed the sparse black strands. He replaced the hat and smoothed the brim just so. Finally, he said, Kelly, we’re checking on it.

His face has to get tired grinning like that all the time.

Rosswell swore, too, that if he could’ve caught a whiff of Talbot’s breath, he’d detect the scent of minty mouthwash. How many times had the sheriff appeared in his court with the odor of a strong mouthwash on his breath? Hundreds. Maybe thousands. And always in a bad mood.

What was the cause of death? Kelly deadpanned pointing the microphone first to Talbot, then Chickering. Rosswell silently congratulated Kelly. She was good. Not afraid to put it out there. Even though she’d likely not get the answer.

Both men shrugged in unison, as if they’d practiced the maneuver.

Much too early to say, Chickering said.

Maybe a drug overdose? Kelly asked.

Or a blow . . . Talbot started, but stopped after Chickering shot him a glance that threatened to pop out the Chief’s eyes.

Kelly nodded, and then looking toward the victim still lying there, said, Any idea what the murder weapon was?

Chickering put his hand on the sheriff’s shoulder, obviously in an attempt to stop any further details from leaking out. Bad deal for the victim, however it turns out.

How about witnesses? The girl didn’t give up. And she handled that microphone like a pro, shoving it just close enough, but never making contact with either man’s face.

After a moment, Chickering answered. Right now, we are attempting to locate witnesses. It seems that all the village people living under the bridge have vanished.

No surprise there.

Sheriff, did you receive a 9-1-1 call on this? Is that how you got the tip?

Well. . .ah. . .we’ve been having a bit of trouble with the call center.

The 9-1-1 Call Center? Puzzlement flashed across Kelly’s face.

Talbot cleared his throat. Yes. This time he didn’t smile.

What kind of trouble?

Rosswell visualized the gears in Talbot’s brain grinding away until they produced an answer that would sound good for his television audience. He paused a couple of beats before answering.

Solar flares. The sun is acting up, not only making it rain heavy up north but also causing calls from a cell phone to skip to another tower instead of the one closest to it. We’ve had instances of calls being routed to Illinois and Kentucky. Even had a couple go to Tennessee and Arkansas. Slows down our response time.

Kelly’s jaw dropped open, but she quickly recovered.

My thoughts exactly, Kelly, Rosswell said to the screen. The sun makes it rain? That’s a new one, lame brain.

Doesn’t the sheriff’s office have landlines? Rosswell detected the hint of a smirk in Kelley’s question.

Talbot straightened and stared directly into the camera. Like he’d practiced what he was about to say over and over again. At this point, solar flares have had a minimal impact on landlines. However, a coronal mass ejection occurred in 2012—

When Kelly dismissed Talbot with a simple, Yes, the cameraman immediately panned over to her. And that’s the latest on the alleged murder of a young woman found this morning on the Cape Girardeau waterfront.

Chapter 2

Day 1: Monday morning, Offices of Carew & Carew Private Investigations,

Cape Girardeau, Missouri, continued

Rosswell shook his head and closed his computer again. The best and the brightest, those two. He got up, walked over to the window, raised it, and then propped open the front door. The freshly smeared and heat-baked asphalt covering the streets below, along with the fishy aroma of the Mississippi River wormed its way into Rosswell’s nose. Still early, with only a whisper of the downtown traffic barely above a baby’s snore, the open window promised a day that might bring something crappy, crawling from the slime of the river or maybe something happy, flying from the pine trees of Courthouse Hill.

Something else gnawed at his innards. Not the smells. Not the soft noises. Not the birds flying around. No. The video. Something alarmed him about that video, although he couldn’t track down the source of alarm in the jungle of his brain. Yet. He sat and scribbled in his journal. Writing helped him to focus.

Rosswell stopped scribbling and leaned back in his chair, scratching at his scrawny mustache. Kelly asked if anyone had claimed responsibility. Why didn’t she ask if anyone had admitted guilt? Responsibility is a good word. Guilt is not a good word. And those two—Chief Chickenshit and Sheriff Unreasonable—the only way anyone could draw to that pair is to pull the joker. The chief acts like a day-old turkey and Chickering acts like he’s got a piece of chicken wire up his nose. Dumb and Cranky. No wonder Kelly wasn’t thrilled when the sheriff began to inject boring science details. Talbot probably had notes he’d copied off Wikipedia.

Honey, Tina, Rosswell’s wife called through the door from outside, interrupting his musings. Are you talking to yourself again?

I was voicing a few concerns aloud, allowing me to gauge how they sounded, but yes, if that’s what you call talking to yourself . . . guilty.

What concerns?

Rosswell eased out of the chair and strolled to the front door where he met his wife and then punched the voicemail button to replay the early morning message.

Tina’s brow furrowed. Who was that?

Not a clue, but watch this. Rosswell replayed the Cape First News interview on his phone. When he stopped the video, he examined his wife for a sign of recognition. Head nod. Mumbling that sounded affirmative. Eyes widening. Anything.

Wait a minute. You think . . . ? Pointing to his phone, Tina snickered. Isn’t that a bit of a leap? No, not a leap. Jumping the tallest building in the world with a single bound.

Rosswell cocked his head and raised his eyebrows, trying to imitate the eyebrow lift his wife flawlessly managed. I do indeed think that.

Tina said, Really, think about this. The girl on the voicemail could’ve been calling from anywhere, and her reference to a big bridge didn’t necessarily mean the Emerson Bridge.

And her reference may have meant the Emerson Bridge.

She could have been calling from Canada, for all you know.

Maybe, Rosswell agreed. Doubtful but maybe.

Tina countered, And the bridge reference isn’t specific.

How many bridges do we have around here?

Point taken.

Rosswell chewed on Tina’s reasoning for a few seconds. You don’t think—

No, I don’t.

You don’t even know what I was going to say.

Let me deliver it clearly from my mouth to your super ears. No, I don’t think you should bother Chief Max or Sheriff Talbot about the voicemail. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt my feelings if I never saw either one of them again. Tina walked into the office and sauntered over to the espresso machine where she poured a cup. Something else strange that happened this morning.

Other than a dead girl on the waterfront?

I mean Judge Stoneking-Marzetta. He can’t be found.

Tina, Judge Stoneking-Marzetta is dead.

Rosswell watched Tina unclench her teeth, You do remember Judge Phineas Stoneking-Marzetta, don’t you?

Oh, the man. I wasn’t sure you were talking about that one. I haven’t thought of any Stoneking-Marzetta. Blocked the name from my mind. At least since Judge Lauren Danielle Stoneking-Marzetta kicked me off the bench, and then went and got herself murdered. I wonder why his name is hyphenated. I thought only women did that.

Rosswell, that’s not nice. The man is missing. Don’t say things like that in public. He glanced up and down the street. Not another person in sight.

Anyway, since I had nothing to do with the killing of Lauren Danielle, or the disappearance of Phineas, forget you ever heard anything about either thing.

You’re a pain sometimes. She motioned him outside. Come here and take a look.

Rosswell wandered out of the office to the edge of the sidewalk. Tina held up a plant decorated with CONGRATULATIONS and GOOD LUCK signs, fresh from one of the local florists.

Ah! Rosswell took the plant from Tina. Exactly what I need. A baby Christmas tree topped with a fake bluebird. You shouldn’t have.

You should be so lucky. Tina took the plant back from her husband. Dr. Hollingsworth sent this.

Never heard of him.

Not a he. She. Doctor Amy Hollingsworth. She’s head of the biology department at the university. You met her and her pathologist boyfriend at the Humane Society banquet last Christmas.

Still confused, Rosswell shook his head. Give me a hint.

He had a black suit with a white shirt and a red tie. She wore a black Lululemon. You didn’t notice him, but you ogled her the whole night.

Ah! Rosswell’s eyes grew wide remembering the beautiful woman. What’s a Lululemon?

They’re slinky dresses worn by women with taste and money, not to mention great bodies.

Rosswell snapped his fingers. Now I remember her. Boy, do I. Striking, he blurted. Beautiful.

Tina waved her hands in front of Rosswell’s eyes. Careful. You’re drooling again.

I meant her Hydro Blue Pearl Coat Jeep Wrangler. Rosswell aimed for a quick recovery. I wonder if she still has it.

Bad save, Rosswell. Anyway, Amy knows how I love bluebirds and Norfolk Island Pines. It’s a conifer, but not a true pine.

What’s the occasion?

She sent this to congratulate us on the opening of our detective agency.

Rosswell continued to search for a plant label. They smell great.

No. Tina shook her head. Smell, she said as shoved the plant up to Rosswell’s nose.

Rosswell took a whiff. Not much smell. And why do they call them Norfolk Island Pines? They don’t come from Norfolk Island.

Yes, they most certainly do.

Unable to find a label, Rosswell decided to toss a wild card. But they’re not true trees. They’re tropical plants, more like shrubs. Rosswell scratched his scrawny mustache. Or is that some other plant?

Did you not hear me say they were conifers? Tina, obviously tired of the tree talk, ordered him to turn around. Anyway, about face. I don’t want you to fall off the curb into the street.

Chapter 3

Day 1: Monday morning, Offices of Carew & Carew Private Investigations,

Cape Girardeau, Missouri, continued

Rosswell turned about face as his wife had ordered him. That looks great.

Tina, still holding the Norfolk Pine, stood under a sign hanging above the red brick archway of their office. Rosswell was proud they were now the owners of the building that had housed the telephone company over a century ago. And he never ceased to tell anyone who didn’t know, that the town’s first long distance call had been placed there. A bronze plaque screwed to the right of the entry attested to the fact. Rosswell’s detective sign, he now believed, gave downtown Cape a touch of much-needed class:

Carew & Carew Private Investigations

Judge Rosswell Carew (Ret.)

Chief Deputy Tina Carew (Ret.)

Consulting Detectives

Tina shaded her eyes from the sun. Now all we need is our picture in the newspaper after we solve a mystery.

Stories about us on the Internet would be good, too.

Tina pursed her lips. True enough. And we need satisfied clients to grow our business.

And it would be nice to have a telephone. The old-fashioned kind that’s tethered to a copper wire. POTS, that’s what I want.

Tina pulled a Kleenex from a box and wiped her hands. What’s a POTS?

Plain Old Telephone Service.

Forget telephones. What we need is a worried client with a lot of money that we turn into a happy client with somewhat less money.

Rosswell walked back toward the door and clapped. How many clients do we have?

Counting Kash Hatton?

The new guy?

Yes.

Cash. A lovely word makes a lovely name. Rosswell scratched his head. Something about water?

Tina nodded. Right. But it’s not cash with a ‘C.’ It’s Kash with a ‘K.’ Seems he can’t get the sheriff to investigate the sabotaging of the water systems in his subdivisions out in the county. He wants us to investigate.

You mean the alleged sabotaging?

No, I don’t mean alleged. I mean the actual sabotaging.

Rosswell said, Ah! That means he has money?

Paid up front. Real estate developing must be a good business around here. Tina mimicked peeling off bills from a big wad. I already deposited his check.

Rosswell grinned. Then, yes, it’s the actual sabotaging, although our county’s finest can’t see it.

I’m glad you recognize your wife is smart.

Okay, how many clients do we have counting Kash Hatton?

Tina shook her head. One.

Great. Everyone has to start with the first client.

Tina kissed Rosswell and handed him the tree, then put on her sunglasses. I’m driving over to the sheriff’s office to dish up some info. See you in a bit.

When you finish dishing in Jackson, we’ll do lunch over here. Rosswell waved to her. If you get back in time.

Tina paid no attention, instead hopping into her Deep Cherry Red Crystal Pearl Dodge Ram Supermax—nicknamed Big Red. She gunned the pickup into traffic, squealing her tires.

Chapter 4

Day 1: Monday morning, Offices of Carew & Carew Private Investigations,

Cape Girardeau, Missouri, continued

Judge Carew?

Rosswell wheeled around, toward the voice. Yes?

Standing on the sidewalk behind him, a woman Rosswell tagged as being in her late thirties stuck out her hand. Favor Tidewater.

Rosswell shifted the tree to his left hand, and then shook the woman’s gloved hand. She looked like a throwback from the sixties. Dark red business suit, black high heels, a tiny patent leather purse, and—Rosswell could hardly believe it—a pillbox hat. White.

Is this Jackie Kennedy’s reincarnation?

Glad to meet you, Ms. Tidewater. How may I help you?

She pointed to the sign. Are you open for business?

Yes, ma’am. Come inside. Rosswell bowed and pointed to the front door. Let me escort you into my office.

Once inside, he deposited the tree on his desk and motioned for her to have a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment. Then he walked through the offices, closed the windows and outside door, and flipped on the air conditioning, which, not wanting to run up the electric bill, he kept off. With a possible client sitting in his office, he turned it on full blast.

As he walked around his desk to sit down, he caught a whiff of her perfume.

Magnolia blossoms. Sweet.

Ms. Tidewater, I appreciate you coming to see me. Tell me, how did you find out about our detective agency?

Favor blinked. I saw your sign. She pointed toward the front door.

Rosswell smiled. Money well spent. That’s great. How may I help you? Resisting the