A Killing at the Creek: An Ozarks Mystery

ELSIE BUCKLED HERSELF into the front seat of Ashlock’s car. She’d awakened twice the night before, tossing in her bed with nervous anxiety about the challenges of their mission in Tulsa. But now that they were embarking, she found herself in high spirits. She nearly hooted as she said, “I feel like a kid skipping school. Oh my God. Leaving the courthouse on a Wednesday morning, and hitting the road to Tulsa. This is cool.”

“Can you turn up the air conditioner any higher?” Chuck said from the backseat.

Ashlock shook his head. “This is as good as it gets.”

In misery, Chuck lolled his head on his neck. “Are you a masochist? Get it fixed.”

Ashlock adjusted his sunglasses with his right hand. “Car doesn’t belong to me. This old sedan is the property of the City of Barton, Missouri. Got to make do with what we’ve got.”

“I don’t even care,” said Elsie, rolling the window down on the passenger side and letting the hot wind blow through her hair. “I’m on a road trip to Tulsa. Ash honey, pull into the Sonic so I can get me a big old Diet Coke. I love their crushed ice.”

Ashlock did as she asked, and once Elsie had her Coke in hand, they hit the Interstate and headed west.

They drove in silence for several minutes. Once outside the city limits, Elsie watched the countryside fly past. The roadside was blanketed with Queen Anne’s lace, dotted with clumps of black-­eyed Susans. Colorful roadside tents, striped green and white, red and yellow, stood empty, awaiting delivery of their seasonal fireworks inventory.

“Hey, Ash,” Elsie asked, as they zoomed past a bright red and white tent, “why can’t they sell fireworks all year round? Is it state or local?”

He smiled. “Look at the lawyer, asking for legal advice. I know we’ve got a city ordinance banning them in Barton. There’s county and state regulation—­federal, too. Gunpowder. Serious business.” He winked at her behind the sunglasses. “So who’s running the show at the office, with you and Harris out of pocket?”

Elsie snickered. “You won’t believe this. Madeleine has to cover one of the courts this morning, since we’re on the road. She’s in Associate Division 1. Handling traffic tickets.” Elsie threw back her head and howled.

“Why is that so funny?” Chuck asked.

“Let’s just say it’s unprecedented.”

Elsie read Ashlock’s case reports as they drove. When the road flattened out and they made their way across the Oklahoma state line, Elsie asked Ashlock, “What’s the plan?”

“We’ll check out the bus. It’s impounded at the Oklahoma Highway Patrol facility in Tulsa. Then we’ll head over to the casino where the boy left the bus. I’ve set up an appointment to talk to the guy in charge.”

“What does he know?”

“He’s supposed to line up ­people who had contact with the kid.”

Leaning forward, Chuck asked Ashlock, “What if they hold out on us? What if the manager doesn’t line up any witnesses?”

Ashlock made eye contact with him in the rearview mirror. “Then I’ll hunt them down, I reckon.”

A McDonald’s appeared, stretching across and over the highway.

“Pull over at this McDonald’s, baby,” Elsie said. “I gotta pee.”

“We’re not that far from Tulsa,” Harris complained. “Can’t you wait?”

But Ashlock was already in the exit lane. Elsie said, “If I could wait, I wouldn’t have asked.”

To the silence in the backseat, she added, “Aspartame irritates the bladder.”

Ashlock shook his head. “Honey, why do you drink all that diet stuff, then?”

Elsie sighed. “Because I love it.”

They exited the vehicle and trod upstairs to the restaurant, which looked over the highway. Elsie detoured into the women’s room, while Chuck checked out the Cherokee Indian souvenirs.

When Elsie emerged from the women’s room, she saw Ashlock engaged in conversation with a woman at the ice cream booth. Elsie sidled up to him.

“Never saw him before,” the woman was saying.

“Take a good look at the photo,” Ashlock urged, holding it where the woman could see it clearly. “It would have been recently, just a few days ago, that the boy might have passed through.”

“No,” the woman said, steadfastly refusing to look at the mug shot. “I can’t remember every face I see.”

Ashlock gave Elsie a sidelong glance, and as they turned to go, she whispered, “What’s up?”

“Just a shot. It makes sense that he would’ve stopped here. But I can’t get anyone to confirm it.”

“Your ice cream buddy wasn’t being very helpful.”

“No ma’am, she was not.”

“Maybe you should love her up a little.” She squeezed his arm. “Works on me.”

A chuckle escaped from Ashlock as they surveyed the McDonald’s counter, where a short blond girl stood alone. “Maybe you’d rather work your magic on that little cutie at the counter.”

“Tried it. No luck.” But he gave the girl a penetrating look. “Knows more than she’s saying, I think.”

Chuck walked up, breakfast burrito in hand. “This isn’t bad.”

He proffered the bag in his hand as they turned to leave, adding, “It came with a hash brown. Anybody want it?”

“Yeah,” Elsie said, reaching into the bag. Before taking a bite, she said, “Yum. You sure you don’t want it?”

Chuck shook his head. “Deep-­fried. Processed.”

Elsie split the patty in half and handed a piece to Ashlock, who ate it in a single bite. “Thanks,” he said.

When they returned to the vehicle, Elsie leaned back in the seat, drowsy from the morning heat. She dozed the rest of the way to Tulsa, awakening when Ashlock pulled up to the Oklahoma State Highway Patrol building. A state trooper escorted them to the facility where the bus was impounded.

The bus loomed before them, its bright yellow paint still glistening and new, the black letters stating PUBLIC SCHOOLS OF ROGERS ARKANSAS standing out in bold relief. Ashlock pulled out a camera and began to snap photographs of the exterior.

Soberly, Elsie stared at the rust-­colored stains on the bumper, forcibly reminded of the woman in the creek bed. She took an involuntary step back from the bloody bus. Was it the juvenile? she pondered. Did he spill this blood? Or was someone else responsible: the mystery man with the jailhouse tattoos?

Ashlock stood by his bag of equipment, snapping on latex gloves. “Elsie?”

She looked up at him. “What?”

“If you all want to go into the vehicle, you’ll need to wear some protective gear.”

Elsie and Chuck followed Ashlock to the doorway of the bus. When it opened, Elsie was assaulted by the sight of dried blood, saturating the mats, discoloring the floor, and giving off a coppery smell. Elsie recoiled, backing away.

“I don’t need to go on it,” she said.

Chuck stood behind her. “Me neither, man. You’re the doctor.”

Ashlock nodded. As he ascended the steps into the interior of the bus, he said over his shoulder, “This is going to take a while.”

“We’ll wait,” Elsie said.

Chuck took a look around. “There’s nothing for us to do here. I’ll hitch us a ride to the casino.” He stuck his head into the doorway of the bus and called to Ashlock, “We’re going on to the casino. We’ll poke around, wait for you there.”

Elsie followed Chuck out of the enormous garage, tension easing with every step that took her further from the bloody bus. As she beat a retreat, she reproached herself for being gutless, escaping the hard reality of the crime with Chuck, while leaving Ashlock to do the dirty work. She’d seen plenty of blood and corpses in the evidence she’d handled at trial, but looking at evidentiary photos was vastly different from confronting the real thing. For the first time in years, she entertained a moment of self-­doubt; maybe Madeleine was right, maybe she wasn’t ready to prosecute a murder case.

Numbly, she followed Chuck to the reception area of the patrol headquarters. She remained in a funk, barely listening as Chuck used his big city schmooze to charm a female trooper into giving them a ride to the Jackpot Casino, outside the city limits of Tulsa.

From the front seat of the patrol vehicle, he turned to Elsie with a mischievous grin. “We’re going to have a little fun. Okay?”