Occasionally, the docket in associate court was overrun with cases; and Tuesday was one of those days. Elsie had been so busy that she hadn’t had a chance to leave the courthouse all day, not even during the lunch hour; and the last thing she’d consumed was the coffee she had shared with Breeon and Madeleine that morning. By five o’clock, she was tired and hungry, more than ready to head over to Ashlock’s house for a relaxing supper.
After she locked up her office, Elsie slipped into the women’s restroom on the second floor of the courthouse for a touchup. She pulled her hair out of the elastic band that held it in a ponytail and ran a brush through it with quick strokes. She had just unearthed a lipstick when she heard her phone buzz.
It was from Ashlock: a brief text that read I need you over here. Now.
She stared at the phone. It wasn’t a booty call, that much was certain. This was business. Serious business.
With her lipstick case still in her fist, Elsie grabbed her purse and took off, running for the front door of the old courthouse. She sped down the stone steps and across the street, to the Barton Police Department.
She raced up the stairs to the detective department, where the longtime receptionist, Patsy, greeted her.
“He’s not here.”
Elsie paused, catching her breath. Running was not her sport. “But he just texted.”
“I know, honey. He told me to tell you: go to that old motel by the highway. The Rancho.”
Elsie turned and headed back down the stairs she’d just ascended. She found her car in the courthouse parking lot and headed for the highway.
No need to seek directions. Everyone in the small town of Barton knew the location of the Rancho Motel. It was famous: a no-tell-hotel for illicit romance. If the truth be told, Elsie had occasionally checked into the Rancho in her youth, when she still lived under her parents’ roof but had grown too old for the backseat of a car.
When Elsie pulled into the parking lot, she saw the familiar vehicles: Ashlock’s police sedan, the county sheriff’s patrol car, two other black-and-white patrol cars belonging to the Barton PD. Also, a shiny new van emblazoned with the letters: KY2: The Place For you!
If the news buzzards were circling, something was going on. Something bad.
She surveyed the Rancho. It was set off I-44, the neon sign flashing at half strength; only fifty percent of the bulbs flashed out the motel’s name. A painted placard boasted Kitchenettes, Cable TV, Daily/Weekly/Monthly Rates. Behind the vacancy sign, a dozen cabins perched in a semicircle. Ashlock’s car sat beside the ninth cabin. A strip of DO NOT ENTER tape stretched across the entry.
Elsie shot off a text: Ash. At Rancho. You in there?
No answer.
Sitting in the car, she debated whether she should approach. Elsie didn’t want to storm the crime scene; she knew important work was going on, work she couldn’t do. Collecting physical evidence was the job of the police department. She wasn’t a forensic investigator. Getting the evidence before a jury was her job.
She picked up her cell phone, willing it to buzz. Maybe she should just sit there for a bit. Surely he’d come out and bring her up to speed; he had practically ordered her to join him.
Ashlock didn’t appear, though she waited patiently. Elsie opened the door of her Ford Escort, shivering in the November wind. She wished she’d thought to bring a coat, but it was back in her office at the courthouse.
When she exited the vehicle, the driver of the KY2 van hopped out and began to approach her. Elsie jumped back into her car and locked it.
The newsman looked like a kid, barely old enough to attend college. She could see the gel in his close-cropped hair. He rapped on her window.
“Hey,” he said, smiling. Elsie ignored him. She pulled out her phone and checked her emails.
“Can I ask you a couple of questions?” The young man’s head was so close to her car window, his breath fogged the glass. Elsie shot him a glance and shook her head, then returned her attention to her cell phone.
The young man persisted. “I’m an intern at KY2. Tad Brockman. Are you with the police department?”
Elsie dropped her phone into her bag and dug inside for a mint. It took a minute before she unearthed a box of Tic Tacs. She popped one and sucked on it.
“If you’re a family member, I’d really like to interview you. The girl isn’t here, anyway. I heard on the police band that they took her to the hospital.”
Young Mr. Brockman was a fair source of information, Elsie thought. She turned on the ignition and rolled her window down an inch.
“What hospital?”
“Barton Memorial? How are you connected to the case?”
Elsie rolled the window up, put the car into Drive, and pulled to the hotel exit. Fortunately, she was moving at low speed; because a woman driving a car with out-of-state license plates tore into the lot, nearly clipping Elsie’s headlight.
She hit the brake and rolled down the window. Shouting at the car as it sped into the Rancho lot, Elsie cried: “What the fuck?”
The woman slowed her car to an idle, right in front of the room marked with police tape; then the car reversed, swung around Elsie, and pulled back onto the highway.
Elsie watched the woman go. She’d noted that the driver had red hair, and the plates on the car were from Alabama. She wondered whether she should’ve recorded the license plate number; but she brushed it off. It was too late. Elsie wasn’t a traffic cop. And she needed to get to Barton Memorial. She turned onto the highway, heading in the opposite direction of the Alabama car.
Ten minutes later, she arrived at Barton Memorial.
It was a modest local facility, almost phased out of operation by the major medical centers in larger communities in Southwest Missouri. Barton Memorial no longer housed a surgical facility; they had been pushed out by competition. Even the maternity ward had closed a decade ago. At this point, the hospital had a small ER that served as a referral base to Joplin or Springfield. People with minor or moderate injuries were received and treated at Barton. As long as a patient didn’t need sophisticated care, Barton would take them.
Barton Memorial also performed examinations of assault victims.
And victims of rape.