Free Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 01 - Courting Murder by Bill Hopkins

the dispatcher on her private line. Same thing as calling the sheriff. Almost.
    “The car came in about an hour before you and Ollie got here. It didn’t stay long.”
    Rosswell moved closer to Hermie to ask a question. “You let them go through?”
    The beginnings of a pout started on Hermie’s face. “Y’all didn’t put up any yellow tape or crime scene signs around the area. The sheriff didn’t declare it off-limits. That’s a rule, you know.” He focused on his shoes, hiding his hangdog look. “How was I supposed to know that people couldn’t go up there?” Despite Hermie averting his face, Rosswell could smell America’s favorite drug on his breath.
    “No one’s blaming you for anything.” What Rosswell really wanted to ask him was where he was hiding with his bottle when the car came in. Frizz should’ve given Hermie instructions on what to watch for before the crew packed up and headed for town that morning. Here was another reason the sheriff needed Rosswell on his team. Rosswell wouldn’t have forgotten a detail like that.
    Hermie didn’t raise his head. “Silver.”
    “What?”
    “It was a silver car.”
    “What kind?”
    “Pretty new. Had a chicken claw. Maybe a Malibu.” Hermie swiveled his head to stare at a large oak tree with squirrels running up and down its trunk.
    Rosswell said, “Chicken claw?”
    Hermie let fire an alcoholic belch. “Yeah, one of those things.” He made motions with his fingers that Rosswell couldn’t follow.
    This interview ranks up there with the Titanic .
    Rosswell said, “You mean the make of car?”
    “Maybe not a Malibu,” Hermie said. “Could’ve been a Lexus or a Kia or an Infiniti. Maybe a Taurus. They all look alike.” Still inspecting the tree, he expelled a huge sigh. “No imagination anymore. I could spot your orange car a mile off, but today everyone else has to drive a car that looks like every other car and a dull color to boot.” Hermie shook his head and his jowls flapped. “Back in my day, we had cars that were colorful, and you could tell a Ford from a Chevy or a Plymouth. I remember when my dad’s car—”
    “Did it have Missouri tags?”
    “Yes, he always bought Missouri tags. He lived in Missouri.”
    “I mean the car that drove out of here.” Rosswell ground his teeth. Hermie answered immediately. “I don’t know, but it was silver.”
    “The license plate was silver?”
    “No, the car was silver. I just told you that.” Hermie’s explanation was growing harder to follow.
    Rosswell said, “Where were you when the car came into the park?”
    “See … I … I was checking on a few things back yonder.” He waved an arm in the direction of the woods. “I didn’t actually watch them come in.”
    “Them? Did you see the car leave?”
    “Oh, yes, sir, I was right here.” He pointed to the gazebo. “I saw the car leave all right.”
    “Them. You said them. How many people were in the car?”
    Hermie closed his eyes and then rubbed his eyelids. Maybe that’s what he did to make answers appear in his head. “One.” His eyes popped open. They were still as bloodshot as they were that morning.
    “Did you see who was driving the car?”
    “You got that straight. Couldn’t miss that.”
    “Tell me.”
    Hermie said, “Big. The driver was big.”
    “Woman or man?”
    “I couldn’t tell.”
    “Race?”
    “No, they were driving pretty slow.”
    “I mean was the driver white, black, brown, what?”
    “Oh. I couldn’t tell. I guess white.”
    Rosswell said, “There was no one else in the car besides the driver?”
    “Not that I could tell.”
    That narrowed it down to maybe several hundred suspects: A big person, maybe white, driving a silver car that looked like a Chevy or Plymouth or Ford or some other brand with tags from somewhere, maybe Missouri. Rosswell pondered how many actual cars there were in the area that fit that description. And how many people fit that description. No maybe about it. There