WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (10 page)

“Ron was from Chattanooga, East Ridge actually.” Mike chuckled. “I remember the day when I first saw him. We were gathered outside the mess tent and I heard him answer when the Captain was questioning some of the transfers. I remember telling one of the other investigators, “Man, with an accent like that, he’s gotta be from Tennessee.”

Mike stared at his hot chocolate as he swirled it around the mug, smiling.

“He was so funny. He was always up; always in a good mood, a real joy to be around.” Mike nodded again. “I remember once when we were in Mosul on leave. We walked up to these two beautiful American nurses.

Ron said, ‘Wow. This is amazing. You look just like my third wife.’ The girls smiled at each other and the one he was targeting said, ‘How many times have you been married, soldier?’ Ron leaned close to her with his sexiest look, winked and said in a soft voice, ‘twice.’ I about lost it. The girls did too.”

Carol laughed out loud. “Did he go back to East Ridge after Iraq?”

Mike’s joyful expression fell from his face, and he was quiet. He looked up at Carol, took a long breath and said, “Yeah—but he had to go home in a box.”

Carol gasped. She saw tears collecting in his eyes as he swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry, Mike.”

Mike’s lips tightened and he closed his eyes, forcing the tears down his cheeks.

“He was such a great guy.” Mike turned to Carol. “Why? Why?” He asked Carol the question he’d been asking himself for ten years.

Carol leaned closer and wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed him on his cheek and held her face hard against his. “We don’t know, Mike. We never know why.”

After a few minutes, Mike gathered his thoughts and began again.

“We talked about getting together; going fishing and hunting. He was gonna teach me to fly fish in the Hiwassee River. Living so close, it would have been easy to stay in touch after the Army. We even discussed moving him to Nashville. We were looking forward to life after CID.” Mike shook his head. “It’s been ten years ago this month. When I recall it, the pain still feels the same.”

“What happened?”

Mike knew it was time. It was time to get it out. He stared into his mug.

“Ron and I took two of our team and left for Tal ‘Afar. We were going there to investigate the alleged molesting of an Iraqi girl by an American soldier. We arrived at the location and split into two teams in order to canvas the area. We spoke with some of the neighbors and confirmed the location of the family’s home.

“Ron and I entered the building and as Ron turned the corner to our left, he walked into it. It was a single shooter with an AK47. Ron was hit three times in his vest and once in his neck. The bullet struck his carotid and blood exploded out of the right side of his neck.”

“I dropped back behind the corner and radioed the other two investigators with our location. I guess when the man realized he’d shot Ron, he threw his rifle down and began to shout. When I heard the weapon hit the floor, I came around the corner with him in my sights. I told him in Arabic to shut up, but he kept shouting. I kicked the rifle out of his reach and went back to Ron. He looked bad. His blood was spreading across the floor. I tried to put pressure on the wound and stop the flow, but it was no use. The whole side of his neck was torn open.

“I turned back to the man and shouted over his ranting again for him to shut up. I wanted him quiet and honestly—I wanted him to die for what he had taken from me.

“I guess adrenaline was flooding my body. I was overwhelmed with anger. I couldn’t help myself.” Mike stopped talking and looked at Carol.

“I saw him make a move in my peripheral vision. He was already on his knees. He leaned out in the direction of the rifle. I think now he may have been begging for his life or praying, but at the time I was looking for an excuse. I was looking for a reason to kill him. That was it.”

“I shot him four times, center mass. I went back to Ron. It was too late. He was gone.”

Carol pulled him close and held him.

“I devote my life to try and find people who commit the ultimate human crime and bring them to justice. I myself have killed, and not met justice.”

“Mike, it was war. It’s not the same.”

“He was unarmed.”

“Yeah, he’d been unarmed for what, maybe five or ten seconds? You thought he was going for the rifle again. It's not the same. It’s war. It changes everything.”

“But, I lied about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t say anything about him dropping the weapon.”

“Mike, you didn’t lie about it. You knew no one else was there to corroborate and they wouldn’t understand.”

“I don’t expect anyone to understand, who hasn’t been there.”

“Absolutely,” Carol said. “How
could
anyone understand who hasn’t fought in a war dodging bullets at every turn, or had to watch his best friend bleed to death in front of him.”

Mike looked into her eyes.

“No one else alive knows about this—no one.” Mike paused. “Now,
you
know.”

“It’s safe with me, Mike. You know this. But, you can't look at it like it was a homicide.”

“When I came back in ’94,” Mike hesitated, “my mind was still on Connie and the trauma caused by my father’s failures. Then I tried to start a normal life, whatever the hell that is. I guess I was able to force this into my subconscious.

“The nightmares started almost a year ago; right after Norm and I took a domestic call and found a Middle Eastern man on his front porch over in South Nashville. He’d been shot in the chest with a large caliber weapon. He looked a lot like the Iraqi who killed Ron and I guess the resemblance must have triggered it.”

“Mike, you’re not at fault with this. You thought he was going for his weapon. You had to stop him. It was you or him. You’ve got to let this go. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“Then why after ten years is it still haunting me?”

“After what you’ve told me tonight, I’m not sure it’s the killing of the Iraqi man haunting you as much as your difficulties letting your friend Ron go. Are you feeling responsible in some way for Ron’s death?”

Mike was quiet. His face began to tighten. “He saved my life.” Mike hung his head in his hands.

Carol gave Mike some time before she spoke. “Mike, you can’t blame yourself for Ron’s death.”

Mike sat mute for a while.

“Through my entire life, I’ve had a difficult time trying to love.” He paused. “And for some reason—I cannot understand whether it’s destiny or The Wizard behind the curtain, but somebody’s got a grudge. All I’ve got to show for my efforts is a long line of deaths and relationship failures.”

“What do you mean?” Carol asked. She knew some of Mike’s past from their discussions, but she also knew, right now, he needed to talk.

“First, it was my Dad. I could never satisfy him. He could never bring himself to be pleased with me or anything I did. Then Mom, always the great mediator, passed away so early. This caused my father and me to grow even further apart.

“Then, Ron. Ron was my brother—truly my brother. I owed him my life and I lost him. I was supposed to repay the debt. I was there, but I failed.

“Connie. God, help me. I lost my baby sister; my friend. I swore to her when she was twelve years old and scared, I would always be there to protect her. I let her down and my father, once again, let me down.” Mike wiped his eyes with his napkin.

Carol listened patiently, wanting to console him and tell him he was wrong. She wrapped her arm under his, and laid her head on his shoulder.

“I've always heard ‘time changes things’,” Mike paused, “but so far, if anything gets changed, I have to do it myself.”

Mike drained his mug.

“For me, time hasn’t been a lot of help.” Mike locked on Carol’s eyes as he brushed a lock of brunette behind her ear. “Are you sure you want in on this dysfunctional mess?”

“I’m sure,” Carol said without hesitation. She kissed him.

I-65

South Nashville

Tuesday Midnight

He pressed the cruise control as the speedometer of his pickup reached seventy, then shifted his body into a more comfortable position for the long drive home.

Brad Evans chuckled as he thought of the cash he’d pocketed during this week’s poker marathon. The beer-buzz from the six-pack he’d disposed of during the games was gone. He was feeling quite pleased with the evening and his display of Texas Hold ‘Em skills.

The long drive up to Nashville from his farm in the southern part of the state was worth it to spend a little downtime with old friends. These get-togethers were even more important to him since Julie’s death.

Brad enjoyed recalling the memories of their happy years, but he tried not to think of Julie’s death. Thoughts of her passing fed feelings of hatred for the gangster that ran the stop sign and slammed into her car, ending her life and ruining his forever.

“If the son of a bitch gets his due, I could at least have a chance to find some peace,” Brad professed to the Assistant District Attorney. “But, no. The liberal laws of our democracy will allow some simple procedural mistake to wash away the sins of the guilty bastard, and he’ll get off with a hand slap. The court knows he killed her. What’s the problem? Hang his ass, now.”

In the weeks following the wreck, Brad came close to a nervous breakdown. Had it not been for the support from his friends, he was sure he would have lost all control. For a while, he was obsessed with thoughts of killing the man who destroyed his life. It seemed fair at the time. Brad’s friends convinced him to drop the idea and focus on what Julie would have wanted for him and his future.

That perspective and the generous support from his friends served him well for a time, but recently, he’d started missing Julie more. Maybe it was the lonely nights at home without the warmth of her touch, or the sound of her soft and comforting voice as she sang and played the upright piano he’d bought her for their fourteenth, their ivory anniversary. And maybe it was the fact he felt robbed and thought that he deserved compensation for his enormous loss.

Traveling Interstate 65 at this hour, Brad focused on driving safely and within the speed limit knowing most people out at this time of night are under the influence of something, or they’re up to no good, or they’re cops. He wasn’t in the mood to encounter anyone on this list.

He was still inside Davidson County when the light from his truck’s bright beams illuminated a blurred movement at his two o’clock. He glanced in time to see a figure in dark clothes wearing a black & gold cap climbing the embankment with a bag in his hand. Looking back to the road ahead to check his path, he again jerked his head to his right and rear to verify his suspicions.

That black and gold head gear; those were the colors of the gang banger that killed Julie. These thoughtless asocial punks are painting up the highways and defacing buildings with their damn gang symbols.

Brad’s moonlighting job involved removal of destructive nocturnal animals. He knew his rifle was there, but he reached behind the seat with his left hand to confirm it. His adrenaline pumped his heart rate up with the acceleration of the truck and the anticipation of some justice. The next exit was less than a half-mile away and fortunately the banger had not yet begun his vandal’s craft. There was time.

Brad scanned from left to right for signs of potential witnesses or law enforcement as he coasted to the top of the exit ramp. He pushed down the left-turn signal and came to a complete stop at the top of the ramp. He accelerated across the overpass, continuing to scan the roadways.

Driving past the northbound entrance ramp, he took the industrial road that paralleled the Interstate highway. He chose to risk a bit more than the speed limit in order to arrive before the gang banger was finished. With no other vehicles in sight, he turned off his lights before cresting the hill and then slowed to a stop across the freeway from the retaining wall. He was right. The little shit was already at work spraying the wall with his gang symbols.

Brad pushed himself across the truck cab to the passenger side as he looked back at the freeway and the dark figure who was now busy with his work. He’d chosen his concrete canvas thoughtfully. He was painting in an area between the highway lights and one which was shadowed by the overpass of a perpendicular bridge.

Brad calculated the distance at just over one hundred yards. Shifting forward to the edge of the seat, he pulled the seat back forward and reached behind it to grasp the handle on the polymer gun case. Lifting the case and easing it onto the seat next to him, he popped the four latches and raised the lid. The rifle with its ultra-light stock and mounted optics was suspended securely between two thick layers of foam cushioning. The foam protected the match grade marksman’s instrument from shock.

Brad removed the rifle, its sound suppressor, and one round of .223 caliber Remington Soft Point ammo. He closed one latch and placed the case on the floor in front of the seat. He carefully rotated the suppressor until it grabbed the matching threads at the business end of the rifle’s barrel. Brad opened the chamber and inserted the cartridge. He shoved home the bolt.

A distant flash of lightning caught Brad’s eye as it crawled the horizon breaking itself into a dozen electric cracks across the sky. The prolonged rumble of the trailing thunder, his adrenaline, and the rifle in his hands called up Brad’s memories of Vietnam. Earlier in the evening Brad watched the weather girl on Channel Four as she predicted that the approaching cold front’s progress would slow, and its arrival would be delayed until the hours near dawn.

Brad’s training told him that the current weather conditions and the distance to target were acceptable and there should be no concern, other than discovery.

He lowered the power window on the driver’s side. He repositioned the truck’s rear view and driver’s side mirrors so they could alert him to the lights of approaching traffic. The roadway was clear.

From the passenger position, Brad stretched out across the seat, allowing his left elbow to rest on the cushion of the center armrest and the rifle barrel to gently meet the window frame of the driver-side door. Only the suppressor was exposed outside the window.