WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (18 page)

“What’s the status, Curtis?” Mike tucked the clipboard under his arm and pulled on his shoe covers and gloves. He was pleased to see the young officer was already wearing his. Mike began his notes as the young man led him toward the victim’s car.

“Sir, it appears the victim was stabbed in the lower back and his throat was cut. There may be other wounds. I can’t be sure. There’s a lot of blood inside the car. I checked for a pulse as soon as I arrived, but there was none. It appeared he had already bled out.”

Curtis stood back as Mike began to move. The young officer watched the detective’s every step, never touching the car. Mike surveyed the inside of the car from multiple angles. He retrieved his digital recorder and began his soft-spoken personal monologue.

Whenever possible, Mike liked to give the immediate crime scene a quick review before the Crime Scene Unit arrived. Looking intently, he noted what he could see of the victim’s facial features, his hair, and clothing. Mike made verbal notes of the faded burgundy polo shirt with an American flag pin, the calluses and the cut across the man’s right hand and the severed white cord dangling from the left ear bud still resting in the victim’s ear.

Round globules of blood in a variety of sizes dotted the top of the car. Some of the blood had collected and run down the rain trough until it reached the rear window. Then, traveling down the side of the car, it had formed a small puddle on the pavement next to the left rear tire.

The majority of the victim’s blood appeared to be pooled on the passenger side carpet and in the front passenger seat. Blood spatter, pulled downward along vertical surfaces by gravity, was scattered throughout the front compartment of the car.

Mike speculated and pieced together what he thought might have taken place to create this horrific scene. Realizing the officer was monitoring his movements, Mike asked, “Did you have on your gloves?”

Curtis wasn’t sure if he was speaking to him or into his recorder until Mike glanced up.

“When you checked for the pulse.”

“Oh, yes sir. I put my personal protective equipment on as soon as I arrived, and I was careful not to touch anything except the victim’s temporal pulse. Well, to be honest sir, I did have to touch the bottom of the power door lock on the driver’s door in order to be able to get to the victim’s head from the passenger side. I barely touched the lock,” Curtis said. “I was also careful not to step in the blood there on the driver side.”

“I’m glad you’re being observant. Can I assume you’ve called in the plate?”

“Yes, sir. Right before you got here. The car is registered to a ...” Curtis checked his pad, “Daran Hamid, thirty-three years old. The address is an apartment on the south side of town.”

“Now, let’s go back to the beginning. Tell me about when you arrived.” Mike’s attention was split between his notes and the young officer’s recall.

Looking again at his note pad, Curtis began, “I arrived at 18:24. I saw no movement in the area.”

Mike listened as Curtis recounted each of his efforts since his arrival on the scene.

“Have you seen any other activity in the area?”

“No, sir. Only EMS, the other officers and then you.”

“Has anyone other than you and me been near the victim’s car?”

“Only EMS since I’ve been on site. He verified there was no pulse. The maintenance supervisor said he went over to the victim’s car, but when he saw all the blood he became nauseated and backed away. That’s when he made the 911 call.”

Mike looked at the young man with pride. “Sounds like you’ve done a pretty good job so far.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You know, you don’t have to keep calling me sir.”

“Yes, sir. Uh—okay, Detective.”

Mike smiled. “I need you to make certain we don’t compromise the crime scene by allowing anyone in here that isn’t necessary to the investigation. You may have heard I’m a bit of a stickler for procedures.”

“I’ve heard comments.”

“I’ll bet you have, and likely more than just comments.” Mike smiled, realizing the officer was trying hard to impress him. “If you have any questions, see me immediately.” Mike gave him his card. “Be watching for the Crime Scene Unit and Detective Wallace. Do you know Norm?”

“No sir, but I know he’s your partner.”

“That’s right. He’s a big guy.” Mike held his hands out and up as though he was describing Bigfoot, “He’ll have on a tie, but it will be loose around his neck. You can’t miss him. He’s bigger than everyone else. Let me know as soon as he arrives, and remember, no one else gets inside the first perimeter except the crime scene techs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks, Curtis. We’ll talk again after Norm gets here.”

Half expecting the boyish cop to salute him, Mike turned and walked toward his car trying not to smile. He wanted to ask Curtis how long he’d been on the force, but he had a pretty good idea he was in his first year.

Glad to have found very little to criticize about him, Mike wished for a way to capture and preserve the young officer’s zeal.

Hillcrest Apartments

Nashville, Tennessee

Tuesday Evening

Abdul pushed in the key Sajid had mailed him and unlocked the deadbolt. He stepped into the apartment far enough to shut the door behind him. He was immediately disgusted by the smell of decayed food and the muddle the young men had chosen to live in.

He stared out the filthy front window as he waited for their return. He was becoming more and more infuriated by what he saw around him in the apartment. The young students were allowing themselves to become lazy. The apartment was a wreck. He could not bring himself to even sit on the furniture for he knew his suit cost more than the entire contents of this apartment.

Cigarette butts overflowed the ashtrays. Trash was everywhere, and the sink was full of food-covered dishes.

He stood at the window contemplating and awaiting the students’ arrival.

These immature boys may not be ready for the mammoth task facing them. I should have come sooner; I should have assumed they would need my guidance. Farid cannot know of this. This chaos would not bode well for my reputation. This must be corrected.

He checked the time and realized he would have to leave now in order to find the city of LaVergne and The World Spice Company.

Allah, guide me.

He slammed the apartment door behind him and locked it.

Cumberland Plaza

Nashville, Tennessee

Tuesday Evening

“When the photographer and the Crime Scene Unit are finished, we’ll need a few of your officers to walk the scene,” Mike told Sergeant Hill. “Until then, I want you to have some of your men hit the streets to canvass businesses and any citizens within a three block perimeter. Talk to anyone who’s been in the area today from about 1500 until now. We have very little to go on so far. Get us names and numbers and let them know either Norm or I will get back with them very soon. As you know, ask the officers to look for any video equipment that could have recorded anything of value.”

“No problem,” Hill said. “I’ve also got two officers documenting all these vehicles on level six, and I’ll get with the print techs when they arrive and get them in the loop. What do you want me to tell the people who are waiting on these cars?”

“Let them know to stay in the lobby and we will release their cars as soon as we can get them cleared.”

“Okay.”

“Also,” Mike said, “we need to assign a few officers to canvas the building and search for anyone who may be here with the victim’s employer or anyone who might know the victim. We suspect his name is Daran Hamid, thirty-three years old. According to the building’s maintenance supervisor, the victim worked for a janitorial company that cleans some of the offices here. Check with the maintenance guy; he may know which of the offices the victim’s employer was contracted to clean. You might also call the janitorial company’s office; they may have an emergency number since it’s after business hours. See if they can tell you where the victim was supposed to be working tonight.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Hill said.

Mike walked back to the victim’s car and continued gathering evidence.

Carol Spencer was rolling her suitcase-sized bag of photographic gear up onto the sixth level when she saw the flashes. She scanned the area and spotted Mike leaning over the front windshield of the victim’s car. She approached him from behind.

“Are you trying to insult me in front of all these officers?” Carol asked.

“What?” Mike shoved both hands into his jacket pockets. He prepared himself for what he knew was the impending storm. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to
say
anything, Detective.”

“Oooo—kay.” Mike knew that tone. “What did I do?”

“That.” She nodded toward his jacket pocket.

“What that?” Mike turned the palms of his hands upward, knowing well she was referring to his digital camera, but trying his best to play dumb.

“In your
pocket
.” She shook her head, disgusted.

He looked down, and began to pat his jacket pockets. Then he stopped. “Oh—that.”

“Yeah. That.”

“I’ve uh, always used it. I told you before.”

“Yes, I know. And, you don’t need to use it,” Carol assured him.

“It’s, uh—a habit. I need it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Well, yeah I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, Carol. I really do.”

“Why?”

“I have to do some of my own shots, okay?”

“No, you don’t. You could tell me when you want something, and I’ll shoot it for you. It’s why I’m here. It’s my job. I’m good. I’m a pro. I actually get
paid
for this.”

“It's not the same,” Mike said.

“No, you are right there, Detective,” Carol said, placing her fist on her hip. “My shots are a hell of a lot better than you’re going to get from that S9.95 toy.”

“More than likely. And by the way, I paid a lot more than S9.95. Thank you.” Mike attempted to inject the most miniscule bit of humor.

“My shots are in a different league.” Carol held up her weapon of choice like it was an assault rifle. “This Nikon D2X Digital SLR won’t even be available to the public until sometime next year. Between camera and lenses, there’s over twenty-five thousand dollars of quality in that case.” Her tone of confidence elevated as she spoke. “I have a total of seven years photography training and experience. The D.A.’s office expects the best. With me—they get it. And, by the way, so do you—no extra charge.”

“Okay. Okay. You're right.” Mike held up a hand. “Yours would definitely be better.”

Carol’s speech pattern had convinced him he was chalking up a loss.

“Don’t start patronizing me, detective.”

“Shhhhit. I can't win.” Mike knew the game was on.

“Detective, you definitely need more training.” She stepped closer to him.

“I’m sure that's what half the section says behind my back,” Mike said, almost joking.

“I don’t mean
that
, and you know damn well they don’t mean it either. You're an excellent detective, Michael. That's not the issue. Some of them are upset because you’ve progressed faster than they did. Your six years with CID doesn’t mean shit to them. Those guys go by ‘street years’.”

“Yeah? Most of my
street years
were spent in the streets of Basrah, Duhok, Mosul and later in Mogadishu. We were doing the same investigations and making the same arrests in those non-English speaking hell-holes that these guys were doing back here in the so-called civilized world. But, they should know—the guns-to-suspects ratio is a bit higher there.
Everybody’s
carrying, and their favorite target is American camo. Personally, I’ll take Music City. It offers a much longer life expectancy.”

“I don’t blame you,” Carol said, attempting to bring down his elevated tone. “But, I still think you need another kind of training,” Carol whispered using a sensual tone.

“Yeah? What kind is that?” Mike calmed his voice.

“You need my kind of training,” Carol said confidently, reeling him in. Lately, she seized any opportunity to try and elevate their relationship.

“Photography?” Mike said, with a look that confirmed he knew better.

“No, smart ass. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Remind me.”

“Think about it, Detective Neal. You know you need a more regular dose of my training sessions.”

“Oh. Yeah. You bet I do,” Mike said with a sneer. “Hang on. Let me get that cleared with Moretti and I’ll get right back to you.”

“You’re incurable,” Carol said.

“Absolutely. And by the way,” Mike knew he was about to end Carol’s attempt to get to him. He nodded in the direction of the uniforms on level five. “Don't tell Wendy down there that I’m taking my own photos.”

“Why is that?”

“I also do my own sketches before the techs arrive and if she suspected, it might piss her off.”

“You’re worried about what
she
thinks? But you can stand there in front of me snapping shots with that—that Brownie Instamatic without concern?”

“I didn’t mean for you to see that. I didn’t know you were here yet.”

“You don’t trust us, do you?”

“That’s not it. That is absolutely not the point.”

“It appears that way.”

“Well, it's not,” Mike raised his voice.

“Shhh,” Carol said wrinkling her brow and looking over Mike’s shoulder at the officers.

He took a huge breath and looked at the floor. Carol could tell he was no longer in the game. He looked up with a different face.

Straining to get it out, he hesitated then said slowly, “I’m concerned we’ll miss something.”

Carol nodded her understanding and allowed Mike to talk.

“I’m afraid we’ll miss some small piece of trace evidence, and it will end up costing us the case. I can’t.” Mike stopped and tightened his lips.

Watching the battle with his emotions swell, Carol knew his motivation. She cared too much to let him continue. She placed her hand on his arm.