WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (23 page)

“That’s my name.” Mullins kept his seat.

“I’m Detective Norm Wallace and this is Detective Mike Neal. Can we get you a soda?”

“Nope. Got one.”

“Good. Mr. Mullins,” Mike said, “may I call you Jim?”

“I go by Jimmy Dan or JD.”

“Sure. Jimmy Dan. We’re investigating a crime and we’d like to ask you some questions to see if you might know anything that could help us. Will that be okay with you?”

“I guess so,” Mullins said, knowing it would be in his best interest to cooperate and keep his comments short.

“We appreciate you coming down to talk with us, Jimmy Dan. I’m terrible at trying to take notes and talk at the same time and I can’t read Detective Wallace’s handwriting,” Mike said, reaching into his jacket pocket and starting the digital recorder before he removed it, “so if you don’t mind I’d like to record our conversation. That’s all right isn’t it?” Mike laid the recorder on the table between them.

“I guess so.” Jimmy Dan looked at the recorder, and then back at Mike.

“Thanks, Jimmy Dan. I’m told you live out by Percy Priest Lake.”

“That’s right.”

“Are you a sportsman? You hunt and fish?” Mike asked.

“Sometimes. Can we get to the point of all this?”

“Sure, Jimmy Dan.” Mike paused for a moment. “Do you know a young lady named Sarah Jennings?”

Mullins hesitated. “Yeah.”

“Do you see her socially?” Mike asked.

“Not any more.”

“But, you used to?”

“Yeah. Is she is some kind of trouble?”

“No,” Mike said, and left it at that.

“What do you know about a man named Daran Hamid?”

“I know he’s a camel jockey and he’s been seeing Sarah. That’s all I want to know. What difference does it make?” Mullins said, unashamed of his bigotry.

“Where were you this evening between four o’clock and seven?”

“What’s this about?”

“Just answer the questions,” Norm barked with authority.

“I got off work at four o’clock, and I went home.” Mullins looked from Mike to Norm and back.

“Where do you work?” Mike asked.

“I work on the dock at Collier Freight Lines.”

“Is there anyone who can confirm your whereabouts during that three hour period?” Mike asked.

Mullins shrugged his shoulders and held out his hands palms up. “I don’t know. I live alone.”

“Did you—”

“Hey. Wait a minute,” Mullins interrupted Mike. “I stopped at a market on Old Hickory Boulevard for a twelve-pack. That little blond girl ought to remember me.” Mullins pointed his index finger at Mike.

“What time was it when you stopped?” Mike asked.

“I don’t know.” Mullins glanced up. “I talked to one of the city truck drivers for a while before I left, Bobby something.” He thought for a moment. “It may have been four-fifteen, four-thirty?” He shook his head and turned his hands palms up.

“What did you do after stopping at the market?” Mike asked.

“I went home—checked the mail—took a shower and watched some TV. I downed a couple of Buds. Then I got ready to go out with the boys.”

“What time was it when you met them?” Mike asked.

“I met ‘em—bout ten o’clock. We had a couple of long necks, shot the shit for a while, and that’s when your blue soldiers entered the picture.”

“The officer who escorted you stated he talked with you and your friends at about eleven fifteen.”

Jimmy Dan nodded. “That sounds about right. What’s the big deal?”

“Daran Hamid was murdered today.”

“What? Murdered?” Mullins processed Mike’s statement. “Whoa. What—you think I did it? You gotta be kiddin me.”

“He was murdered in a very violent way,” Mike said. “His throat was cut and he was stabbed in the back. Do you own a knife, Mr. Mullins?”

“Gimme a break.” Mullins leaned back in his chair. “I had nothing to do with it. I haven’t seen that freakin’ rag-head in weeks.”

“Mullins,” Norm shouted. “Do you own a knife?”

“Yeah, I own a bunch of knives; dozens of ‘em. My granddaddy was a butcher and I’ve got his old Victorinox and Wilkinson knives. I kill a hog or two every winter. So what?”

“Whoever killed Mr. Hamid demonstrated a significant amount of rage in the method they chose,” Mike said. “This normally reflects a degree of passion—anger. We have witnesses stating that you threatened Mr. Hamid on more than one occasion.”

“Time freakin’ out. Hang on. I did not threaten that asshole.”

“You told Sarah Jennings that if she didn’t stop seeing Daran Hamid, you would stop it,” Mike said.

“That was just ...” Mullins shook his head. “I didn’t—”

“And we have three witnesses,” Mike interrupted, “that state you told Mr. Hamid,” Mike referred to his notes, “he needed to shut up before you sent him to a place a lot hotter than the big litter box he came from.”

“Listen, I—”

“Jimmy Dan,” Mike held up his hand. “Threats of this nature are considered particularly serious by the District Attorney. I suggest—”

The door to the interview room flew open. Brash attorney Harlan Norris, in his typically dramatic manner, exploded into the room.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said in a loud voice intentionally interrupting any conversation that might be taking place.

Jimmy Dan chuckled at Norris’s bold manner.

“Detective, is my client under arrest?”

“No. We’re just having a friendly discussion.”

“Did you Mirandize Mr. Mullins?”

“There was no point. He’s not in custody,” Mike said. “Like I said, we were just talking; it’s non-custodial.”

“Friendly or not, the discussion is over,” Norris declared. He extended his arm toward Jimmy Dan and said, “Mr. Mullins.”

Mullins stood, smiled and walked to the door.

Once his client was outside the interview room, Norris raised his index finger briefly between his face and Mike Neal’s like a professor quieting his class. Then, in a discreet, almost whispered, speech he said, “Detective, just because a man has a minor history of dislike for foreigners, doesn’t mean he’s going around killing them. As a responsible American, this young man has every right to be concerned about what illegal intruders are sucking on our government’s teats, draining his tax dollars.”

Mike strained to hold his tongue, wanting to remind the infamous attorney he was not currently in front of a jury.

“You must understand something, detective. This beautiful and dynamic city, as well as this incredible country of ours, was not founded by, nor built by, Mexicans or Arabs or any other entitled minority. They were forged, formed, and fought for by white men—freedom-loving, God-fearing white men. And if you think we’re through fighting for them, you’re dead wrong.”

Norris’s serious expression changed abruptly and he gave Mike a self-satisfied smile. He reached for the doorknob and turned back.

“Thank you for your time, detectives. If you’d like to speak with my client again, you need to plan on calling my office for an appointment.” He looked at Mike, then at Norm. “Good evening.”

Criminal Justice Center

Nashville, Tennessee

Wednesday Early Morning

“With Hamid’s wallet missing,” Norm said, “his pockets reversed and the contents of the glove box and console all over the carpet, it looks a lot like robbery.”

“Or, someone wants us to think so?” Mike said.

“That’s a possibility.”

“Why the brutality of both the stabbing and the slashing of his throat?” Mike asked. “There had to be some source of rage. I’m not sold on a simple robbery generating this brand of passion.”

“Why not?” Norm asked. “There could be rage involved in a robbery more difficult than the ass hole expected. Maybe Hamid fought back— pissed him off.”

“Where are all the defensive wounds?” Mike asked. “His right hand showed only a couple of cuts.”

“Maybe Hamid didn’t have all the money he wanted and the killer got pissed,” Norm suggested.

Mike groaned. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe, he knew the killer,” Norm said. “Maybe the killer had to take him out so he couldn’t ID him.”

“Plausible,” Mike said. “Who did Hamid piss off? It had to be recent. He seems to have become pretty comfortable seeing himself as an American. There are folks around who may not have been ready for this much comfort coming from a Middle Eastern man.”

“Hate crime?” Norm asked.

“Maybe.” Mike considered.

“Based upon the information from Ms. Jennings and Mullins himself,
his
hate seems strong,” Norm said. “Having a man, who he considers less than human, with his girl may have been more motive than he could resist. My money is on Mullins.”

“He’s a definite possibility,” Mike said, still not sold.

“Okay,” Norm said, “so what are the pieces, so far, pointing in Mullin’s direction?”

Mike read from his notes. “He is a known white supremacist. He has shown animosity for minorities, specifically toward the victim. He dated Sarah Jennings who has been seeing the victim for the last few months, so jealousy could be a factor. He threatened to send Hamid to ‘a place a lot hotter than the place he came from.’”

“Without a doubt, he’s a threat. Don’t forget,” Norm said, “he was witnessed by law enforcement trespassing at the workplace of the victim, and he had to be escorted from the building.”

“And Mullins, as yet, has no solid alibi for the estimated time of death,” Mike said.

“That’s a lot of pieces,” Norm said.

“I understand. But, we’ve got to have a lot more than this before the D.A. will even take our phone call, much less indict. All of this is great supporting evidence as long as we have something firm for it to support—but we don’t. Maybe tomorrow we can get the Captain to push TBI on the prints. The DNA, if there is any, could take those folks forever.”

“I still say it’s Mullins,” Norm said. “He had the means, the opportunity and an abundance of motivation. The evidence shows this was almost certainly a hate crime and Mullins made it clear; he hated Hamid.”

“I understand. But, let’s not get in too big of a hurry to classify this as a hate crime. We don’t need the feds involved in this. This one is ours. Let’s solve it.”

“You’re right,” Norm said.

“I feel like there’s something here we can’t see yet,” Mike said. “Nothing is conclusive. I understand the killer leaving behind a scene which appears to indicate a robbery, and it may be Mullins. No problem. But, at this point I’m not ready to stop looking elsewhere until we have something more convincing.”

“Gotcha,” Norm grunted.

“Hamid didn’t smoke and all the ashtrays were pulled out. Why would someone go through the ashtrays? What was he looking for that he thought would be in the ashtrays?”

“Trash?”

“What trash?” Mike asked. “What trash was there in the floor?”

“Candy and gum wrappers. And, there was a receipt from a car wash dated yesterday. They probably came from the ashtrays.”

“What could have been placed into an ashtray that would be of interest to someone?”

“Drugs?” Norm asked.

“Maybe.”

“Some people keep money in the ashtray.”

“Pardon me?”

“You know. Change, for toll roads and stuff.”

“Toll roads?” Mike asked.

“Yeah.”

“Hey, Milwaukee, where is there a toll road in the state of Tennessee?”

“Okay—for emergencies.”

“Maybe, but Hamid barely had two quarters to rub together. If it was a robbery, and the suspect was going to the extent of looking through ashtrays, why didn’t he take Hamid’s iPod?”

“Right.” Norm paused, thinking. “The iPod was still on his arm band. That is odd.”

“Odd, only if it was a robbery,” Mike added as he looked at his watch. “What do you say we catch a couple of hours of sleep and a shower? I’ll pick you up around seven.”

“Sure,” Norm said. “Maybe the A/V lab can recover something usable off the tape.”

Back home, Mike fired up his PC before he climbed into the shower so it would be through with boot up and ready to check email when he came out.

The first email to catch his eye was always Colonel Lee’s. Mike didn’t miss the CID years in Iraq and Somalia nearly as much as he missed the guys with whom he shared them. Colonel Lee’s email was waiting.

Mike, Hope you’re doing well. I’m on my way to catch a flight to Baghdad for a strategy meeting. Sorry, but I’ve only got a couple of minutes.

I had to shout at you and let you know Lieutenant Colonel Vaughn read your email and has agreed to revisit Sinjar. I told you he would listen. It seems your information matches up with some new intelligence he has received from part of his group south of there. He said he dispatched a team a few days ago, but I only found out today.

I’ll update you when I hear something. Gotta run. Take care. - Tim

Criminal Justice Center

Audio/Video Lab

Nashville, Tennessee

Wednesday Morning

Dean McMurray pumped the wheels with his padded fingerless gloves as he rolled down the tiled hallway at top speed. Neither his wheelchair nor the senseless accident that put him in it was able to destroy his outlook or even slow him down.

“Hey, Mike. Norm. What's shakin?”

“Deano,” Norm shouted. “How’s life in the A/V Lab?”

“Ever changing. Some days when I’m able to uncover the evidence, I get to look like Spielberg to the Captain. Other days—well, I come up empty and I look more like that big fat guy, Michael Moore.”

Norm chuckled.

“Take yesterday. Cris Vega calls wanting me to enhance a video taken at midnight by a TDOT cam that’s eighty feet in the air and two hundred plus yards from the crime scene. What do you guys think I am anyway, a magician?” Dean laughed. “All I could do was apologize, but I don’t think that helped her any.”

Mike was amazed at the way Dean was able to maintain such a great attitude and move on after his accident.

A former Nashville patrol officer, Dean had been a computer geek since high school; learning software and finding new ways to utilize computer technology came to him naturally. His life plan included building a laddered career in law enforcement that included the top rungs spent in a leadership role in Information Technology with the FBI.