WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (41 page)

“I have to do this myself,” Mike said, without turning around.

Hubbard County, Tennessee

Friday Late Morning

Mike checked his notes for Brad Evans’s home address. On the long drive to Hubbard County he had considerable time to think about Connie, about the last nine years searching for her killer, and about the fact that her killer had finally received his due. Even though Mike didn’t dole out the justice himself, he knew it was delivered by a man who was equally motivated and similarly wronged.

Looking back, Mike was grateful that with the way things had turned out, he’d not been tempted to violate his oath nor jeopardize his career. Many times over the past nine years, during moments of extreme grief, Mike had decided, “When he’s captured, if the evidence against him is conclusive, he will not make it to trial.”

Mike spotted the Evans mailbox and turned onto the gravel drive. He drove the long road up to the front of the white Victorian style house. The home’s front porch with its decorative brackets and balusters wrapped around three sides of the spacious home and was decorated with four ornate rocking chairs and a large swing suspended from the ceiling on two chains. The old home reminded Mike of his numerous childhood visits to his uncle’s farm southeast of Nashville.

As Mike exited his car and scanned the rolling countryside, a part of him was envious because of the beautiful place Brad had built. But, Mike knew that Brad hadn’t built it for himself, and this country utopia surely didn’t mean the same to him now.

The screen door slapped the door facing as it closed, forcing Mike to turn toward the house.

“Did you forget something?” Brad stepped down the concrete steps and out to where Mike had parked.

“After you left,” Mike said, “I met with the other detective who is working this case. She spoke at length today with Manuel Avila’s old girlfriend, about him and his past. He lived a life very different from most of us.”

“I’m sure,” Brad agreed. “I doubt you and I would call it much of a life.”

“The young woman told my partner about some of the things Avila had bragged about over the years to his friends.”

Brad stared at Mike, appearing interested.

“She overheard him at times when he was drinking and telling his fellow gangbangers of his criminal exploits.”

Brad leaned against Mike’s car, crossed his arms and said, “What’s all this have to do with me.”

“Actually,” Mike looked Brad directly in his eyes. “It has to do with both of us.”

“Both of us? What do you mean?”

“In 1994, Manuel Avila was an E-3 stationed at Fort Campbell. Yes, he was a U.S. citizen. At least his identity said he was. He’d been deployed for about a year when he returned to Campbell to find his wife had left him with another soldier who’d recently gone AWOL.”

Mike told Brad all the horrible facts surrounding the deaths of the four young people and subsequent unsuccessful investigation into their murders.

“One of the girls that were murdered that night ... was my little sister, Connie. My only sibling; she was seventeen.”

“Oh, man. I’m sorry,” Brad said. He rubbed his forehead with his hand and closed his eyes. “Damned animal.”

After a few minutes of silence, Mike said, “Brad, it’s obvious that you are the prime suspect in Avila’s death. Your skills provided the means that matches the method. Your personal loss provided more than enough motivation and your inability to supply us a verifiable alibi ... well, to a great extent, it closes the gap.”

Brad looked at Mike without comment.

“I don’t know whether to shake your hand for doing what I had considered myself, or slap cuffs on you.”

Brad stared silently at his house. He finally turned back to Mike and said, “Can we take a walk?” Brad gestured toward the hillside at the rear of the barn. “I’d like to show you something.”

If it had been anyone else, Mike would have declined, but when he looked at Brad, he saw a lot of himself. They were sharing much of the same pain today.

“Sure,” Mike said. He followed Brad through the steel gate that accessed the pasture.

Brad was quiet for several steps. “Are you married, detective?”

“No.”

Brad nodded. “My Julie was everything to me.”

Mike listened.

She was the reason I got up in the morning. Brad chuckled. I used to sit at the kitchen table drinking my coffee and wondering what I had ever done to deserve such a caring and beautiful partner. She was everything I wasn’t, and never really wanted to be. I thought I was supposed to be the tough guy.”

Mike let him talk.

“She was my best friend.” Brad gave a weak smile. “Actually, she was better than a best friend.”

Brad looked ahead of them across the rolling field as he spoke. “She was the source of most of the good that was ever in me. I guess that’s why since she’s passed, I’ve not been the same. I can feel it. I no longer have her to balance me.” Brad looked at Mike and shook his head. “I’ve looked for the good,” he said. “It’s gone. I lived a rough life before I met her—probably nothing like Avila’s, but pretty rough, none the less.

“After ‘Nam, and all the killing I had to do,” Brad spoke slowly, “I was empty. No emotion. I came home drained, classic withdrawn PTSD. Then I met Julie and I felt myself start to change—to heal. Our life together was something I’d never felt before. Julie was like a friendly-fire mortar round that hit me and knocked me back into life. Now ... I feel like I don’t care again, a lot like just after ‘Nam.”

The two men stood only a few feet apart, gazing into the distance and only occasionally at each other.

Mike, always the detective, said, “What about the shooting on Interstate 65.”

“What do you mean?” Brad asked.

“It was almost a carbon copy of Avila’s shot, only from a different angle.” Mike looked at Brad, waiting for his response.

Brad wavered and started to walk again.

“It wasn’t the same. The artist’s shot was directly into the medulla oblongata—instant death. He had on the gang colors. I thought he was one of Avila’s gangbangers.” Brad blew out a huge breath. “I really screwed up.”

“Avila’s shot was from the left side. He was alive maybe a second or two afterward. With his lifestyle, he may have realized he’d been shot—but honestly,” Brad shook his head, “I doubt it.”

They walked some more without talking. Mike didn’t want Brad’s current thoughts or his confession to be interrupted.

“Did you know Carl Garrison?” Brad asked.

“The racist? I know who he was.”

Brad stood facing Mike. “He was a bad man. And one who thought of himself as some kind of sanctified shepherd to the world.”

“I take it you knew him?” Mike asked.

“Briefly,” Brad said. “For two days, I knew him. He tried to use me.”

“Use you?”

“He wanted me to take out one of his cult members gone astray. One of them was about to blow Garrison’s empire apart in order to save his own ass. Garrison said he couldn’t allow that.”

“Mullins.”

“Yeah,” Brad admitted. “How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Right.” Brad was beginning to like this detective.

“And?” Mike asked.

Brad stopped walking and turned toward Mike. “I didn’t do it. When Garrison double crossed both me and a friend of mine, I ended up delivering
his
well-deserved karma. This man was a hate merchant, pure and simple. Much like Avila, in the end, he deserved everything he got.”

Mike listened.

“But ... not the artist. That was a really bad mistake, driven by my out-of-control hatred for Avila.” Brad bent down, pulled on a long stem of orchard grass and began to break the shaft into pieces.

Mike let Brad’s confession hang there between them as they looked at each other. “As much as my own personal loss helps me to understand what you’ve experienced and motivates me to have compassion for you, Avila’s murder is just as much a homicide as Garrison’s or the artist. You took the lives of three people. You know that you’ll have to answer for that.”

Brad continued to move toward the crest of the hill. From their elevated position atop the knoll, Brad stopped and looked out over his acreage.

“Julie and I used to get up before daybreak and come up here to watch the sunrise ... and talk. This was her favorite place on the farm.” He squinted and closed his eyes pushing tears down his face.

“I’ve done all I can to obtain Julie’s justice. Without her, I no longer have an interest in life.”

Brad turned to face Mike. That’s when Mike saw the compact pistol in Brad’s right hand, hanging at his side. Mike drew his side arm and aimed it in Brad’s direction.

“Brad, don’t do this. I’ll do what I can to get you help, but this is not the way to deal with these issues. You
can
get through this.”

Brad shook his head. “No. There’s no way I’m going to be able to deal with the consequences from all of this.”

“After all you went through in Vietnam; you’re obviously not the kind of guy who kills himself.”

Brad stared at the ground in front of him. “No ... but my Julie’s waiting.” Brad lifted the pistol and aligned the sights toward Mike.

“Don’t!” Mike shouted as he dropped to one knee.

Brad squeezed the trigger and fired a shot over Mike’s head.

Mike returned fire. He had no choice.

Mike Neal’s Home

Nashville, Tennessee

Friday Evening

It had been months since Mike had drawn his weapon while on duty and almost two years since he’d fired it outside the department’s North Nashville target range. In Mike’s years as a Metropolitan Nashville Police Officer, he had only witnessed ‘suicide by cop’ on one occasion. Fortunately, prior to today, he hadn’t been involved.

The shooting of Brad Evans was under investigation just like any other officer-involved shooting. The Sig Sauer P250 found next to the body was registered in Brad Evans’s name. It was established that the weapon had been fired, and the gunshot residue on Brad’s right hand confirmed that he had fired a weapon recently. Mike was confident his use of deadly force was justified, and that following the investigation, he would be exonerated.

Mike had a couple of days off and decided to pay some important people a visit. He pressed six of the seven numbers and then stopped for a moment before the last one.

“God help me.” He pushed the button. The phone began to ring.

“Hello.”

“Dad?”

There was a considerable pause. “Michael?”

“Yes, it’s me. How are you?”

“Oh ... I’m okay I guess, all things considered. It’s been a while since you called.”

Mike’s feelings of regret made it difficult for him to talk. “Yeah, I know. Sorry it’s taken so long.”

“That’s okay, son.”

“We found the guy who killed Connie,” Mike said.

“What? You found him?”

“Well, we found him after he was killed.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s okay. I’ll explain it all later. I was wondering. Are you busy tomorrow morning?”

Mike’s father hesitated. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“I ... I was planning to visit Connie’s grave and uh, tell her that we found him. And, I was hoping maybe you would want to come with me.”

“Uh. Well.” He thought about it for a moment. “Sure. Yeah. I can do that.”

“Can I pick you up around nine?”

“Yeah. I’ll be ready.”

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Michael?”

“Yeah.”

Mike’s father took a moment to prepare his words. “Son ... I’m sorry. And, I’m glad you called.”

Mike closed his eyes. “Me too.”

To my good friend Dew Wayne Burris, who throughout the writing of this novel provided helpful feedback and encouragement at all the most critical times. Thank you. Your untiring efforts helped to keep me on point.

To Sergeant Patrick Postiglione of Nashville’s Homicide and Cold Case Investigations Units, whose thirty-plus years of dedicated service to our city have been filled with numerous high-voltage investigations that he and his team have skillfully resolved for the citizens of Nashville. Thank you for your support and for sharing your priceless experience.

To Lee Lofland, retired detective and author, whose capable counsel through conversation and print has proven to be a lifesaver. Thanks for all you do on behalf of our passionate crime, mystery and thriller writers.

To Dr. Zaid Brifkani, one of the many proud and dynamic Kurds who make their home in Nashville. Your willingness to help with this project is appreciated.

To the members of The Murfreesboro Writers Group, where I found encouragement, meaningful critique, and a great way to spend Wednesday nights. Thanks.

To my wife Sandra, for thirty-five happy years, for your undying support, and especially for patiently believing in me. Thank you.

Ken Vanderpool is a life-long fan of Crime Suspense and Thriller fiction who began to write his own in 2006 following an eye-opening medical procedure and an intimate encounter with his mortality.

Ken is a graduate of Middle Tennessee State University with his degree in Psychology and Sociology with a concentration on Criminology. He has also graduated from the Metropolitan Nashville Citizen Police Academy and the Writer’s Police Academy in Greensboro, North Carolina.

He is currently at work on his second novel in the Music City Murders series, FACE THE MUSIC.

Ken has spent his entire life in Middle Tennessee and proudly professes, “There is no better place on earth.” Ken currently lives near Nashville with his wife Sandra and their Cairn Terrier-ist, Molly.