WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (8 page)

“Hey, Brown.”

Brown cut his anger-filled eyes toward Norm.

Norm winked. “Thanks for the slam dunk.”

Mike Neal’s Home

Nashville, Tennessee

Monday Evening

Mike Neal’s duplex was a two-story stone bungalow with a detached garage. He converted the half-basement of his Green Hills home into his personal gym where he spent at least one hour each evening toning his body, purging his stress, and for a brief time, escaping his death-filled world.

He’d been home just long enough to change into his workout clothes, and was in the process of hydrating for his treadmill run when there was a knock at the kitchen door; then another—and a third.

“What the hell?” As he got closer to the door, he heard the little voice and the scratching.

“Mike. Mike. Come quick. Hurry.”

Mike increased his pace. He opened the door to see all thirty-four inches of Mason Holliman standing next to his perpetually excited stubby-tailed Jack Russell terrier, Tag.

“What’s wrong, buddy?

“Mike, come quick,” Mason begged. “Hurry. Hurry.” The boy turned and ran toward the outdoor staircase to his second-story apartment.

Afraid there might be something wrong with Mason’s mom, Mike pulled his door closed and jogged after the boy. On the sixth step of the metal staircase, he caught up with the five-year-old. Tag was already on the landing at the top of the stairs, barking. Mike snatched up Mason and held him close for the rest of the climb. On the upper landing, Mike jerked the storm door open and shouted. “Jennifer?” There was silence, during which Mike realized he wasn’t armed. Then he heard her voice.

“Hi, Mike.” Jennifer walked through the kitchen doorway into the living room with a dish towel in her hand and a big smile on her face.

Mike gave a relaxed sigh. Still holding the boy, he looked at her and said, “What’s wrong?”

“Mike, let’s go,” Mason said as he wiggled, sending Mike the message he wanted to get down.

Mike lowered Mason to the floor, his eyes still on the boy’s smiling mother. Mason took hold of Mike’s fingers with both little hands and began to pull him.

“Hurry, Mike. Hurry.” He yanked several times on Mike’s hand then bolted toward the bathroom with Tag whose legs were moving much faster than his body on the slippery hardwood floor.

Mike looked back and shrugged at Jennifer who seemed to be enjoying the expressive display of her son’s excitement.

Mike stepped into the small bathroom where he found Mason on one side of the toilet and Tag standing reared with his front paws on the opposite side of the wooden seat. Both were looking down into the bowl. Tag was barking and Mason was still shouting for Mike. His little voice rang as it bounced off the porcelain and echoed through the old tile bath.

Conditioned already by Jennifer’s smile, Mike readied himself. “What is it, buddy? What’s wrong?”

“Mike, it drowned-ed.”

“It what?”

“It drowned-ed. My ship—it drowned-ed. It’s down there.” He pointed toward the water.

Tag barked twice in agreement.

“Mom said I can’t get it. She said you would help.”

“What happened?”

“I put my ship in the water. Then, it fell over and it drowned-ed. I tried to get to it, but I accidently pulled the handle and it flushed-ed.” He paused and lowered his head. “I didn’t mean to do it, Mike. I’m sorry.”

Mike placed his hand over his mouth like he was contemplating how to help, but he was simply trying to hide his laughter.

“It’s okay buddy, I think I can fix it.”

“O-kay.” Mason smiled nodding his head.

“Does Mom have any wire coat hangers?”

“Huh? I don’t know. I think so. Mom. Hey, Mom.” He ran to the kitchen, shadowed by the dog.

Mike lifted the seat. Leaning back, he looked down into the toilet as far as he could. He could see the gray stern of the shipwrecked plastic vessel. Mike sat on the edge of the tub smiling and waiting for Mason’s return. He heard the little tennis shoes slapping the hardwood and Tag’s claws clicking on the floor.

“Hey, Mike. I got it. I got it.”

“Great. Thanks, Mason.”

“You’re welcome,” Mason said with both hands on his hips. Then he and Tag assumed their spectator positions on either side of the toilet bowl.

Mike pulled the coat hanger with both hands until it stretched into a two foot long deep-sea crane ready for the recovery of the sunken battleship. Mike dramatically slipped the coat hanger into the water, hooked the plastic ship and gradually brought it to the surface, as water poured from the ship’s bow.

“Yea. Mike, you got it.” Mason clapped his hands and Tag barked his support.

Mike allowed the toy to drain and then tossed it into the sink. He washed it with hot water and hand soap before drying it and giving it back to the boy.

“Mason,” Mike said calmly.

The boy looked up at Mike. “Huh?”

“Don’t sail your ship in the toilet, okay? Do it in the sink or in the tub when you take a bath.”

“Okay, Mike.” Mason smiled up at him and then he grabbed Mike around both legs and squeezed him hard. “Thank you for saving my ship, Mike.”

“You’re welcome, buddy.” Mike rubbed his hand through the boy’s hair and considered what it might be like to have a son like Mason. He was such a great kid. Mike wondered if Mason’s dad had any idea what he was missing, or if he cared. Mike looked up to see Jennifer standing in the doorway, staring at the two of them.

“Well men, mission accomplished?”

“Aye-aye captain,” Mike snapped to attention and saluted. Then Mason mimicked him.

“Thanks, Mike.”

“No problem. Glad I could help raise the ship.”

Jennifer smiled. “Have you had dinner?”

Mike thought. “No, I guess I haven’t.”

“Would you like to join us?”

“We’re having chili dogs,” Mason added, “and Fritos.”

Mike laughed then hesitated. “I can’t stay long, but sure, I’ll have a dog with my buddy.”

“Yeah,” Mason cheered.

Mike smiled at Mason and patted him on the back as they walked into the living room.

“Hey Mike, watch this.” Mason bent forward, tucked his head and pushed himself into a forward roll across the rug, barely avoiding Tag.

Mike applauded. “Bravo, Bravo.”

“What’s that mean?” Mason said with wrinkled forehead.

Mike and Jennifer looked at each other and laughed.

“It means you did that very well,” Mike said.

“Yes, I did,” Mason said proudly.

“Okay, boys,” Jennifer said, “let’s eat.”

After dinner Mike said, “I hate to eat and run, but I’ve got work waiting downstairs.”

“Do you have to?” Mason whined.

“Yep, I sure do. Sorry, buddy. But I’ll see you again later in the week.” Mike stuck out his hand and Mason shook it.

“Ooo—kay, if you have to.” Mason hung his head and marched into the living room with Tag trailing behind him.

“Thanks for helping Mason,” Jennifer said as she took a stack of dirty dishes from Mike and placed them into the sink.

“It’s my pleasure, I assure you.” He stood staring through the doorway at Mason and Tag.

“What?” she asked with a smile.

“I was just thinking. I wonder if Carson has any idea what he’s missing with his son? He’s such a great kid, and you’re doing a good job with him.”

“Thanks, Mike. But, I don’t think he knows or cares. Rick Carson is a very self-absorbed ...” she mouthed the word
prick.
“He didn’t care much for anything during our short time together except himself and his drug money. I honestly believe he seduced me into thinking he was in love, when all along, I was only a pawn in his plan.”

“Did he think having a Texas State Police investigator as his wife would somehow protect him from the cartel?”

“I don’t know what he thought, but I wish I’d met the real Rick Carson before I married him. The whole episode was so embarrassing for me and the department. I can’t believe how he played me.”

“Luckily,” Mike said, “his plan and his guilt became clear during the trial.”

“If he had not been afraid of the repercussions from his drug connections,” Jennifer said, “the DA may have been able to plead him down and secure indictments on some of the cartel leaders as well.”

“Rick was smart to keep his mouth shut and spend a few years locked up rather than assure his prompt demise at the hands of the Mexican cartel.”

“Yes, thank God,” Jennifer said. “The jury saw him for what he was and not what he advertised himself to be.”

“He got what he deserved. I’m thankful you and Mason are safe here and a long way from his clutches and those of his ugly friends.”

“Me too. By the way, any changes in your sister’s case?”

“No, nothing new.”

“Mike, I meant it when I told you I would be glad to help you if there is research you want me to do. Murph wouldn’t mind. Why don’t you send me the names of the suspects you told me about and I’ll run some fresh traces? We recently installed new software, and now no one can hide from The Daniel Murphy Agency.”

Mike smiled. “I don’t want to impose. You haven’t been with him long enough to take advantage. Murph was kind enough to give you a job. I’m sure you’ve got other investigations he needs you working on.”

“Well, I’m going to ask him about it, whether you like it or not. He’s your friend. If there is something I can do to repay your kindness to me and Mason, I’m going to make it happen,” Jennifer insisted.

Mike nodded. “Thanks. You get Murph’s blessing, and I’ll email you the data.”

“Good.”

“Have the Marshals checked on you lately?” Mike asked.

“Yes, Amanda Dodd called the day before yesterday. You two have made our transition into this new life much smoother than it could have been. You’re a great friend, Mike, not to mention landlord.”

“Well, let’s hope the witness protection folks continue to fulfill their side of the deal. Be very careful and call me anytime. Okay? I mean it.”

“I will; especially when we have more sunken ships,” Jennifer said.

“No,” Mike corrected her, “Drowned-ed.” They both laughed as they walked to the front door.

Jennifer took his hand and kissed him on the cheek. “Take care, Mike.”

“You, too.” Mike looked over Jennifer’s shoulder and shouted, “See ya, buddy.”

“Bye.” Mason waved.

Mike Neal’s Home

Nashville, Tennessee

Monday Evening

Mike regretted missing his cardio workout, but the chance to spend time with Mason was a treat, and his schedule seldom allowed for it.

He turned on his desktop computer, and then retrieved the battered vinyl binder from the shelf above his PC’s monitor. He leaned back in his chair and opened it across his lap. Mike had most of the data from
this
murder book memorized, but he continued to review it frequently. He searched for that one unforeseen something that would click and cause almost nine years of concentrated effort to produce anything that would make it all fall into place. So far, the years had netted little in the way of solid suspects or solutions.

The label holder on the spine of the binder was empty, but the original, still in the possession of the Clarksville, Tennessee Homicide Squad, read: Case #94-078, Wilson - Coleman - Lawson - Neal. It was his sister’s murder book.

The cracked corners of the blue binder reflected the years since he met with Clarksville Detective Alfred Ellis. Almost a month into the case, and with it still unsolved, Mike convinced the seasoned detective to put his job on the line and loan him the murder book so he could review the facts of the case for himself.

Ellis was adamant at first, stating he could not even consider such an idea. A former 1st Lieutenant with the 101st Airborne, he felt a sensitivity for his fellow soldier’s situation that otherwise would not have existed. He told Mike he could imagine how
he
would feel if it was
his
sister, and their positions were reversed.

Mike finally talked the detective into taking a controlled risk. Ellis side-stepped departmental policy by loaning the book to Mike for “One hour—no more,” he said.

Mike’s six years as a criminal investigator with CID convinced Ellis to trust him. Grateful for that trust, Mike agreed to honor Ellis’s conditions which included keeping this breach of policy from the detective’s partner, Felton Sinclair.

The first time he opened the binder, Mike prayed he could handle what he knew would be shocking photos of his little sister’s murder. All photos taken at the quarry and during the autopsy were included for Connie’s three young friends, but Ellis had thoughtfully pulled all the photos of Connie from the murder book. He also placed a note on the front cover with the address of the closest copy shop. At the bottom of the note, it read: “Ask for Billy Joe and remember; this did
not
happen. Hurry.”

Over the years, Mike frequently reviewed the detectives’ interview notes from discussions with Stampede Saloon employees, managers and customers, as well as friends of the four young victims. These notes were added to the detective’s conclusions based upon the accrual of all their investigations.

Often, as Mike examined the murder book, he thought of how limited it was to represent four such horrific homicides. He knew, had this carnage taken place in Nashville, each of the four murders would have a book at least this thick and there would have been two homicide teams assigned to the aggregate investigation. Mike prayed that the limited scope of the murder book did not represent a tenuous investigation.

The night Mike returned with the copied pages, Detective Ellis shared information Mike recalled each time he opened the book.

“You have to wonder,” Ellis told him, “if that old man hadn’t decided to go fishing early the next morning, how long would it have been before somebody came across the crime scene? The first officer said the old guy told him he was standing in the middle of it all before he even realized it was blood.

“When Sinclair and I first arrived at the scene, it was—disturbing,” Ellis said. “Fortunately, we don’t experience crimes of this magnitude here very often. The scene and the mode of the murders told us the killer was enraged. We could never figure what this group of kids could have done to cause this much anger in someone. We still can’t.”