DEAD BEAT
FLYNT & STEELE MYSTERY #1
by
Micheal Maxwell
&
Warren Keith
Copyright © 2020 Micheal Maxwell & Warren Keith
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Micheal Maxwell.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Please Consider This
Excerpt from Dead Duck
Other Books by the Authors
About the Authors
CHAPTER ONE
A thick remnant of filthy, beige carpet flopped across the razor wire fence surrounding U-Store Secure Storage. Having conquered the “secure” part of the business with a piece of trash, a pair of teens dressed in skinny jeans and black hoodies made their move. The taller of the two boys was quick to climb, and quicker to drop to the other side of the wall, bolt cutters in hand. The smaller boy hung for a long moment before gracelessly hitting the asphalt like a hundred-pound sack of sand.
“My ankle’s broken!” the smaller boy groaned.
“Shut up, Ryan!” The harsh whisper echoed a little too far. “And your ankle’s not broken. Just your head.”
“Shut up, Josh!” Ryan wasn’t great at comebacks or whispering. If the storage lot had any neighbors, they would surely be awake now. “This is a stupid idea!”
“Do you want some new gear or not? We could score a guitar, maybe some mics…”
“Pedals?”
Josh grinned. “Yeah, pedals.”
“Great. They’re all I’ll be able to use with my hands cuffed behind my back.”
“Don’t be dumb. We’ll be too quick to get caught. Or should the band just play on kazoos and bang on trash cans?”
Ryan, exaggerating his limp, only shrugged. “Whatever, man. I seriously think my ankle is broken.”
“You wouldn’t be walking if it was broken. Maybe you and reality should patch things up. She misses you.”
The pair scanned their way along the row, up to unit 413, second from the far corner. The bolt cutters did their job; the padlock on the unit didn’t. Ever so gently, Ryan lifted the rolling door just enough to get under it, but not enough to trip the twenty-year-old alarm system. The soft click-clack of the door made him cringe with each noise.
Josh briefly groped for the light switch. “And he said, let there be…” He threw the switch. “…gear.”
A row of speaker boxes, Fender amps, and microphone stands lined the right wall. Much-used drum parts and pieces were scattered here and there.
“Go see if they left any guitars,” Josh commanded.
His self-imposed role of leader was quickly shattered when a terrifying scream clawed its way out of his throat. Still screaming, he scrambled for the door and disappeared. The force of his panicked slam against the doorframe was more than enough to set off the facility’s silent alarm.
Alone in the musty room, Ryan turned to see the cause of his friend’s terror. There was a short stage up against the back wall. Tucked into the corner was a drum kit, with Border Bigots splashed across the bass drum in pink paint.
“Punk bands,” Ryan said. “No taste.”
Seconds later, he saw the reason for his fearless leader’s screaming sprint from the room.
Sitting at the drum kit, leaning against a carpeted stack of pallets, was the band’s drummer—a guy Ryan knew had the brilliant name of Bloody Fingers. His head was tilted back with a pair of drumsticks protruding from his neck, just below his Adam’s apple. If he were alive, he would be disappointed to know that his blood never even reached his hands, let alone his fingers.
The would-be thief walked slowly toward the stage. After all of his dreary garage band’s singing about death, murder, and dismemberment, it seemed that Ryan would finally have some real-life inspiration to draw from. He allowed his macabre fascination with death to pull him forward. He stumbled and noisily knocked over a guitar case leaning at the center of the stage, but the calamity was not enough to break his gaze from the dead drummer. The sound seemed a thousand miles away.
Ryan studied the pallor of the body, the funeral gray of Bloody Fingers’ skin. The odd position of his head rested gently against the top pallet, in contrast to the six inches of drumstick that violently protruded from his flesh.
Late to the party, Ryan’s survival instincts arrived with a jolt. Fear crept its way up his spine. He immediately ran for the door, stopped, and went back to grab the guitar case. After all, he thought, the mission didn’t change. As if it would somehow hide the break-in, he turned off the lights.
One blink later, Ryan was at the wall that they’d come over. He’d forgotten that he was supposed to have broken his ankle. Now, running from the horror in the storage pod, his ankle felt perfectly fine.
“Josh!” he called. There was no answer. The boy cursed his friend violently. “It’s not like there’s a ladder in here, man!”
His thoughts raced. Leaning the guitar against the wall, he returned to the storage unit and headed straight for the stage. Before grabbing one of the wooden pallets out from under the dead drummer, Ryan asked, “You won’t mind that I borrow this, will you? Thanks.”
After some labored dragging, Ryan propped the pallet against the wall and climbed it like a ladder. In the distance he could hear sirens, urging him on. He hauled the guitar case up the slanted pallet with him, carefully letting the case slip along his fingers and into the soft dirt outside the wall.
Grabbing a handful of the carpet’s heavy yarn, Ryan rolled over the wall, taking the carpet with him. Carpet and guitar in hand, he made his way into the darkness. Closing in fast, came the sound of sirens, and the flashing red-and-blues.
By the time the squealing of tires filled the night announcing the arrival of the police, Ryan was long gone.
CHAPTER TWO
Detective Sergeant Comrade Flynt sat in the passenger seat of his partner’s car, nervously bouncing his knee up and down, detecting absolutely nothing but his own anxiety. He ran through his regular repertoire of ways to look busy so none of the other officers would ask why he wasn’t on the scene. He scribbled in his notebook for a few minutes then switched to a pretend phone call. A little later he simply turned off the dome light and reclined his seat, slipping into the shadows while the other detectives and officers checked out the crime scene.
Comrade Flynt wasn’t a slacker, he just had the sort of mind that made professional and social settings seem like threatening beehi
ves. The stings came in many forms. They were the jokes he only got an hour later with the help of the internet, the nicknames murmured behind his back, and the subordinates that questioned and disobeyed his every word.
Flynt’s appearance was more Irish than the I.R.A. itself, although his once flaming red hair was now a muddled mess of white and dull orange. His hair was cut noticeably shorter on the right side of his head, damning proof that he did it himself. He shaved, but his jawline was the only place where he was winning the battle against his follicles. Untamed outgrowths crept from his neck, nose, and ears; his eyebrows were like falcon wings.
His short stature made any hopes of an authoritative presence a total pipe dream. Depending on when he last showered, Flynt looked like either a Muppet or a Dr. Seuss character. One anonymous officer at the station once called him “The Leprechaun,” and the name stuck. The moniker stuck so deep in his mind that, in his dreams, it was his birth name. It was not much worse than Comrade, he supposed.
Trying not to move and give away his hiding place, he glanced over at the crime scene outside. The cars were flashing their lights, the photographer was flashing his camera, and the rest of the circus was combing over every detail of the storage unit and its surroundings.
The body was out of sight, and so was Flynt’s partner. He absolutely hated to think of himself like this, but whenever Detective Lieutenant Bill Barrow wasn’t around, Flynt got the image of a lost puppy in his head. Bill was good at the crime scene stuff, the locker room stuff, and the station stuff; he could testify in court without stammering. Most important of all, he could protect Flynt from dealing with any of those things.
Tap, tap.
Flynt’s skin flared with heat at the sound of someone knocking on the car window. He looked up and was relieved to see Bill standing outside. Flynt rolled down the window. Bill Barrow grinned at him. It was the grin of someone that learned to tolerate that lost puppy, not the grin of a man happy to have found said lost puppy.
“Could you step out of the car please, Com?”
“Sure.”
As Flynt slid out of the car, Barrow sucked the last drag of his cigarette all the way to the bottom of his fifty-three-year-old lungs. It briefly inflated his chest to half the size of his belly. In crime-scene speak, his suit showed evidence of having recently eaten a burrito or two. His three-day unshaven face showed signs of struggle against apathy. His skin was paler than Flynt had ever seen it.
“You ok, Bill?” Flynt asked.
“No.” He threw his cigarette down and stamped it out. “Anyway, we got a drummer in there that was killed with his own sticks. Doc’s just starting his examination, but he says that kind of hit means the killer’s rage made him strong as a bull. What time is it?”
“Uh, 3:45… AM.”
Bill leaned against the car’s roof. “You’re going to have to take this one.”
Flynt’s eyes went wide. “Take… what? The scene? Bill, I can’t—”
“You’re a homicide detective. It’s time you took lead on one.” Barrow wiped his hand down his face, shook his head, and clamped his eyes shut like he was trying to squeeze out a tear. “I feel like crap. Maybe some sort of upper respiratory junk. I’m miserable. And a wretched case of what I think might be the worst heartburn I’ve ever had. Gotta sleep this off. This one is yours.”
“Ok,” Flynt said, even though it wasn’t at all. He just hated to disagree. “Who’s the medical examiner?”
“Sankaran.”
“But Doctor Sankaran hates me.”
“Then this is your chance to get on his good side.” Bill shuffled, slower than usual, to the driver’s side of the car. “Tell him a joke about drummers or something. You’ll do fine. Just stay out of the way, look at stuff, and listen to what Sankaran has to say. Easy.” He opened the door, hesitated, and looked to Flynt for one final time. “You got your horse book?”
Flynt held up his notebook to show its cover, though it’s a unicorn, not a horse, and said, “Got it.”
“Good. Use it. I want notes.” Bill groaned as he settled into the driver’s seat. Flynt frowned and got out. Barrow wasted no time giving Flynt a casual salute as he drove off.
The short, fuzzy, leprechaun of a detective made his way along the row of storage units toward the scene of the crime. He held his head low, clutching his notebook so no one could see the cover. Two of the officers nodded to him as he passed beneath the police tape. They waited until he was about ten feet away before laughing at him.
Flynt approached the body, practicing the trick that Bill taught him long ago. He looked towards the body, but not at it, and let his eyes fall out of focus. That way, he appeared comfortable with the corpse but didn’t start to wretch either.
Dr. Sankaran was crouched over the body like it was a patch of flowers in a garden. Flynt thought of Barrow’s advice. Tell Sankaran a joke about drummers.
Flynt only knew one that came to mind, but it wasn’t very good. “What’s the last thing the drummer said before he was kicked out of the band? Hey guys, let’s try one of my songs.”
“Doctor?” Flynt asked, edging closer. “Doctor?”
“In a minute,” Sankaran said in his thick Indian accent, without as much as a glance in his direction.
“A minute is fine. Shall I…” Flynt cleared his throat. “Shall I give you a drum roll?” He brightened, anticipating his punch line to strike laughter and bliss.
Sankaran stopped, dropped his arms to his sides, and looked up to him. “Why don’t you just tell me what you want, so I can get back to my time-sensitive analysis?”
Flynt felt his guts collapsing in on themselves. He shook his head and shrugged, tried to hold his ground, but couldn’t. What good was he doing here?
“Barrow is not feeling well. He asked if there was any reason we can’t finish up in the morning.”
The protocols of the medical examiner’s office were very clear to all detectives. This request was most unusual and Paru Sankaran tried to see beyond the Irishman’s explanation. That’s what Flynt assumed anyway. When he was under this sort of pressure, his thoughts seemed to turn to mud.
“I have taken temperatures so the time of death can be established. The cause is quite apparent. I can have the body removed to the morgue, so I’m good to go, I guess.” Sankaran took a deep breath. “Are you sure Lieutenant Barrow meant for us to cut short the investigation?”
Flynt cringed. The ME was sensing something amiss in the unusual request.
“He said no sense keeping everyone up all night,” he bluffed.
Now Sankaran knew Barrow’s partner was lying. The medical examiner and Bill Barrow had worked together for over fifteen years. Barrow was usually the first to arrive and the last to leave. He attended autopsies and reviewed in great detail the findings with questions that showed understanding far beyond that of the other detectives in the department. For the senior detective to walk off a case before it began was a sign something was seriously wrong. To leave his inept, lackey of a partner in charge was unthinkable. Dr. Sankaran was worried about his old friend.
“This is most unusual,” Sankaran began. “I would feel better if perhaps we continued a bit longer. The forensics team arrived just a short time ago. They will need time to complete their work.”
“Do they have families?”
“Well, yes, the ones I know.”
“Great, let’s button this up and I’ll come back with Bill in the morning when he’s feeling better.”
“Detective, I don’t feel good about leaving before the forensics guys complete their work.” Sankaran tried to be forceful, but it wasn’t working.
“Lieutenant Barrow left me in charge so this is my investigation for now. People are tired and it is the middle of the night.” Flynt tried to sound like a heavy-weight, like a man used to being in charge. He knew he was doing a terrible job. He’d never been good at impressions.
“It’s their job,” Sankaran argued. “They are used to it. I would like
to suggest we stay and finish.”
“My suggestion is you follow my instructions.”
“Tommy!” Sankaran called to his assistant, his devilish eyes never leaving Flynt. “Let’s get him loaded up.”
“Yes, sir,” his assistant’s voice hissed from elsewhere.
“Alright guys,” Flynt shouted. “When they get the Little Drummer Boy loaded up, lock it up. We’ll come back in the morning. Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum.”
“Really?” an older patrolman questioned. A few others were huddled around him just outside of the storage pod.
“Barrow’s orders,” Flynt replied.
The graying patrolman gave his young partner a wrinkled brow frown and whispered: “He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doin’.”
The younger man rolled his eyes.
“One of you two needs to stay on this door,” Flynt said, pointing at the roll-up. “I don’t care who. You work that out.” Flynt looked at the younger officer. “But it’s you.”
He was again reminded that he did a very poor impersonation of Bill Barrow.
Within minutes the scene was closed and taped off. The manager of U-Store assured Flynt his request for no one to be allowed in or out until noon would be adhered to. It made Flynt rather happy that at least someone was taking his orders without giving him a hard time.
Flynt walked off and kept walking. Even when he realized he rode over with Bill and didn’t have a car with him, he didn’t stop. He walked a half-mile to get to the nearest bus stop and got home just before sunrise.
CHAPTER THREE
Lieutenant Noah Steele stood in the back of the squad room while roll was called. His name wasn’t on it, yet. Out of everyone in the room, he currently holds first place in a number of categories. He was best dressed, best shaven, and combed. His position as the most silent was unchallenged, and he would surely be at the top of anyone’s list for steadiest, most confident gaze. His gaze currently made its way across the room, watching the cops fall into their seats, fill their coffee, and wait for the Captain to assume control of the crowd.
Dead Beat (Flynt and Steele Mystery Book 1) Page 1