CHAPTER SIX
Mark Reagan’s home turned out to be the bottom level of a rundown duplex. A young man of around twenty answered Noah’s three hard raps on the door. The kid was sporting a just-got-out-of-bed hairstyle and a pair of green plaid boxers.
“Yeah?” he asked rubbing his face.
Both detectives flashed their badges. Steele saw that it was something Flynt did with great care and pride. Seeing the badges, the young man stepped back from the door.
“Cops?” the kid asked.
“Cops,” Steele confirmed. “Can we come in a moment?”
“Yeah, sure. Come in, come in. Is something wrong? Wait, dumb question. I guess there is something wrong since you guys don’t exactly show up with giant checks like Publisher’s Clearing House.”
Steele couldn’t tell if the comment was a slight against him or just an act of self-deprecation, so he ignored it. “Are you here by yourself, mister…?”
“No, my roommate’s here. One of them.”
“What’s your name?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m Tyler,” he said to Noah’s back as he led the detectives down the hall. Steele followed closely, with Flynt tagging behind.
Tyler led them into the kitchen where a young man sat at a table. There was a bountiful feast of brightly colored boxes of dry cereal in front of him. He hovered over a bowl of cereal, looking up to them with irritation. A second bowl was on the table which Tyler immediately returned to. The full plastic gallon of milk between them indicated that the guys planned on sitting there for a while.
“Who are you?” the other young man asked. He stood slowly up from the table.
“Lieutenant Noah Steele. And this is my partner Detective Flynt. And you are?”
“Paul Leslie. What’s going on?”
“We just need to ask a few questions. Tyler here says there are three of you who live in the house?”
“That’s right. Me, Mark, and Tyler.”
“When was the last time you saw Mark Reagan?”
Paul Leslie let out a sigh. His irritation took a turn towards anger. “Ah no. What’s he done?”
“It’s a simple question, Paul.” Steele said.
Tyler spoke on behalf of Paul—whom Steele was starting to think was the superior among the pair. “Two days ago.”
“That’s probably right,” Paul chimed in.
“Well, your roommate is dead,” Flynt said.
Steele cringed. It was the first thing Flynt said since approaching the front door. If the two young men weren’t right there in front of him, he would have corrected his terrible error.
Tyler and Paul’s responses were identical and simultaneous. Tyler dropped his spoon. It clattered to the table with a chunk of brightly colored cereal. “What?” they asked in unison.
Steele glared at this tactless partner. “I’m sorry we have to be the ones to break the news.”
“What happened?” Paul asked. “How did he… you know?”
“He was murdered,” Steele showed no emotion, as there was plenty of that going around already. He watched the two closely for their reactions, looking for some sort of tell in their expressions.
“Who would want to kill Mark?” Tyler asked. Steele thought his voice might be wavering with emotion. That, or it was the cereal he was still munching on.
“What a coincidence,” Steele asked. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Paul was the first to speak. He did so cautiously as if making sure each word he selected was perfect. “Well, there’s that one guy….”
“There are lots of guys out there,” Flynt quipped.
“That’s right,” Steele pressed. “Which guy in particular?”
“The guy from the storage place. Well, that is, the guy that rents out the unit right next to ours.”
“You guys are members of the band, I take it?” Steele asked.
“No. Not really. We just listen to their stuff sometimes. Go to the shows for support. Mark and his band sort of hire me every now and then to help with the soundboards.”
After a merry-go-round of questions and comparing Paul’s description with Steele and Flynt’s notes on the other storage units, they were able to pin down a potential identity of “that guy.” His name was Miles Miller, and he rents out unit 412.
“You know what he keeps in the unit?” Steele asked.
“Yeah,” Paul began. “A lot of different construction equipment for his small business. I remember because when he was hauling in a few boxes of nails a while back, I tried to make a Nine Inch Nails joke that went right over his head.”
“Why would you suspect he killed Mark?” Steele asked.
“Just the way he always talked to us. Like he was looking down on us. Thought he was better than us. Dude told me I needed a shower one day so I told him he needed a vasectomy to make sure he couldn’t have kids.”
“Sheesh,” Flynt said through a smile.
“Seems like a stretch to go from that to murder.” Steele refocused.
“I guess he hated their music,” Tyler suggested, “And them.”
“And why would that be?”
“Typical kids these days.” Paul shrugged. “Music too loud, too aggressive blah, blah, blah. This Miles Miller guy isn’t all that old, but he acts like it, you know?”
“So he argued with the band a lot?” Steele was less than enthused over this admission. Suspects that outwardly hated the victim over petty issues usually didn’t end up being the killer, but it was something. Maybe there would be a way to leverage information out of Miles Miller.
“Argued?” Paul looked at Tyler knowingly. “Man, they threw punches. I wasn’t there for it, but I saw the bruise on Mark the next day.”
“Did anyone actually see this fight?”
“I did,” Tyler said. “I was helping load some of Paul’s gear.”
“So, do we have to pay for the funeral?” Paul asked. The question was out of the blue and made Steele wonder what the total combined IQ of these two guys might be.
“Why would you?” Steele asked.
“I don’t know. We lived with him.”
“What about all his stuff?” Tyler asked. “Can we keep it?”
“I don’t know,” Steele said. “That’s down to a lawyer and his next of kin to decide. Whose name is the unit under, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Our other member, Terry…I think his grandmother rents it out. Cindy something or another.”
“You ever meet her?” Steele asked.
“Nope.”
“Um, why a lawyer?” Paul asked, still hung up on that remark. “We’re Mark’s friends. Shouldn’t we get to keep his stuff?”
Steele looked back to Flynt and gave him a look that he meant to translate to can you believe this?
Flynt only smiled back and Steele sighed. He was starting to fully understand the bad rep his partner had and just hoped he’d make it through this case without strangling the red-headed idiot.
* * *
Flynt’s faith in humanity continued to decline as he watched the guys discuss the money issues that their dead friend was going to cause. The whole scene made him suddenly compelled to make Mark Reagan seem human again. He knew he sometimes developed soft spots for victims he never even knew. He’d never figured out if this was a benefit or a hindrance to his methods.
“Steele?” Flynt asked. “Should we take a look at his room?”
Steele nodded. “Where is Mark’s room?” He gave Paul and Tyler a hard look.
“It’s down there.” Paul pointed in the direction of a hallway. “It’s locked, though.”
“Do you have a key?”
Paul gave Flynt that awful look that he was so accustomed to, the one that told him he was an idiot. “There wouldn’t be any point to locking it if I had a key, now would it?”
“Watch your tone,” Steele barked.
Feeling rather proud that Steele yelled at the kid, Flynt actually took the lead towards Mark’s room. This was
the part he was actually good at, and he knew it. Without the presence of judging eyes or a dead body, Flynt sometimes felt as though he could take a room full of objects and shape them into a complete person, mind, body, and soul. It was very much like a puzzle and he was always good at puzzles.
Before even reaching the room, he noticed a cluster of microphone stands crowded in the rear corner of the hallway. Several speaker boxes were lined up and stacked three high behind a worn cloth-covered sofa.
“Who’s the sound guy?” Flynt asked. “I was a roadie for a while, so I recognize some of this stuff.” His chest was puffed out proudly.
“Not too tough, they’re speakers and microphones,” Paul said sarcastically. “I think that’s pretty obvious. I’m the guy, though. Phoenix Light and Sound – Serving all of Southern California. Tyler works for me. We met Mark when we started working with his band. They let us store some of our gear in the unit and in return, they get to use it for cheap.”
“Do you have contact information for Mark’s family?” Steele asked.
“He didn’t have any. Not that I know of, anyway. He was adopted and they died…the parents I mean.”
“No siblings?” Steele asked.
“Nope.”
“What was Mark like?” Flynt asked.
Paul shrugged. “Happy, fun to be around. Kind of crazy, in a good way. He was pretty straight edge. No drugs or alcohol.”
Flynt reached Mark’s bedroom door and gave it a jiggle. No dice; it was locked, as the kids said it would be.
“Let me try.” Noah slowly but firmly pushing Flynt out of the way. He stepped back and drove his shoulder against the door about a foot above the doorknob. The door popped open with a harsh jingle of hinges.
“Heavy security,” Steele joked.
“Hey,” Flynt said as he stepped up to his partner. Their close proximity reminded Flynt of just how short he was. “I know I say Bill usually took care of a lot of things…”
“Buck up and get in there.” Steele’s tone translated to, don’t do this to me right now.
“Oh, but…I was going to say that this was usually my part. If it can be just a little quiet…”
After a moment of disbelief, Steele nodded for Flynt to take the lead into the room. Flynt entered and felt the room grow smaller as Steele entered in behind him a few seconds later.
Inside the room, the windows were covered with aluminum foil, blocking the possibility of any light entering the room. Behind Flynt, Steele clicked on the light switch.
Paul Leslie stood outside the door, watching. Flynt hated the pressure of an extra set of eyes. Flynt stared at the young man and Steele picked up on it. He turned and gave Paul a look that left no question that he was no longer welcome. Paul turned and went back to the kitchen, whistling nervously. Flynt gave Steele a nod of thanks and plunged deep into the process of absorbing the whole room.
The bed was made neatly. There was a desk with a keyboard and monitor sitting on it. The small tower of the computer stood on the floor, next to the desk. The desk was clear and uncluttered with the exception of a small yellow notepad and a pencil.
A small dresser stood across from the bed. The top was arranged with a brush, two spray bottles of Axe cologne and, a round, fold-up mirror. An unframed picture of a band was pinned to the wall. Not just any band. Upon closer inspection, Flynt recognized Mark Reagan. This was the detective’s first look at the Border Bigots.
There were two other boys and one girl. Flynt wasn’t sure about the social structure of punks, but he was pretty sure one of the boys looked one rung higher on the cool-ladder than Mark. To the far left, next to Mark, stood a girl that could have been a stand-in for the comic book hottie, Harley Quinn.
The photo was the only personal touch in the room. The near monk-like quarters could have belonged to anyone in the world. The only thing that set it apart was the decorations and the blacked-out windows.
Flynt crossed the room and opened the closet. The walls were covered with posters, handbills, and the printed fronts of three old Ramones t-shirts. In what Reagan must have considered the place of honor above the closet shelf, was a large Black Flag poster, a shirtless Henry Rollins hunched over and screaming. Above the poster, a quotation was painted on the wall: “No time for drug addiction, no time for smoke or booze. Too strong for a shortened life span, I’ve got no time to lose.”
Flynt was thrilled that he recognized the Henry Rollins quote. The part about a shortened lifespan made him shake his head.
A couple pairs of black jeans and Two Zildjian cymbals were all that occupied the closet shelf. Flynt stepped inside the closet. The walls on either side of the door was a collage of handbills for Border Bigot shows along with several other bands. Most were autographed with a black felt tip pen.
As he headed out of the closet, Flynt saw the most telling thing in the small room. A large, eleven by fourteen photo of a girl adorned the door. Her legs were long and thin. She wore fishnet stockings with garter snaps at the top. She was bent over, exposing her backside. The thong she wore covered none of her small hips.
Most guys Mark’s age either proudly display their pinups or didn’t hang them at all. But Mark hid his, possibly offensive, and certainly embarrassing, focus of his desire.
Flynt moved to the dresser. The top drawer was a catch-all. Everything from an old yo-yo, several pocket knives, string, screwdrivers, crescent wrenches, and a dozen or so black ponytail elastic bands. The second drawer was socks and boxers. In the third were two stacks of folded black t-shirts. The bottom drawer contained two more pairs of black jeans and a black, fake leather binder.
Flynt unzipped the binder. Sitting on top of a thick stack of binder paper was an 8x10 photo of a girl with a multi-colored Mohawk, severe black eye make-up and black lipstick. Even with the heavy make-up, Flynt could tell how very pretty she was. He flipped the photo to examine the writing on the binder paper. Page after page, Mark Reagan had written poems, lyrics, essays, and drawn sketches.
The thoughts collected in the binder were not what Flynt expected from the punk rock drummer. The poems were thoughtful and well written. The lyrics seemed to have more of a folk-rock feel. The essays he glanced over spoke of Mark’s frustration with the anger and disenfranchisement of the people of his generation. Flynt was about to close the binder when an envelope sticking out from the flap inside the cover caught his eye. He slipped it out and unfolded the sheet of parchment inside. It was a handwritten letter.
“Julie. Not sure if I’ll ever get the nerve to give you this…”
Flynt felt as if he were violating something very personal and heartfelt. He couldn’t be completely sure who Julie was, but he was willing to bet on her being the only female in the band.
Before finishing the first paragraph, he returned the letter to the envelope and put it in his inside breast pocket. He zipped up the binder and stuck it under his arm.
Before turning back to face his partner, Flynt checked to make sure there were no tears in his eyes. None. He finally turned to Steele and nodded.
“Good?” Steele asked.
“Good.”
Steele gave his own cursory glance around the room before giving his own little nod. With that, the two detectives left the dead drummer’s room behind. Flynt could not help but feel sad that there would likely be no one else entering the room for anything other than personal gain. The young man was gone and he left behind everything he owned—from poems to clothes—for the rest of the world to claim as its own.
* * *
The detectives rejoined the two guys in their cereal emporium. Neither had moved, still munching mindlessly on their cereal.
“Nobody messes with anything in that room until I give the release,” Steele ordered.
Paul grunted. Tyler shrugged. Both were texting or posting, or tweeting, most likely deep in the process of spamming the world with news of their roommate’s death. And they chewed sloppily at their cereal the entire time. They seemed to not be too b
othered by their friend’s death. Steele assumed they were posting about it on social media for Likes and retweets.
“Let’s go,” Steele said to Flynt. He turned to leave but suddenly froze. “Oh, one more thing. Show them the pictures, Flynt.”
“What pictures? Wha—Oh, right.” Flynt pulled up the snapshots from the security footage and showed them to the cereal connoisseurs.
“Ring any bells?” Steele asked.
Paul and Tyler appeared dumbfounded, enough to convince Noah that they genuinely never saw the kids before. They studied them closely, though, maybe feeling as if they might be able to contribute something of importance.
“Never seen either of them,” Tyler said. Paul nodded in agreement.
“Alright.” Steele already got his answer without either of them speaking a word. “Thanks for your time. We’ll be in touch.”
Flynt and Steele made their exit, leaving the young men to their breakfasts. Not another word was spoken between them until they were back in their car.
“You think it’s weird that one of the guys was older than the rest?” Flynt asked.
“How do you mean?”
“Mark and Tyler are right around twenty years old. Paul’s closer to thirty. Kinda creepy. Think he’s gay?”
Steele pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated and wondering if his partner even knew what homophobia meant. How could someone be so socially inept and so sensitive at the same time?
“What would that have to do with anything?” Steele asked.
“Mark did keep his door locked,” Flynt pointed out. “Maybe he felt a little…” Flynt raised and perched his hands in a slight vampire-like gesture. “Creeped out.”
“I’m going to give you a chance to bounce back from that premise.” Steele rolled his eyes and shook his head. “What you said back there about always handling the victim’s profile. You know why I believed you?”
Flynt shook his head.
“Because it was the first time you looked me in the eyes for the duration of a full sentence. So, tell me what you learned.”
“Mark was in love with the girl in the band. Not a quick crush, but the kind of feelings that brew over time. He vented them in poetry. He was sensitive, which means I doubt he would start a fight over anything but…”
Dead Beat (Flynt and Steele Mystery Book 1) Page 4