Dead Beat (Flynt and Steele Mystery Book 1)

by Micheal Maxwell

  Steele considered this. He assumed Mark never told his bandmates—or maybe anyone at all—about his bone disease.

  “And the second thing?” he asked.

  “This was not a crime of passion,” Sankaran said. “Think about it. Who carries a Taser? Whoever killed our friend here knew what they were doing. They possessed a great deal of hate for our victim. It is not that easy to stab someone with a knife, much less a dull implement like a drumstick. That takes rage, strength, and a lot of hate.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Steele said solemnly.

  “Paru, please. After all, we’ve shared an inhaler.” The ME laughed with a big toothy smile.

  Again, Steele found that he did not care for the sound of laughter in a morgue. He let that sound carry him out of the exam room, with Mark Reagan’s body still open on the table behind him.

  * * *

  “There’s a fresh box of doughnuts in the break room!”

  This was the first thing out of Flynt’s mouth as he rounded the corner and saw Steele heading toward him. He was carrying two coffee cups with lids stacked upon each other in one hand, and three doughnuts on a napkin in the other.

  “Sounds good,” Steele said. “But I gotta go see the Chief. See you in a bit. We’ll go pay Terry Johnson another visit when I’m done. See what he says about the Juggalo garage being vandalized.”

  “I’ll wait with the Doc. His job turns out to be pretty interesting. Who knew?”

  “I can see that,” Steele said as they passed by each other.

  Steele made the quick trek over to the squad room. It was noisy, and the light through the windows was a stark change from the morgue. Steele glanced over at a desk with two vases of flowers. Bill’s desk. Steele almost felt like he was getting to know the guy, even after he’d died.

  Steele took the place in like a man thinking of buying a house. He studied the posters of the Dodgers, the Crime Watchdog from TV, the desks with pictures of kids, wives, and girlfriends. He saw bobbing head baseball players sitting on a couple of desks, and a few of those weird-looking Funko Pop figures on others. He saw people sitting at desks who seemed to be doing nothing, while a few others were busy with work. He turned to see a guy with his sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened and playing solitaire on his computer.

  This is home for the next twenty years, but he could not make himself see it as such. What made him think this was a good idea? The Chief really was a salesman. He was sent to the armpit of the county at a third-rate precinct with a crew of misfits and clock watchers. Worst of all, he was partnered with a man that seemed to have stepped right out of a bad 70’s sitcom.

  It was supposed to be a promotion, but it felt like the opposite.

  Feeling slightly depressed, he made his way across the room to Captain Weidman’s office. The door was open so he tapped on the metal frame.

  “Come in,” Weidman called. When Steele stepped in, the Captain smiled. “So, you about got this dead drummer thing wrapped up, huh?”

  “No,” Steele replied reluctantly, moving toward the desk. “We have a few leads, but so far nothing solid. And certainly no suspect. At best we have some persons of interest.”

  “Flynt tells me it’s pretty much a case of connecting the dots.” Weidman tilted his head and looked at Steele through squinting eyes.

  “Well sir, that is being optimistic.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Weidman scowled.

  “It means he sees it differently than I do.”

  “Look, when I say I want an update on a case I don’t want a bunch of double talk from a low-budget cop show or a new member of my department trying to cover his tookus by dancing me around the floor. Now, what is it? I need this case closed. It’s taking you two clowns far too long to close it. It’s a kid in a band for God’s sake. Doesn’t seem so hard to me. Find a suspect and bring them in. So far, I’m having second thoughts about the recommendation I got for you as a wonder cop. I haven’t seen anything to shout about. Chief or no Chief, I’ll send you packing faster than he got you here. I guarantee it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Steele turned and made his way to the door. It was a much wiser decision than spewing out all of the responses he considered for the Captain.

  “Close it!” Weidman growled.

  Steele got as far as the center of the squad room before he stopped. He stood motionless and counted to ten. Then twenty. He took long, slow breaths. It didn’t work; he was still mad.

  He headed back over to the morgue with one thought circling his head like dirty gutter water around a sewer grate.

  I can’t do it.

  By the time he returned to the morgue, he was still so angry, he could have punched the window out of the morgue door. Instead, he made his way to Sankaran’s office. He knocked on the door and when it was opened from the other side, Flynt’s face greeted him. He was still smiling, like a kid that just learned a new card trick or something.

  “You ever see a brain?” Flynt asked. “I mean a real one outside a skull?”

  “No. But I have to ask…have you ever used yours?”

  The smile faded from Flynt’s face. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with me? I just came from the Captain’s office. You told him we were about to wrap this case up!”

  “Well, we are,” Flynt replied as if it were a fore-drawn conclusion.

  “Are you insane? Why would you tell him we have the case all but wrapped up?”

  Flynt stepped out of the examination room and closed the door behind him. The two detectives stood in the hall now, face to face. “Well, we know that the victim was tasered right? So, all we need to do is find one of our suspects that has a Taser.”

  “And I could fly like a bird if I had wings!” Steele realized he was shouting, but he didn’t care. “He just about tore my head off and handed it to me. And it was your fault! I would be better off with a blind, three-legged, cocker spaniel helping me with this case!”

  “I don’t see why you’re so upset.” Steele was amazed to see that Flynt was starting to get angry. So far, it was an emotion Steele would have thought his partner incapable of. “You think you’re such hot stuff. Why did you have to wait for the ME to tell you he was tasered?”

  “I wasn’t even working here yet. And because some idiot closed down the investigation before it got started and had the body hauled off! My God, what is wrong with you?”

  “All I did was try and give the Captain some positive news. And you get all huffy about it.”

  “There is no positive news. We are exactly nowhere! Nowhere at all!”

  “So what would you like me to do if I can’t be positive?”

  “Go back in and drool over the corpse, or go home, or do whatever it is you think you do around here! But get as far away from me as possible! I can’t work with you!”

  Steele turned and walked away. He knew it was immature, but he hauled off and kicked the wall as he went. It sent a little flicker of pain spiraling up his foot, but it felt incredibly good.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Steele needed coffee. Or maybe that wasn’t it. All he knew was he needed something. He felt a distinct lack of wind in his sails, or fire in his furnace to use another analogy. The Captain laid it out for him, letting him know his job was just as fragile as Flynt’s. He could go down as easily as his often clueless partner. This was not how it was supposed to be—not the position he was promised.

  In hindsight, Steele wondered if he was too harsh on his partner. But just as soon as that thought entered his head, he quickly reassured himself that harsh was exactly what a guy like Flynt needed. If the guy was to have any hope of continuing as a detective, someone needed to help him shape up and get his head on straight. Personally, Steele didn’t think it was his responsibility to teach that lesson. The academy should have taken care of that, but somehow Flynt seemed to have slipped through the system with his wits scattered on the floor. Once again, Steele found himself blaming Bill.

/>   Having left Flynt to waste time with Sankaran, Steele wasted no time. If the Captain wanted it wrapped, wanted to see why people spoke so highly of him, Steele would show him. And he’d do it without Flynt. As Steele made his way to Terry Johnson’s residence, it felt good to be alone again. Though, if he was being honest, he did miss Mindy’s voice guiding him along.

  When Noah finally arrived at Terry’s place, he parked down the street and took a moment to prepare. Breaking down Terry’s barriers would be difficult, even harder if Cindy was around. She had such a positive perception of her grandson. Steele wasn’t eager to shatter it with news of fights and vandalism. Maybe he could get Terry to step outside for a chat. Or, more ideally, Cindy wouldn’t even be home.

  Steele stepped out of his car, locked it even though it probably wasn’t necessary for this neighborhood, and made his way to the Johnson home on foot. He reached the house, passed Grandma’s Garden, and started up the porch stairs. Before he knocked on the front door, he heard what sounded like shouting inside. After three hard raps on the door, the shouting stopped.

  A minute passed.

  Cindy Johnson answered the door. Her level of distress roughly matched the amount of time that elapsed since Noah knocked. She was clearly not the put-together woman he met the day before.

  “Detective? I’m sorry, what was it? Detective Iron?”

  “Steele, ma’am. Is everything ok?”

  “Fine, fine. Just family matters.”

  “I see,” Steele said, though he wanted to see more. He leaned to the side, trying to see past Cindy. “Any chance I could come in for a moment?”

  “Of course, but this really isn’t a good time. Maybe you could swing by tomorrow?”

  Steele decided to start by taking the less forceful approach to the conversation. One way or another, he was getting into the house to see Terry. “I suppose I could come back tomorrow,” he said. “It’s just that I drove out all this way and tomorrow is looking pretty booked.”

  He waited for her hospitality to cause her to yield, but it didn’t. It made him wonder if yesterday’s hospitality was a front. Undaunted, Steele continued.

  “We’re really close to figuring this thing out,” he lied. “Getting some answers would really go a long way.”

  “I’m so happy to hear that,” Cindy said. “This whole thing has Terry so upset.”

  “Same for all of us. We’re really hoping to bring this guy to justice. Mark Reagan deserves it. He deserves much better than that, actually.” Once again Steele wasn’t lying or twisting the truth for personal gain. He meant every word, and those words happened to be helpful in getting him in the door. He stayed quiet, letting the words sink in.

  “I guess you could come in for a minute,” Cindy was apparently still uneasy with the idea. “I’m sure it’s important.”

  She let him in and led him to the living room in silence. When they entered she offered him a seat. “Just be ready. Terry isn’t exactly in high spirits.”

  Although Cindy offered a seat, Steele did not feel like sitting. This was going to be a mental boxing match. “Any chance you could get Terry down here?” he asked. “Or should I head upstairs?”

  “I’m right here,” the voice of the Border Bigots was making his way down the stairs.

  Steele looked up. “There he is. I just have some more quest—

  Steele stopped when he saw the kid’s face. He was sporting a black eye. No serious swelling, and definitely recent.

  Steele’s mind raced, trying to piece together a timeline. Terry learned of Mark’s death yesterday. Was it possible he went out looking for a fight soon after that? All the shouting Steele arrived to, made him briefly consider it might be a case of domestic violence. One glance at Cindy reminded Noah how foolish the idea was. She was upset with Terry for getting hurt; she didn’t do the hurting.

  “Oh, I hope that doesn’t hurt too bad,” Steele said.

  Terry shrugged as he ambled into the living room. Steele clenched his fists at the shrug. He truly hated the response.

  “It’s fine,” the kid said.

  “How’d ya get it?”

  “Fighting.” The answer actually came from Cindy, through slightly clenched teeth. “I told him he needs to stop messing with that other band. It’s just music. And it’s hardly that. It’s not like they’re fighting over food or land.”

  “I see,” Steele said. The interview certainly was an array of curveballs so far. He’d expected to come here and pry Terry open with a crowbar while his grandmother ran interference by saying her boy would never hurt a soul. “Who were you fighting, Terry?”

  “Some kids in another band. They started it.”

  “I think you’d be surprised at how common that excuse is,” Steele said. “Who were these other kids?”

  “Just kids.”

  “Older, younger? Fat, skinny?” Steele paused. “Juggalos?”

  Terry looked confused. “How do you know about them?”

  “Oh, the Zany Zygotes? Just part of my job, detecting and all. Terry, when I asked you if you knew anyone in the Clown crowd, you said no.”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t think they ever would…” He glared at his grandmother and mockingly said, “It’s just music.”

  “Hey.” Steele pointed two fingers into his own eyes. “Right here. You’re talking to me, not her. How long have you been messing with these guys?”

  “I told you, they started it.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “They egged the practice space and unplugged our equipment at a show. You should see the stuff they wrote on our Facebook page!”

  “I don’t care about Facebook, Terry. Tell me this. If you hate these guys so much, why are you protecting them?”

  “I’m not protecting them!”

  “Then why wasn’t ‘Juggalos’ the first word out of your mouth when we came knocking on your door the first time?”

  “I didn’t think about it.” He crossed his arms defiantly. All he’d have to do was stick out his bottom lip and he’d be pouting.

  “No?” Steele said. “Or maybe you were protecting yourself. You didn’t want to get wrapped up in this thing so you just thought, ‘they’re detectives, they’ll figure it out without my help.’ Something like that?”

  Steele yanked the leash on his temper before the question could turn into a rant. Some of the anger from his confrontations with the Captain and Flynt still bubbled under the surface.

  “I just didn’t think that they would kill Mark over a little graffiti,” Terry said.

  “So that’s what you did? You sprayed all over something of theirs?”

  “Can you arrest me if I say yes?”

  There it was. Terry was a brat, but he was just as afraid of lawful retaliation as the rest of them. “No, Terry. No, I’m not going to arrest you. Now, what else can you tell me about your little spray paint war games? Anyone else in the Border Bigots involved?”

  “No, that’s it.”

  “I’m going to need names of any Juggalos you’ve tangled with.”

  “Ok.”

  Now to test the second theory. Steele figured out his angle and moved forward. “Were you aware that Mark had feelings for your girlfriend?”

  “Everyone knew,” Terry said, a hint of teen pride shining through.

  “Lucky guy.”

  Terry looked up with a grin.

  “I’ve got to be honest, Terry, none of this looks too good for you. Not only are you involved in an escalating conflict that might have led to murder, but you’re also dating the victim’s secret crush. If this case were a bulls-eye I’d say that puts you pretty close to dead center.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t here to arrest me.”

  “Not yet,” Steele said.

  “Detective.” It was Cindy again. Her voice was quivering and there was a very uneasy sort of fear in her eyes. “Please leave. Now.”

  “Miss Johnson I’m sorry if I offended, but—”

&
nbsp; “I’m asking nicely, Detective. Terry isn’t going to say another word to you without a lawyer present. Isn’t that right, Terry?”

  Terry looked as shocked as Steele at Cindy’s sudden intensity. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”

  “Good,” Cindy said. She walked to the front door and held it open, glaring at Steele.

  “Thanks,” Steele said. “Sorry to have disturbed you.”

  “We were already disturbed, Detective,” Cindy said. Her kind personality was already regaining control, obliterating whatever peculiar emotion was warring within her as she listened to Steele question her grandson. “You just made it more complicated. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope we never see you again.”

  “I think that’s the nicest anyone’s ever put it,” Steele said as he walked out of their home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Flynt felt the fire of anger before but only allowed in little snippets here and there. Surviving a childhood like the one he endured, he learned quickly that anger did nothing but complicate problems, so he learned to stuff it down until it suffocated.

  But what he was currently feeling was different. From Sankaran’s office, all during the ride to his house, even as he unlocked his front door, the anger persisted. If he was being honest, he sort of liked it in a weird way. The day was technically not over; there were still a few hours to log for the day but he honestly did not care. And that also felt good.

  “Who’s he think he is anyway?” Flynt shouted, violently slamming the door behind him. He took off his jacket and threw it on the table in his foyer. He stormed further into the house, continuing to rant even though there was no one there to hear him.

  “I got opinions,” he shouted. “I been a cop for a long time. I know stuff. He can’t just shut me up.”

  He paced the kitchen. It was so clean it gave the strong impression no one lived in the house. The counter was clear. The dishes were done from dinner the night before and put away. He stepped to the refrigerator and gazed inside. There was less than an inch of milk in the one-gallon jug. There was very little to eat, which was fine as he wasn’t hungry anyway. He slammed the door a little harder than he meant to.