Dead Beat (Flynt and Steele Mystery Book 1)

by Micheal Maxwell

  “Who would want to hurt the band, Julie?”

  “I have been going over and over it in my head. We’re just a little punk band in a nowhere town. And honestly, we aren’t even that good. It’s fun, but we’re never going to be famous, you know?” Julie looked up at Steele. “If it’s just me and Fatty now. I’m done.”

  Steele cocked his eyebrow at that. Fear and concern apart, survival instinct was bound to kick in at some point. Yet the girl’s words seemed suddenly mature and thoughtful.

  “Let me ask you something, Julie. We’ve talked about it before, but I really want you to think, okay?”

  “Alright.”

  “Who else could possibly have a key to the storage space where you guys practice? Even if it’s a long shot guess, let me have it.”

  “Thorny,” she answered. “That suddenly sounds foolish. Terry has a key. I have a key. Mark had a key.

  “I’ve got Mark’s key now.”

  “Fatty has one, but I think he lost it a long time ago. And that creepy sound guy Paul.”

  “Creepy? How do you mean?” Steele was taken aback by her remark.

  “I’ve caught him looking at me. I mean looking at me, you know? One time I caught him looking down my shirt. Guys do it all the time, but Paul…I don’t know. It was weird. Different. I told Terry and he just laughed and said: ‘Not much to see.’ It made me mad. But, it was pervy just the same. Guys at school I get, but Paul is old.”

  She paused as if replaying a tape in her head. Her eyes seemed to glaze over—from the trauma of the night and from the recollection.

  “Still there, Julie?” Steele asked.

  She nodded slowly and continued. “This is kind of weird thinking about it. He was asking me where I bought my stage clothes. It was kind of weird. It was like he knew something, you know? Kind of like when somebody says their friend wants to know, and you know it’s them? I felt like he’d seen me naked or something. Made my skin crawl.”

  “Was Paul working the show tonight? Steele asked.

  “He was here, but not running the show. Tonight, there were a few different bands scheduled. Some other guy was running sound for everyone. Paul was just here at the start. Sort of looking things over.”

  Paul not working the show opened up a very large door. It presented lots of questions…but he needed to pick the right ones.

  “Why does he have a key?”

  “He keeps some of his gear in our storage in exchange for fixing any of our stuff when it breaks.”

  “So he can come and go as he pleases,” Steele said.

  “Yeah. But I mean, what’s he gonna steal? Our stuff is crap compared to his.”

  “How often does something break?” Steele was being cautious with his questions, doing his best not to lead the witness.

  “Oh, I dunno. He was fixing something before he left tonight. I was tuning up and going over the setlist with Terry and the new guy, so I don’t know what he was working on.”

  Steele felt one of the final puzzle pieces click into place.

  “Does Paul usually hang around for the show even when he’s not running sound?”

  “Sometimes. Depends on who else is playing.”

  Steele considered all of this. He was suddenly protective of Julie. “Do you want me to call your parents?” he asked.

  “I already did. Mom is on her way. Thank you, Detective. I know you guys are trying really hard. And you’ve been very kind.”

  “Thanks, Julie. You have been more helpful than you know.”

  Steele looked up onto the stage. He looked beyond Flynt, who was still looking around like some frenzied stage inspector. Fatty Gristle sat at the stage sweating, looking around the place as if he was waiting for the walls to come tumbling down. The only other person still left in the building, except for cops and the three band members, was the sound guy. Steele recognized him from the day he went to Mark Reagan’s apartment, Tyler something. He was standing near a side door. He elected to skip questioning Fatty Gristle. Steele was sure he’d get the same answers he’d gotten from Julie. If there was time, he’d get to Fatty later. But for now, he wanted to speak to the band’s new drummer. He was at the back of the stage, hiding behind one of the curtains. He was texting something into his phone when Steele approached him.

  “So you’re new around here?” Noah asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Been playing long?”

  “Yeah.” He was giving nothing away so Noah just waited. “Dude just stood there, then he fell down and started smoking.”

  “Really.” Noah gave him a moment to continue. The kid was clearly in some sort of shock. Noah could see the texts on his screen and found they were harmless. He was simply contacting his folks to come pick him up.

  “So, Fatty called 911,” the new drummer said.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s your name?”

  “Storm.” He replied with a calm spaciness and that suggested drugs. Steele was in no mood to check.

  “Is that your real name?”

  “Melvin Pickler.” Steele nodded his understanding. With a name like that, it was no surprise he preferred Storm.

  “How did you know the Bigots needed another drummer?” Steele asked.

  “Word gets around,” he replied.

  “I bet it did. I guess you heard what happened to the last drummer?”

  “I did. That was harsh. Not good, not good at all, man.”

  “Agreed.”

  Steele saw movement out the corner of his eye. Tyler was moving to the sound booth.

  “Excuse me, Melvin.” Steele hurried over to Tyler.

  Tyler saw him coming and froze with the recognition. “Do I know you?” His tone indicated that he knew he knew him. Given the night’s events, Tyler appeared to also be freaking out a bit.

  “Hello again, Tyler. You did the sound tonight?”

  “Yep.”

  Feeling responsible, Tyler frantically looked around. He wanted to run. It was desperation; he knew there was no place to go. Steele could read all of this in the soundman’s terrified face.

  “Mind telling me what you saw?” Steele was nonthreatening.

  “The lead singer was tuning his guitar next to his amp. When he was done, he walked to the front of the stage and hit a big chord. That was my cue to hit the strobe. He grabbed the mic and did a kinda weird spin. His mouth was open, but he wasn’t singing. At first, I thought it was a technical problem. I checked my settings. The next thing you know, he was on the floor, kind of spazzing out, ya know? I kind of panicked.”

  “I’m sure. What else can you tell me, Tyler?”

  “The girl kept looking at me and then the guy on the floor, like trying to tell me to do something, you know? Fatty, that’s Tommy, got out his phone and called 911. At first, the crowd was kind of silent when the singer fell. Then they all started screaming and running. Nobody knew what happened. I heard one guy say he got shot. Someone else said it smelled like fried chicken.”

  Tyler’s fear was overtaking him. His breathing was growing rapid and shallow.

  “Take a deep breath,” Steele advised in what he hoped was a calming tone. “You’re okay. One deep breath, then another, slowly. Good.”

  Tyler did as he was asked. Slowly, his expression softened. He looked to Steele with thankfulness in his eyes.

  “You’re just the assistant right?” Steele asked as Tyler calmed down.

  “Yes.”

  “Where is your boss? Paul, right?”

  “Yeah, Paul. He left for a Juggalo show across town. I guess they paid better. He only worked with the Border Bigots guys because of Mark. This may be the last time ’cause he just can’t get along with Terry. That’s why I’m working this show.”

  An expression of panic crossed Tyler’s face, realizing how bad that must have sounded.

  Steele thought it all over. For a dead guy, Mark cropped up in conversations with amazing regularity. So, here was someone else talking about Paul’s diffic
ulty with the Border Bigots.

  “Sir? Lieutenant Steele?”

  Steele turned at the sound of his name. A young patrolman was approaching from the seating area behind him. “We’ve got a situation developing outside.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “A bunch of the kids from the show are getting all riled up. Something about the original sound guy from here doing a show across town. There’s an older kid stirring them up. They say he’s a Juggalo lackey and probably responsible for the kid getting shocked. Are you about done here? I’d sure like to get this place and the parking lot shut down.”

  “Yeah, give me a couple of minutes. We need to get these three,” he said, indicating the band, “to a safe location. Can you have someone usher them out? The girl is waiting for her folks. Get that older guy from outside in here. I want a word with him.”

  “Yes, sir!” The officer went into action, sprinting towards the exit.

  Steele turned and located Flynt. He was looking at the microphone as if it were a prop from a sci-fi movie. Steele wanted to think he was looking very intently for clues but doubted this was the case.

  “You intend to join a band anytime soon?” Steele asked.

  Flynt raised his head and returned to the mic. “I already did. A reggae band many years ago.”

  Steele could not have been more shocked if he was hit over the head with one of the speaker cabinets. “You’re just full of surprises,” he said with irony.

  “The mic,” Flynt said.

  “Yes, that’s a mic. What about it?”

  Flynt shook his head. He poked the microphone with his middle finger. “It’s all wrong.”

  Steele stared up at his partner. Flynt abandoned him for the stage as soon as they arrived. Steele assumed Flynt was simply strolling around aimlessly while he dealt with the shell shocked rockers. He’d assumed these things because it was easy. Keeping himself emotionally blank when he was battling a whole lot of despair was difficult at best. Jacki was always at the back of his mind. Guilt from having left her home alone was gnawing at him.

  Steele tried his best to remain calm, cool, confident and in control. He couldn’t afford anything less. There he was, having an emotional trial by fire, and his partner was all involved in the setup of a mic.

  Flynt was totally unaware of the amount of work his partner completed without him. He only examined the mic closer.

  “The mic is all wrong, huh?” Steele’s voice was deathly calm.

  “Ya, look at this.” Flynt pointed at the cord. “The mic ground is connected to the strobe light voltage line by a little wire under this electrical tape. So when Terry held his grounded guitar and the strobe lights came on, the circuit completes and Terry gets lit up. Pun intended. Zzzzzzt!”

  “So?”

  “So, that’s all wrong. No soundman worth his salt makes this kind of mistake.”

  “Sound guy?” Despite his aggravation, Steele was getting intrigued. “He sets up the wiring too?”

  “I guess they would. Sound set-up often comes down to checking the wiring and stuff. This is something else. This was intentional, intentionally wrong. For a little band like this, the sound guy does tech stuff, too. Wires and gear connections, stuff like that. I’m telling you, anybody knows this set-up is all wrong. It’s a roadmap for disaster.”

  “You’re saying this electrocution was intentional?” Steele nearly wrote it off as an accident at first. There was just enough evidence from the band members to make him wonder, but not enough to draw a conclusion. Now there was this…with this information Flynt just broke it down for him.

  Steele thought back to his conversation with Tyler. Not once did Tyler mention a word about the possibility of wires not being in the right places.

  “It should not have happened.” Flynt traced a cable with his eyes. “I’m sure if I go poking through this stuff, I’ll find the problem.”

  “Terry was holding his guitar.” Steele quickly jumped on board with Flynt’s theory. “You think that was linked?”

  Flynt looked to the floor where the guitar in question dropped during the chaos. He picked up the instrument but did not put his hand to the strings. He looked down at the mic cable, traced it to the electrical box.

  “This is a bang-up job!”

  “What do you mean?” Steele asked.

  Flynt fished a combination tool from his baggy pants pocket and deftly removed the extension box cover. Steele watched, hiding his amazement. He utilized the tool like a pro and popped the box cover off as if he’d done it a million times before.

  “Someone, I mean either a really bad electrician or someone who knows exactly what they’re doing, has tampered with this box. It’s not grounded at all.”

  “So, what does that mean?” Steele hated not understanding what any of it meant.

  “It means there is a huge amount of electricity that is not being deflected. It went right back into the amp box, into this cable, and right into the microphone.” Flynt gently set the guitar back in its stand. “The strings aren’t a great conductor, but they sure did the trick here.”

  “Alright, go on.” Steele found himself growing excited and…well, almost proud. It seemed Flynt was onto something solid.

  “It has misdirected the current from the strobe lights that could cause a whole lot of harm with that kind of connection. On its own, it’s nothing, just a mild case of tingles maybe. Grab the mic, finger a chord and blammo! But then, you’re supposed to get tingles at a rock show after all.” Flynt looked out at the empty seats with a smile, looking even more cartoonish than usual.

  “Did you just crack a joke?”

  “I guess it wasn’t funny.” Then, without missing a beat: “Right. With this mic connected to the console that was supposed to ground it, the circuit is complete, the electricity flows out giving some poor sucker the shock of a lifetime.”

  “So for the person holding the guitar and touching the mic at the same time… it could kill them?”

  Flynt shrugged. “Enough to kill an elephant. In other words, if Tommy makes it through this, he is one lucky kid.”

  “How do you know about this stuff?” Steele asked in amazement.

  “Like I said. I played in a band. A reggae group in high school. I guess I sucked because they kicked me out. But, I was good with the equipment and set up so they kept me on as a roadie for a while.

  “Reggae? Really.”

  “Yeah. Must have looked weird, a red-headed kid playing bass for Marley songs.”

  They were interrupted by the same officer that came in searching for Steele a few minutes before. He was escorting a skinny man in his twenties dressed in black and spikes. He wore a blue mohawk and multiple rings in his ears.

  “Sir, here is the guy from outside,” the cop said.

  Steele approached him, putting his serious face back on. “So what’s the deal?” Steele asked. “You’re a bit older than the crowd around here.”

  “I’m a punk to my core. I used to sing in a band. You probably think it’s stupid, but punk is a lifestyle.” He spoke as if he waited his entire life to recite these words.

  “You got ID?” Steele asked.

  The man reached for his wallet. His hands were trembling a bit as he pulled it from his pocket. “My name is John Frasier.” He handed Steele his driver’s license.

  “You’re twenty-eight, John?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So my officer tells me you’re firing these kids up. Something about the sound guy?”

  “He plays both sides. Juggalos hate Punks and Skaters. Talk is, the only reason he has anything to do with Border Bigots is he has the hots for the bass player. The girl.”

  “Who says so?”

  “The drummer who was killed, for one,” John said. “He hated that sound guy. Said he was a pedophile. That chick’s only sixteen. That’s sick.”

  “Mark Reagan told you that?” Steele pressed.

  “After a show a while back, yeah. He was having problems
tearing down his kit. Hurt his hand or something, so I pitched in.”

  “You know this other sound guy’s name?”

  “Nah. Never heard it. Never met him. A guy like that, I don’t want to know him.”

  “Look, John, I understand your concern, but I can’t have you out there inciting a riot.”

  “Guess I got excited.”

  “I guess you did,” Steele said. “How ’bout you call it a night.”

  “I get it. Sorry. I really didn’t mean anything by it, you know.”

  “You got a day job, John?”

  “I’m a mental health technician. I work at a group home for mentally ill adults.”

  “Really?” Flynt said. “Dressed like that?”

  “The blue hair is a good talking point,” John said, getting a bit defensive.

  “Tough job,” Steele said. “Thanks. It can’t be much fun.”

  “It has its moments.” John extended his hand and smiled. “Sorry to have caused any trouble.”

  The two men shook hands and John turned to leave.

  “Keep Rockin’!” Flynt called out to his back.

  John threw up his arm with his fisted hand, extending his index and little fingers.

  “Here’s a question.” Steele waited until John was gone. “Who wants to kill a lead singer by electrocution? Who the hell would want to kill a drummer by shoving drumsticks in his neck? Seems our killer has got a warped sense of irony.”

  “You think it’s the same person?” Flynt asked in surprise.

  “I do,” Steele replied.

  “You do?”

  “There’s only one person I can think of. Isn’t it convenient that Paul the sound guy wasn’t here tonight? He was only here at the very start and then he bailed. He also has a key to the rehearsal space, and a thing for our young bass player.”

  “He’s across town at a Juggalos show. That’s what somebody said when I asked about him,” Flynt offered.

  “Same here,” Steele said. “And isn’t it funny he’d check the equipment and make sure that everything is ready to go, then he hands it over to his assistant? Shouldn’t the guy running things be qualified?”