by Aiden James
“Hey, hon,” said Fiona, reaching out to hug me as I secured my helmet to my handlebars. “I can’t believe this is happening. We just saw Dickey last weekend at Terri’s place….”
She began to weep, her shoulders heaving.
“I’m here to take care of you, babe,” I assured her, holding her close. “I’m so sorry…so sorry.”
She cried harder. Meanwhile, Dick Tracy seemed to get more and more annoyed. Probably in a hurry to avoid the increasing crowd of news reporters and paparazzi, and surely just as anxious to curtail Mr. and Mrs. Alea’s tender embrace.
“You better get on in there,” I told Fiona, tipping my shades to Ed, who nodded gratefully to confirm my suggestion. “I’ll be here when you get out.”
She smiled after pulling away, wiping her tears before walking with Ed to the main entrance. Two uniformed police officers stepped aside to let them through, and I caught a glimpse of Ed’s arm moving to usher her in through the doorway from behind. Again, trust on my part, and I could picture her stiffening from the slight invasion of her personal space.
“Man, I believe everybody who’s ever spoken with Dickey is here today,” said a high-pitched male voice from behind me. I whirled around to see who it was.
“It figures the pony-tailed dudes wearing reflective sunglasses would end up in the same spot, huh?” I responded, tilting my shades low enough to reveal my raised eyebrows, ala ‘The Rock’, Dwayne Johnson.
“It’s good to see you, Jimmy!”
Fred Marlowe, a longtime fan of my band, Quagmire, who just happens to be the lead beat reporter for the music scene in Nashville. Fred began his Nashville career nearly a decade earlier with a small local publication, The Nashville Scene, and then graduated to the city’s syndicated newspaper, The Tennessean, three years ago. Small and wiry in stature, he sports a Fu Manchu moustache that my wife says detracts a little from his brown eyes. Maybe it’s a macho thing, like something to make his baby-face framed by long blond hair look older. It works in a rock n’ roll sort of way, and that’s cool with me.
“Good to see you too, Freddie!” I told him, grasping his hand in the brother handshake. “It’s been awhile, man. Fiona and I were just talking the other night about having you and Trisha over for a cookout.”
“Sounds cool,” he said, turning his attention back to Dickey’s main entrance. “So, Ed Douche-wad needs Fiona’s assistance to get a lead on the killer, I take it?”
“Yep,” I replied, turning to look back toward the doorway where one of the uniformed officers remained. The other had left his post to keep a pair of photographers from sneaking around to the rear of the building. “That’s his stated need, anyway, from what she told me earlier. I’m sure he’d like her assistance with more than just a murder investigation, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
I chuckled, though I couldn’t hide my contempt.
“I’m sure you’re dead-on about that!” he snickered. “It’s got to be killing him that she’s all yours, Jimmy. He should get a frigging life, man! He’d better focus all of his attention on finding this psycho before someone else gets sliced and diced!”
“So, I guess everyone figures this is connected to what happened last night?”
I wasn’t stating the obvious to just pass the fifteen to twenty minutes I figured Fiona and Ed would be inside the building’s offices. I pictured the murder scene already cordoned off, with a chalk outline representing Dickey’s body where it was found. But I wondered if Freddie knew something more.
“Hell, yeah, man—it’s the top story on Yahoo, dude!” He enthusiastically nodded to confirm how heavy this scene was. “I mean Candi’s death is the big story, but this new chapter is sure to send it on up to become CNN’s biggest story as well. This town will be swarming with a ton of vultures soon!”
Other news folks had moved closer to us, as if sensing some exclusive nuggets were at hand. I didn’t recognize any of them from last night, so I doubted they realized the first-hand look I had of Ms. Starr’s glazed expression—her final pose for some camera, likely one belonging to a forensic aide fresh out of college.
“Yeah….It sort of makes sense, I guess,” I said.
I hoped he didn’t think I was an idiot, and I longed for a later opportunity to fill him in with what I knew—far removed from our current surroundings and audience. He leaned in closer to me and lowered his voice.
“This one’s a lot worse than the others last night,” he whispered. “I know the examiner who handled the initial forensic investigation of Dickey’s office. He told me the room is covered in blood and splattered tissue. The killer, or killers, since there may be more than one, cut Dickey into pieces after shooting him once in the lower back, severing his spine.”
“Really?”
That’s all I could muster. I waited for him to go on, while both of us kept watch on the main entrance.
“Yeah, man,” he said. “It’s sort of like they wanted to make sure he couldn’t escape. Based on the evidence, whoever did this waited a little before chopping him to pieces…slowly. The bullet injury appears to have severed only the nerves from the waist down. If that’s true, then he felt every skin puncture and tear from the blade used to hack him up.”
“That sucks…bad.”
“Yeah, to be him, anyway,” said Freddie, grimacing. “It probably wasn’t much fun for his assistant to find him this morning.”
That would be Lori Lee Jones, who has her own small claim to fame, in that she is George’s third cousin…or so the assertion goes.
“I imagine not.”
Suddenly, I thought about ghosts. New ones. Fresh souls recently acquired by the other side. Sort of a reunion tour between Candi and her boss, along with Johnny and Brenda…such fun for everyone. Completely inappropriate, it made me feel a tad guilty and stirred my longing for Fiona. I couldn’t begin to picture life without her. She and our boys.
I heard a click from behind us, and saw the boom from a microphone disappear behind a nearby media van. Before I could trace the equipment to its owner, Freddie nudged my arm to reclaim my attention.
“It looks like they’re done, man,” he said, pointing to Fiona and Ed, who had just emerged through the twin French doors that marked the building’s main entrance.
At first she didn’t see me, since the crowd had grown significantly after she and Ed disappeared inside. When she did detect my presence, she smiled and lightly waved—which told me I needed to come to her instead of waiting for her to wade through paparazzi camera flashes as they sought to capture this mysterious, beautiful woman leaving the scene of wanton bloodshed. Her large dark sunglasses made her look like some notable songstress…a country maven.
She moved down the main walkway while I worked my way through the media throng. Ed nodded to a nearby reporter before jogging over to his car.
“How was it in there?” I asked, thinking about the gruesome details from what Freddie told me. “That had to be tough, babe.”
“It was,” she agreed. She took a deep breath and shuddered, motioning for me to walk her to our car. “Whoever did this is carrying so much rage and anger inside them. They’ve got a mean streak I only caught a glimpse of last night.”
Her voice was so soft, hovering barely above a whisper.
“Hmmm,” I replied, thoughtfully. It didn’t seem like a good idea to prod her for more information, especially with so many open ears surrounding us. “What do you say we get the hell out of here? Are you hungry?”
“Yeah, a little,” she said, a wan smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
I wanted to ravish those lips, but not here. Rocker yes, exhibitionist no. Freddie reached us after wading through the media mosh pit.
“Hey, Fi,” he said, giving her a light peck on her cheek. “Sorry for the loss of a good friend. Dickey was always one of my favorites for getting the juiciest inside scoop around here.”
“Thanks,” she replied, and I could tell she felt touched by his comment.
His sinc
erity made me feel a tad guilty for not taking the same approach earlier when she called me at work with the news. It’s always been kind of hard to be there in the moment while dealing with the routine call center B.S. It takes me about an hour to become fully human again each night
“Not to be rude, bro, but I think we’re ready to shed this place, man,” I told him. I looked over at her…well at least I was ready to get the hell out of here. Fiona kept glancing back toward the office. Maybe she sensed something, some forlorn energy, perhaps?
“Yeah, I’m ready to blow this place, too,” Freddie agreed, snickering while he watched Ed Silver’s cruiser head down the least congested side of Division Street. “There goes your buddy.”
“I heard he’d rather suck you off,” I retorted.
A mirthful moment followed, though quickly tempered by Fiona’s pained expression. Ed’s advances might irritate her almost as much as me, but he’s her best friend on the Metro police force.
“I’ll give you a call once this calms down some,” I told Freddie, moving to guide Fiona over to the Camaro. “Maybe next weekend?”
“Sounds good, bro!” he called back to me, and then disappeared into the sea of onlookers pushing ever closer to the entrance of Dickey’s office.
I pulled Fiona close once we reached the driver’s side door, holding her tight before letting her climb inside. Satisfied she’d be all right—at least stable enough to keep it together until she reached the Elliston Place Soda Shop—I jumped on my bike and followed her out of there. Claustrophobic from all of the media vehicles and additional police cruisers, I felt grateful when I could finally accelerate my Harley back up to the city speed limit.
A slight chill coursed along my spine as wind seeped through the back of my leather jacket, embracing the light sweat on my skin from a moment ago under July’s merciless heat. Or, maybe it had more to do with my anticipation of what Fiona would soon tell me—what she gathered from her visit to Dickey’s office, both visual and from beyond the average person’s sensory perception.
Chapter Six
Ever since Tom Gaither moved to Nashville from Paducah, Kentucky two years ago, after Fiona successfully recruited him to join our paranormal investigative group, he wanted to find a small Craftsman to live in. Not an easy task, since unlike Paducah, finding such a place in middle Tennessee turned into an arduous adventure. Finally, last month he found what he was looking for in South Nashville, near the Grassmere Zoo and not far from where I work.
This brings us to a balmy Thursday evening.
Fiona and I drove out to see him along with the rest of the gang, just before dark around eight o’clock. It’s the first time we’d been in Tom’s new home since the house warming party Jackie and Fiona put together for him a few weeks ago. Tastefully decorated, I might add. If not for Tom’s consistent admiration of the fairer sex, I’d swear he’s gay. Nothing wrong with that, but I’ve honestly never met any male who could put a house or wardrobe together with ‘Project Runway’ flare that isn’t.
Anyway, tonight Tom planned to unveil his new paranormal investigation studio, which he built inside a converted storage building behind his house. We couldn’t wait to see it. I hoped it’d take the edge off of what happened earlier that afternoon, when Fiona told me what she discovered inside Dickey Rollins’ office.
After leaving Dickey’s place, she and I stopped at one of our favorite diners, the Elliston Place Soda Shop—another famous Nashville fixture from yesteryear. An authentic soda shop from the late 1940s, very little has changed in the building. One can even enjoy the unique pleasure of sipping on a genuine chocolate soda, almost unheard of in the progressive landscape of twenty-first century America.
We planned on grabbing a bite, but the horror of what Fiona witnessed—both real time and the psychic images she picked up from the other side—dampened her appetite. Significantly, to where an iced tea was all she could handle. I didn’t want to seem insensitive, so I did my best to ignore my raging hunger. Just as well in light of what she revealed to me inside the restaurant.
“I told Ed that I didn’t sense two killers, which is the most popular assertion, based on most of the evidence,” she told me, after adding a dash of lemon and artificial sweetener to her tea. “I see just one murderer…slender in build and with a lust for cruelty. Definite male energy with red hair….but I can’t see the guy’s face.”
“So, I take it you think this is the same dude who murdered Candi, Brenda, and Johnny,” I said, sipping on a cold Killian’s Red. I rarely get the opportunity to drink during daylight hours, and felt damned grateful for this chance. Just too bad it couldn’t be under better circumstances. “Can you tell his race?”
She frowned and looked beyond me to the soda counter, and shook her head ‘no’.
“Not yet,” she confessed. “The hair would normally point to a white guy, but he might be Asian. He likes to dress in dark clothing secured by straps…like some modern day ninja—that’s how he sees himself.”
She grabbed her left wrist with her right hand to illustrate her point, and I could almost sense the strength, determination, and worse—the killer’s cunning discipline in carrying out his debauched brutality.
“His face is covered with a mesh mask that allows him to breathe and see through it clearly, but won’t allow anyone to discern his facial features,” she added.
“Like that silly ‘Death’ Halloween get-up you made me wear at Cynthia’s party last October?”
I was only half-kidding—both in the seriousness of what we were dealing with and how I hated any masquerade unless attending a KISS costume party. Again, just the way I roll. Rock n’ roll, that is.
“Yeah…I guess it is, sort of,” she agreed.
But the look on her face said she had either caught a glimpse of my hidden contempt in word or picture, or that she literally heard my unfiltered thought. Pick your poison. Either option wasn’t good, and it could be days, weeks, or even months before she’d share what just now happened—long after I’d forgotten the incident and would be helpless to defend any of it.
I should’ve stopped there, but then I asked her about the office’s condition and a semi-vague question about blood spatter and where Dickey was found—all based on what Freddie told me. Bad move again, and probably another instance of her knowing more about my hidden agenda than I did.
She went for a direct hit. Suffice it to say his office looked even more like a gore fest than Johnny and Brenda’s place had the night before. The floor, walls, and furniture were covered in a collage of crimson and various organ, muscle, and vascular bits thrown in for good measure. Very few surfaces in the room were spared a splattered portion of Mr. Rollins.
I’m sure she hated telling me this, but her eyes bore a glint of satisfaction, too. Nothing like a punch to the gut to get your horror-loving husband to back off and find something much more pleasant to talk about. Nausea kept me from finishing the rest of my cherished Irish ale….
“So, you decided to come after all!”
We had just pulled into Tom’s carport that evening, and Jackie ran over to Fiona and threw her arms around her before my wife could close the Camaro’s passenger door.
“I’m so sorry about what happened to Dickey,” she said, her expression pained. She hugged Fiona even tighter. “Well…let’s see if we can cheer you up. Just wait until you see Tom’s new studio!”
Jackie glanced back at Angie, standing near the back door, at the edge of Tom’s covered carport.
“It’s really bad-ass!” Angie enthused, grinning wryly as she stepped over to my wife and Jackie, offering her own warm hug to Fiona and a soft kiss on her forehead. “And, he showed us some of the infrared pictures from last night—you’ll be quite surprised!”
Dressed in jeans and near-identical tie-dye t-shirts, their hair was pulled back in ponytails not unlike the one I wore. Ready to do some more investigating later tonight, or maybe hit a club or two? My only concern was for Fiona, since she’d expr
essed a desire to get home at a decent hour, and Jackie or Angie would be her ride home tonight. I’d get home much later, since I had rehearsal with my band mates after tonight’s review of the evidence we gathered last night from Charlain Thompson’s place.
“Is everyone ready to eat yet?” Tom peered over the backyard’s wooden fence, a beer bottle in one hand and a spatula in the other. The aroma of roasted hot dogs and hamburgers wafted toward us, stronger now than earlier. “Hey, Jimmy…Fiona. I can’t remember if you like your burgers well done or with a little pink in them.”
“Either way is fine,” said Fiona, usually agreeable unless a burger bore burnt edges.
“Nothing that looks like shoe leather,” I said, not so agreeable when it comes to the version of roasted cow I prefer.
“Did you remember Fiona’s dessert pizza?” he asked, nudging his glasses toward the bridge of his nose with his grilling mitt. “You can’t enter the back yard without it!”
Despite the glare from several tiki torches reflecting off his wired lenses, I caught a glint of amusement, his eyes twinkling for a nanosecond.
“I almost forgot,” I said, nudging Fiona to go on without me while I went back to the car for our contribution to tonight’s grill potluck.
A recipe of my mom’s, the pizza is a concoction of fresh strawberries, blueberries, peaches, kiwi, and banana slices laid out on a pastry crust and covered with a light cream-cheese icing. I have to say it’s a hell of lot better tasting than it may sound, and something easy to whip up on short notice. It was perfect for tonight’s get-together, after Tom had called that afternoon with the news he’d finished developing the video and still-frame shots from last night’s investigation.
“Umm that looks really yummy!” said Angie, once I rejoined the females gathered just inside the back gate.
She’d never had the pleasure of sampling the dessert dish before. Fiona hadn’t made it since last summer. If not for Tom asking for it today, we probably would’ve picked up a pecan pie from Kroger on the way.