Rock & Roll Homicide

by R J McDonnell

“C’mon Shamansky,” I said. “I gave you some good stuff here. What have you got that makes her look so bad?”

  He replied, “There are a few things, like the fact that she gave him the headphones, had access to them and was seen fighting with Terry a couple of days before the murder. But the one that stands out the most is the fact that Chelsea’s dad owns a construction company that uses blasting caps for excavation. And, she took out a five million dollar insurance policy on him less than a year ago.”

  “Most married couples have insurance policies and, from what I can tell, everybody that knew Terry fought with him on a regular basis. He was not your proverbial sweetheart by any stretch of the imagination,” I said.

  “What about the blasting caps?” he asked.

  “Is there any evidence that she was in possession of blasting caps or came anywhere near where they’re stored?” I asked.

  “We’re working on that right now,” he said.

  “We both know that you can find almost anything about anybody if you know your way around the Internet. Also, everybody knows that the spouse is always the top suspect. Framing Chelsea would be the easiest thing in the world. Especially if the police decide they don’t want to look at more than one suspect,” I ranted.

  “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, Duffy. Why don’t you leave fifty for the meal and take off. I’ll take care of the tip,” he said.

  Not at all pleased, but also not wanting to burn any bridges, I left the cash on the table and said, “I suggest the cherries jubilee for dessert.”

  I arrived at Perfect Pitch Recording Studios at 2:30 PM. The band had just taken a break and was still gathered in the studio. I was immediately accosted by a blond behemoth in khaki slacks, blue blazer, white shirt and striped tie. “What are you doing here?” he shouted.

  “Nigel Choate invited me to stop by,” I said as all three of the band members watched the exchange.

  “No visitors! Get out now!” he exclaimed.

  Jack Pascal stepped forward and said, “This guy is a rhythm guitar player. He’s going to fill in for Terry Tucker’s part so that the rest of us can stay in rhythm while we do our thing.”

  “No one told me this. I was told an African man named Skeezie Johnson would be filling in,” he said as he glanced at the clipboard in his left hand.

  Jack replied, “Skeezie’s a little queasy. He won’t be joining us today.”

  Vladimir Torhan looked perplexed, so I added, “Too much vodka. I just came from his place and he's blowing borscht chunks all over the bathroom floor."”

  “Ah, hangover,” he said with a smile. Then, changing his expression he yelled, “I don’t believe you. Musicians always walk in with instrument. No guitar; no musician.”

  “I was told I had to play Terry’s guitar to match up the sound,” I said.

  “Play something right now,” he demanded.

  A couple of minutes later Jack had me plugged in and I was instinctively playing the riff I used to reserve for dates that I was trying to impress as being third base-worthy. By the time I had finished, Torhan had buttoned his blazer and Nigel said, “Blyme! He’s bleedin’ decent.” He then handed me a photocopy of the sheet music for the next song and said, “I’m not going to ask you to sign a waiver because we’re not going to be using your tracks. But, it would definitely help us out if you could fill in for the Skeezer today.”

  “Sure. Whatever,” I replied.

  “GI Jo-Jo will set you up in a practice room behind the recording engineer. Here’s the sheet music and a disk of what it’s supposed to sound like, with me playing both lead and rhythm. Stand behind the engineer and give me the high sign when you’re ready to go,” Nigel said.

  GI Jo-Jo stands about 6’2” and weighs around 225 lbs. He carried a Marshall amp into the 5’ by 9’ practice room, then went back for the guitar. When he returned I said, “Terrible thing that happened to Terry.”

  “He was a hellofa good musician,” he said.

  “Was he a friend?” I asked.

  Jo-Jo thought about this for about 15 seconds before responding. “I don’t know. There were four roadies on the tour and I’m the one he picked for the studio gig; so, I guess so.”

  “Why do you think he picked you?” I asked.

  “Because I worked with electronics in the Army. I can do cabling, sound board, minor repairs and I’m not a complainer like most roadies,” he said.

  “Not even when your girlfriend talks about wanting to be with him?” I asked.

  “Who told you about that?” he asked.

  “One of the guys in the band mentioned it. I didn’t think it was a secret,” I said.

  “You’re all set to go here,” he said and walked out of the room.

  Along with the amp and guitar, Jo-Jo had set up a modular recorder with headphones for me to listen to Nigel’s disk. I wondered if it was the same make and model that had killed Terry. I gave the headphones a thorough pat-down before putting them on. After about twenty minutes I emerged from the practice room and stood behind the sound engineer. From that vantage point I could tell that the engineer had the best view of the blast, looking through the glass into the recording studio.

  Nigel signaled the recording engineer to stop. While he spoke with Ian I said to the engineer, “It looks like you had a clear view of the explosion that killed Terry.”

  “That’s what the cops thought, too,” he said. “But I was looking at the mixing board the whole time.”

  “I thought you were on break, between songs,” I said.

  “Maybe the band takes a break between songs, but that’s usually my busiest time. I was multitasking, splitting time between critical listening and instrument review. I had to make sure we were set with what we had just recorded and didn’t need another take. That day it was especially important because I knew the drummer was planning on resetting the partitions. I was completely focused on what I was listening to and how it related to the sound levels I was looking at on my panel,” he said.

  “Did you notice anybody near Terry’s table during the day?” I asked.

  “No, but you sure ask a lot of questions for a rhythm guitarist,” he said.

  “I guess multitasking is big around here,” I said as I noticed Nigel waving me into the studio. It felt good to be playing with a band again. We spent the next 45 minutes wading through a couple of takes that didn’t please Nigel at all. On the third take he was giving everybody a smile and nod. Unfortunately, as we were coming out of the bridge, one of the bodybuilders that visited Cerise yesterday wandered into the studio and Nigel went nuts.

  Torhan did his best to smooth things over, but Nigel was too distracted to continue. He called for a half-hour break and left the building. I walked over to Torhan, who was complaining about how much money a half-hour break would cost and decided it would be my best shot at pumping him for information. I said to him, “That’s it for me, I’m outta here and I’m not coming back in a half-hour.”

  “What are you talking about? There’s no reason to leave,” he said tensely.

  “I didn’t like the idea of taking a gig where a musician got murdered in the first place. Then, I’m out there for less than an hour, standing right next to where Terry was blown away and you guys let this thug come strolling in,” I said excitedly. “Your security sucks. I can’t work under these conditions.”

  “Boris Melsin is not a thug,” he said looking at his comrade. “In fact, he was just assigned to the security detail here at the studio. It’s his first day on the job. He didn’t know where he was going. You see, there is no shortage of security.”

  “How much security was here the day Terry was killed?” I asked.

  “Just me that day,” he said.

  “I thought you’re supposed to be an executive,” I said.

  “I am, but I was also an amateur boxing champion in the Ukraine eight years ago. So, I am quite capable of handling myself in a fight,” he said.

  “The guy who killed Terry used a
lot more firepower than fists,” I said.

  “I’ve got it under control,” he said as he unbuttoned his jacket and revealed his shoulder holster and what appeared to be a Glock pistol. “If the killer returns, he’s dead meat.”

  Nigel came back considerably more relaxed. I got the impression the band smoked a joint during the break. We then recorded his song in one take. Afterwards, he came up to me holding a single sheet of paper. “I think I’ll have you sign a release after all. That wasn’t half bad,” he said.

  I accommodated his request, but signed it “Jason N. Daffy,“ as in “Jason not daffy enough to sign his rights away.” Nigel wanted me to stick around for the last song, but I had an appointment with the band’s manager, Kirby Kaufmann, and the band’s attorney, at Kirby’s insistence. So, I turned my back on potential rock & roll immortality to go do my job. Maybe the rock & roll dream finally is out of my blood. Then again, it could also be that I’m enjoying my role as a detective more than at any time since I hung out my shingle.

  Kirby Kaufmann presents himself as your stereotypical music industry sleezebag. He’s in his mid 50’s, about 60 pounds overweight, wears a toupee that probably makes squirrels horny, and he has the worst looking facelift in history. His picture should be on the wall of every cosmetic surgery clinic in California with the warning, “See what happens when you settle for the cheapest surgeon in town!”

  At first it was hard to imagine that an astute businessman like Terry Tucker would place his future in the hands of an obvious hack like Kaufmann. Then again, they say you can’t judge a book by its cover. Maybe Kaufmann is some kind of rock & roll savant. On the other hand, it is much more likely that Terry selected someone he could control with absolute authority; a puppet that wouldn’t be able to figure out what was going on with the recording contract.

  Also present, and at least looking the part, was Attorney Elden Dumanis. At first they were friendly and asked that I express their condolences to the widow. But once I wanted to change the subject to the contract negotiations, it got acrimonious.

  Kaufmann said, “I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to discuss the contract with you. It’s privileged information.”

  “I work for Mrs. Terry Tucker. She inherits all of Terry’s publishing and recording interests,” I said.

  “We work for Doberman’s Stub. As much as we were sorry to see Terry die and all, he’s no longer a member of the band. We’re now accountable to the surviving three members and not to Terry or his widow,” said Kaufmann.

  “Do you agree with this?” I asked Dumanis.

  “Certainly. We’re talking about privileged information. If we share anything with you we are betraying confidentiality,” he said, then looked at Kaufmann and smiled.

  “Then you won’t mind if I call my firm’s Entertainment Law Attorney?” I asked.

  They both looked a bit flustered at this suggestion, but agreed. Of course my firm doesn’t have an Entertainment Law Attorney on retainer, so I did the next best thing and called Bernie Liebowitz. I made the call from the desk phone. When Bernie picked up I said, “Attorney Liebowitz, this is Jason Duffy. I need your expert opinion on a contract matter.”

  “I take it you’re scamming some unsuspecting schmuck as we speak,” he replied.

  “That’s correct. I’m meeting with the manager of Doberman’s Stub, Kirby Kaufmann and their attorney, Elden Dumanis. Can I put you on speaker phone?” I asked.

  “Give me a minute to shove this stick up my backside. OK, I’m ready,” he said.

  “Thanks. Here we go,” I said and switched to speaker mode. “Let’s be informal. Bernie, this is Kirby and Elden. Guys, this is Bernie.” After everyone said hello I said, “Bernie, I’m working for Terry Tucker’s widow. I’m sure you read about the murder in the papers.”

  “Of course,” Bernie said.

  “Kirby and Elden feel they can’t talk with me about the contract they were working on with Terry since, being deceased and all, he’s no longer a member of the band. Now I feel Chelsea Tucker still has a right to be kept informed, particularly since her husband wrote about half of the songs and performed on the new album,” I said.

  “Does Chelsea inherit?” Bernie asked.

  I replied, “She gets everything. There are no ex-wives, no children, and not even any parents. Chelsea is the sole heir.”

  “Then here’s the deal. Kirby and Elden are right. They can tell you as her representative or tell her face-to-face to take a hike and not share a thing about the contract,” Bernie said and the guys lit up like a Christmas tree. “However, if they choose to do that Chelsea can file an injunction against both the band and the record company, delaying the release of the album indefinitely. All of the proceeds of past albums would be put into a trust fund and held without disbursement until the matter is settled. She could even submit the court documents to ASCAP and hold disbursement of royalties from airplay until the case is decided,” Bernie said.

  Elden chimed in, “If we fight this thing she could be broke for years.”

  “Actually, her father owns a very profitable construction business. She doesn’t need the money,” I said.

  Bernie added, “The only one who would profit from a fight is you, Elden. If it went on long enough you could own Kirby’s house.”

  “Nobody’s puttin’ up their house over this thing. We just didn’t want to get sued by the band members for disclosing financial information to a non-band member. If the law says we have to talk, then as law abiding citizens we’ll talk till we’re blue in the face,” Kirby said.

  “Thanks Bernie,” I said, ready to disconnect.

  “I’ll just bill you for a half-hour on this one,” Bernie replied and hung up.

  Over the next hour I confirmed two things. First, Terry was completely in charge of all facets of the negotiation with Cerise Records and second, he hired these two clowns based on their level of incompetence. Elden conceded that Terry retained another law firm to do the detail work on the new contract. Fortunately, Elden was a pack rat and had a copy of each version that had been prepared by the firm to date. I made copies of everything, determined their whereabouts at the time of the murder and asked for their opinions on who killed Terry.

  Elden said, “I don’t have any idea who did it. But, I can tell you this; the last couple of times we got together he was worried about something.”

  “That was just the pressure of getting the CD done and having to negotiate with the Russian Mafia,” said Kirby.

  “What?” I asked loudly. “What makes you think Cerise Records is connected with the Russian Mafia?”

  “That’s what Terry called them all the time. Have you been in Koflanovich’s office? It’s like visiting somebody at a maximum security prison,” said Kirby.

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  “On the outside it looks pretty normal,” he said. “But once you get past the receptionist you’ve got armed guards, attack dogs, a laser security system, hidden cameras and Koflanovich’s office can be instantly turned into a safe room. Fort Knox should be so secure.”

  I said, “I know in contract negotiations you usually ask for the sun and settle for the moon. Do either of you know where Terry was hoping to end up.”

  They looked at each other, Kirby nodded and Elden said, “He had a Plan A and a Plan B. In Plan A, Cerise gives Doberman’s Stub a new contract starting with the CD they’re finishing now. Like you said before, he knew he had Cerise over a barrel and figured he could get headliner money.”

  “What about Plan B?” I asked.

  Elden replied, “In Plan B, if and only if Cerise didn’t negotiate in good faith, Terry said something about getting them busted and going free-agent.”

  “Do you know what he had on them?” I asked.

  “He didn’t talk about that,” Elden replied.

  “Was anybody helping him gather information?” I asked.

  “I think so,” said Kirby. “He got a call on his cell when I was with him a cou
ple of weeks before the murder. I only heard one side of the conversation, but it sounded like he was getting some dirt on Cerise or Koflanovich and he definitely liked what he was hearing. He told the caller to, ‘keep digging,’ and said ‘good work,’ or something like that.”

  “Did he mention a name?” I asked.

  “Not that I recall,” he replied. “But there is one other thing you might want to know.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “The week before he died, Terry told me he was being followed,” Kirby said.

  Chapter 6

  I spent all of Wednesday morning pouring over the legalese in four different preliminary versions of the new recording contract. Terry’s initial proposal was, as expected, well beyond where he hoped to end up. The following three proposals gave a strong indication that Terry felt he had a great deal of leverage and was not willing to settle for anything short of a contract befitting a business savvy, headline act. The contracts also revealed a major surprise. In each of the proposals there was a clause allowing the band to fire one of its members.

  Jeannine popped into my office with a handful of papers. “I think you’re going to want to look at this right away,” she said. I reviewed Internet printouts as Jeannine gave me a summary. “When Yuliya shifted a significant portion of its assets into a joint venture with the Ukrainian company, they were required to file a report with the SEC naming the officers of the corporation. For the first time I saw the name Ivan Chofsky. I then got into an English language search engine for Tass, one of the major news services in Russia. When I ran Ivan Chofsky, I found several articles on the kidnapping of his daughter,” she said. Jeannine then picked up the stack she had handed me and pulled out one titled, Gruesome Development on Chofsky Kidnapping. “This one tells about how the kidnappers cut the daughter’s pinky off at the knuckle and mailed it to her father.”

  “It sure looks like proof positive that Ivan Chofsky is John Koflanovich,” I said. “Excellent work, Jeannine.”

  She smiled and gave me a shy look, then said, “There are several more articles on the kidnapping that I haven’t read yet. I clicked through and read headlines and first paragraphs, but none of them looked like they would explain how the case ended.”