Rock & Roll Homicide

by R J McDonnell

  Shamansky replied, “I can see how that could piss you off, but I’m still leaning toward your boss.”

  “What! You can’t be serious. We know they’re a bunch of thugs that will do whatever it takes to protect their interests. They were stalking the victim right up to his death, and it took place on their turf. What more do you want?” I asked.

  “I agree. These guys are definitely willing to break the law to get what they want. But I can’t get past the fact that Terry was the brains, creative force, lead singer and business leader of the band. I’ve talked with an industry expert who says the consensus is that the band will fold without him. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that a car won’t run without an engine,” he said.

  “Any new developments on Chelsea?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I found out Terry went to Chelsea’s dad, Peter Spivey, of Spivey Construction, and talked him into getting some of his real estate investors together to explore the possibility of starting an independent record label to promote the new CD. Peter spent about twenty grand of his own money in legal fees to figure out a way to make it happen. Peter and Terry made a joint presentation to a group of potential financial backers, and got into a huge argument. Terry told Peter and his investment partners to get fucked and walked out on them. When Peter tried collecting the twenty grand Terry told him it was the cost of being an asshole. Chelsea tried to intervene on behalf of her father during dinner at a local restaurant, and Terry made a scene and walked out. As he was headed for the door several witnesses heard Chelsea say, ‘You know what they do to a Doberman that bites the hand that feeds him.’ Personally, I consider that a death threat. I’ll find out if the DA concurs later this week,” he said.

  “It was a domestic squabble. These things get said everyday. If you started indicting every wife who told her husband ‘he’d get his,’ if he kept being such an asshole, you’d have half of the female population in front of the grand jury,” I said.

  “To threaten is one thing, but when the husband turns up dead the next week, and the widow inherits five mil, you’ve got a very legit suspect. Throw in that she bought him the headphones, and her dad keeps blasting caps, and you have the makings of a solid case,” he said.

  “My associate, Cory Pafford, got assaulted last night while he was on a stakeout. He’s in the hospital,” I said.

  “Jesus, those guys have it in for you. I can get a case number assigned and send somebody to the hospital to take his statement. But, at this point I’m going to treat them like two separate cases,” he said. “I have a meeting in a couple of minutes, I’ll talk to you soon,” he said and hung up.

  While I was on the phone with Shamansky, Chelsea Tucker called and left a message asking me to drive over to her house as soon as possible. Jeannine agreed to lock up and have Delbert walk her home.

  Chelsea lives in a beautiful, two-story tutor house with a view of the Pacific in Cardiff-by-the-Sea. For the second time in a week, I was disappointed to ring the doorbell of a mansion and have the expected butler conspicuously absent. Chelsea was dressed in designer casual and was holding a martini. “Can I get you a drink?” she offered as she ushered me into a sitting room.

  “No thanks, I still have lots of work to do,” I replied.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you out here on such short notice,” she said and I nodded. “Last time we talked you told me to contact you if I remembered anything that Terry said in his last few weeks that was out of the ordinary. This afternoon I had lunch with my father, then came home and took a little nap. About fifteen minutes after I fell asleep I woke up abruptly with a vivid memory that felt very significant.”

  “What was it?” I asked.

  “About a month before Terry died, he got up early, took a shower and left for the day. I went into the bathroom shortly after he left and he had scrawled some lyrics on the steamed bathroom mirror. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now I realize the words weren’t related to any of his songs,” she said.

  “What did it say on the mirror, Chelsea?” I asked.

  “It said:

  Back in the days when I was 9,

  A friend was a friend,

  Now I need mine.”

  She said, “I have no idea what he meant, but I have a strong feeling that it had something to do with what was going on in his life at the time. As I start putting things into perspective, it’s clear that Terry was under a lot of pressure and not acting like himself.”

  “In what ways?” I asked.

  “He was always a workaholic. So, at first it was hard to recognize his actions as being related to stress. But, now that I’ve been analyzing that last month, it’s clear that he was more argumentative with me and my family. He was very demanding with the band, but toward the end, his relationship with each of the members began to deteriorate. I chalked it all up to the contract situation, but now it seems like it was more than that,” she said.

  “How much did the other band members know about the contract negotiations?” I inquired.

  She replied, “I’m sure Terry told them as little as possible. Those guys are musicians, not businessmen. They were glad to have Terry keeping an eye on the bottom line.”

  “As I understand it, Terry did a lot more than keep an eye on the bottom line. I met Kirby Kaufmann and Elden Dumanis. The word puppets comes to mind,” I said.

  “You’re right. Terry hired those guys because he knew he could control them,” Chelsea said.

  “Who do you think Terry was talking about in the song lyric? Has he maintained a relationship with anyone from elementary school?” I asked.

  “I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure that out. He never talked about high school or elementary school,” she replied.

  I then brought her up to speed with what I had learned about Cerise Records and Yuliya, Inc. I also explained why she was still the prime suspect in the case.

  “Terry always knew how to push my buttons. I should never have yelled at him in that restaurant. But he embarrassed my father and was showing a callous disregard for my feelings,” she said. “Now that I hear what kind of monsters he was negotiating with, I understand why he wasn’t acting like himself. My dad was pissed, but he also remarked about how uncharacteristic it was for Terry to behave like he did in front of his business associates.”

  On the way home I swung by University Hospital to see if Cory was awake. When I arrived, his bed was empty. “Do you know what happened to the guy who was in this bed,” I asked one of his roommates.

  “Sure do,” said a toothless man in his mid-eighties.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “He was mad as a hornet. Woke up cussing a blue streak and never stopped until he got his clothes back and checked himself out,” he said.

  “Didn’t the nurses try to stop him?” I asked.

  “Sure did. But I think they got disgusted with his foul language,” he said.

  By the time I got to Cory’s apartment it was dark. There were no lights on and no response to my knocks. I called from my cell phone and left a message for him to call me as soon as he got home. I had a very bad feeling as I walked back to my car.

  Chapter 12

  Shortly after I arrived at the office on Wednesday morning Glenda MacPhearson called. “You need to see this guy’s record right away, but I can’t fax it and people are in and out of my office all the time, so you can’t drop by.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Tell me when and where and I’ll be there.”

  “I think I should come to your office. I can’t risk being seen around the base with this service record. Are you going to be around this morning?” she asked.

  “Absolutely. You’re the best, Glenda,” I said.

  “You owe me for this one, buddy,” she said.

  Glenda arrived just before 11:00 AM in uniform. “Do I shake hands or salute?” I asked.

  “How about a hug?” she replied and we embraced.

  �
��You look great,” I said. “Before we get to Jo-Jo, tell me what’s new in your life.”

  “I’m up for captain and the colonel on the base is giving me his full endorsement,” she said with a smile.

  “That’s great. Any lucky young man looking to promote you to Mrs.?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve been seeing the same gentleman for the past two years,” she announced.

  “I hope you brought a picture,” I said. Glenda produced a shot of them both in uniform standing in front of an Army tank. “He looks like Will Smith. Is he a Tank Commander?”

  “No, we just thought it would make a good picture. He’s a Lieutenant in the infantry,” she replied. “How about you? Is there a future Mrs. Duffy in the offing?”

  “I introduced my girlfriend to my parents last week. That’s a first since high school prom night,” I said.

  “It sounds serious for you,” she noted. “OK, enough with playing catch-up. We can do that when you reciprocate for this favor. I have to get back to the base soon.” She pulled out a thick brown file folder with yellow post-it’s sticking out. “I can’t hand this file to you or allow you to make any copies, but, I’ve decided to review it today and I’ve been known to read out loud.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I’ve been known to take notes when other people are talking.”

  “You should have tried that when we were at UCSD,” she said and I smiled. “Anyway, Joseph Martin rose to the rank of Sergeant over an eight year career with the Army. He enlisted at the age of 18 and received an honorable discharge at age 26.” Glenda flipped to one of the post-it pages. “He received extensive training in demolitions for both military operations and in support of the Army Corps of Engineers.”

  I asked, “Do you mean as in blasting caps for excavation?”

  “Blasting caps, dynamite, nitroglycerine; everything the Corps might use to move a mountain,” she said.

  “I thought he was a communications guy,” I said.

  “He was during his first tour. Martin had ‘A’ and ‘C’ Schools in Electronics and Communications when he enlisted. But when he re-upped, he transitioned to Ordnance.”

  “Anything significant after he made the move?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah,” she said as she flipped to another page marker. “He was on mine sweep detail in Iraq when a very unpopular captain got blown up handling a mine Martin was supposed to have defused. There was an investigation and it was deemed accidental. But I got the impression that the person who wrote the report didn’t agree with the finding.”

  “Wow!” I exclaimed. “What did they do with him after the investigation?”

  “He returned to the states where he worked on a dam-building project with the Corp of Engineers until he was discharged,” she said.

  “Did they use blasting caps?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t say in the report, but what do you think?” she replied.

  “I think I just found somebody with motive and opportunity. You’ve been a tremendous help, Glenda. When this thing is over we’ll do a double date someplace special, my treat,” I said.

  “Last time you told me that we ended up at a Ku Klux Klan rally,” she said sarcastically.

  “It was a heavy metal concert. I didn’t know the band was so popular with the skinheads,” I said defensively.

  “I think it’s safe to say I was the only African-American girl at the show,” she said.

  “Glenda, you’d stand out in a crowd at a beauty pageant,” I said.

  “And you’d stand out as a bullshitter at a used car sales convention,” she retorted.

  It was Wednesday, date night, and I wasn’t even close to being ready for the reunion concert. I called Kelly and said, "You seemed so pleased that I shared my parents with you on our last date that I thought I’d invite you over to my place tonight and play guitar for you.”

  “Why do I get the feeling I’m being multi-tasked again?” she asked.

  “Because you have the instincts of a palm reader,” I replied. “As part of the investigation I have to play guitar and sing at a club Saturday night. I’m nowhere near ready and I thought I could rely on your brutal honesty to give me some feedback.”

  “I know this is a big case for you. If you need the time, just ask. I don’t want to feel like I’m an item on your To Do list,” she said.

  “Actually, I’ve really missed you and I’m looking forward to telling you about it over dinner. Then if you could put up with my practice session I’ll make it up to you later,” I said.

  “Jason, it sounds like fun. Why don’t I pick up some Chinese and meet you at your place at seven?” she asked.

  “Sounds like a plan, I’ll see you then,” I said and hung up.

  I tried reaching Cory several times throughout the morning, but there was no answer. I took a ride over to his apartment and saw letters sticking out of his mailbox. After trying the doorbell several times I gave up. As I was leaving I saw one of his neighbors and asked if she had seen him. She gave me a very sour expression and said she had not. It was 1:30 PM, so I went to lunch at a local eatery, then returned later and got the same results. Since Cory lived only a few minutes away from Jack Pascal, I decided to take a chance that their recording session had ended on schedule.

  I rang Jack’s doorbell and after about a minute Jack appeared. “Jason, this is a surprise,” he said. From his bloodshot eyes and distinctive aroma I could tell he had just smoked some pot.

  “I hope I’m not intruding, but I was in the neighborhood and I have a few more questions,” I said.

  “No problem at all. I just smoked a bong, would you like one?” he asked.

  “No thanks. I have all of these songs I have to learn by Saturday night,” I replied.

  “Oh yeah. The pot might loosen you up, but it’s not going to help your memory. Come on in and have a seat,” he said.

  “I was hoping we could talk about GI Jo-Jo,” I said.

  “Sure, what would you like to know?” he asked.

  “How did he get along with Terry?” I inquired.

  “About as well as everybody else. By now you know Terry was the band taskmaster. But, somebody has to be the driving force or nothing gets done. GI Jo-Jo probably understood that better than any of us, being that he is ex-military and used to taking orders,” Jack said.

  “How about his relationship with Delitah? Did that cause any friction or fights?” I asked.

  “Terry wasn’t really interested in her. He never said it, but I always felt Terry thought of her as rock band window dressing; all part of the image. I seriously doubt he ever did anything with her,” he said.

  “Tell me about the morning Terry died. When you walked into the studio who was there?” I asked.

  “Ian and GI Jo-Jo were working on resetting glass panels in front of the drum set. Vlad the Impaler and Mike the mic man were in the control booth,” he said.

  “Mike the mic man?” I asked.

  “He’s the sound engineer,” Jack replied.

  “Did you see either of them leave the studio while you were waiting for Terry and Nigel?” I asked.

  “No. Ian was explaining to Jo-Jo how his changes were going to alter the sound of his drums as they reset the glass. It was only about five or ten minutes from the time I got there to when Nigel arrived. Terry came in just a few minutes later,” he said.

  “What happened next?” I asked.

  “Terry hit the ceiling when he saw what Ian and GI Jo-Jo were doing. They shouldn’t have been making those changes while we were in the middle of recording a song,” he said.

  “How come you didn’t say anything when you saw them,” I inquired.

  “I was doing my mantra. Terry and Ian just had this big scene at Denny’s and I was trying to get my head back to a place where I could relate to my bass. I wasn’t really paying attention to them until Terry yelled,” he said.

  “Did GI Jo-Jo help Terry with his equipment?” I asked.

  “Now tha
t I think about it, yeah. He told Jo-Jo to get his shit out of the car, then lit into Ian for being such a moron,” Jack said.

  “Did Terry go off on GI Jo-Jo for helping Ian with the panels?” I asked.

  “He started to,” Jack replied, “but when Jo-Jo told him he marked the panel settings before moving them, that’s when Terry sent him to the car.”

  “How long was Jo-Jo in the parking lot?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I was back into my mantra, trying to ignore the shit storm happening ten feet away,” he said.

  “Its amazing that you guys were able to come together and finish that song with all of the problems that morning,” I commented.

  “We would have finished it earlier without all of the dramatics,” he said. “Hey, do you want to crack out the Les Paul again and practice a bit for Saturday night? I hear you’re doing vocals too.”

  “One last question,” I said. “Don’t most band members lay down their tracks individually in a recording studio?”

  Jack replied, “Terry liked to feel, not just hear, the bass and drums. He also liked the synergy. Occasionally, he’d make one of us do an overdub, but usually it was a group effort. Thank God for Mike the mic man. Most engineers couldn’t handle it.”

  I spent the next hour working on three songs. Afterwards I swung back by Cory’s place, but still no sign of him.

  I returned to the office at 4:45 PM, and twenty minutes later Cory walked in looking like he just went 12 rounds with Apollo Creed. He had a black eye the size of a pork chop and his elbow was tucked into his ribs, like it was at the hospital. “Where were you? I’ve been worried sick!” I exclaimed.

  In a vernacular that was even more profanity-laced than usual, Cory conveyed that he left the hospital because he was angry and wanted to get even with the sons of bitches that laid him out. He was sure it was the Cerise Records people, specifically Vlad Torhan and Boris Melsin. He said they cleared it with their boss on a cell phone before beating him within an inch of his life.