The Shamus Sampler

by Sean Dexter

  Now that the lights were on, I had a clear view of the room. I took a quick look across to where the whittled shavings were and knew it was too late to mention them. The cops were thorough, so they’d find them and piece together the same story I had, the killer waited in back whittling the drumstick.

  I knew most of the bloody footprints were from my boat shoes, but others must have stepped in the blood too. Walking around the dark bar, when I first came in, there was no way I could have avoided it.

  Donny sat next to me, while Alfredo straddled the folding chair in the next row, leaning against its back facing me.

  “Start from the beginning,” Donny said and pointed a small micro tape recorder at me. “And, Mick, remember Louis will hear this, so keep to the story and forget we’ve known each other for a while or that you and the Chief are friends. We’ve got to do our job.”

  “You don’t object to us taping this, do you?” Alfredo smiled, but his eyes stared hard at me.

  “I’ve seen your penmanship, guys, hard to decipher it.” I tried to put levity in my words to show them how calm I was. “I understand Donny. Let’s get it over with.”

  Lying is an art. Criminals, journalists and cops practice lying, so they’re good at it and good at spotting it in others. I look for the telltale signs, eyes avoiding contact, hands nervously moving, and other uncomfortable body language when interviewing people for a story, signs these detectives would be looking for in me.

  I kept eye contact with them.

  Donny said the date, time, location, and subject matter into the recorder. I told them almost everything, leaving out the whittling, from the time I walked past the Saloon’s security, showing my invitation – even though R.D., the bouncer, knew me – to calling the Chief after finding Dallas. They let me speak without interruption.

  “You have a reason to kill him, that why you didn’t call 911?” Donny spoke quietly, putting no importance to the words.

  I looked right at him. “There was no pulse, I checked it twice.”

  “You a medic now?” Alfredo quipped.

  “You didn’t see anyone else up here?” Donny didn’t wait for me to answer Alfredo.

  “Only Dallas.” I said.

  “Another way in or out but the front door?”

  “No. The windows don’t open.”

  “Sherlock said the vic had been dead a few minutes before you found him.” Alfredo’s stare hadn’t softened. He waited for me to flinch. “Do you know how he died?”

  I looked from Alfredo to Donny and wondered if they knew something I didn’t. “A drummer’s stick through the neck.” I shrugged. “That’s what it looked like to me.”

  “Sherlock said the vic bled out. Someone could’ve saved him with a call to 911,” Alfredo said. “So the killer sat here and watched him bleed to death, maybe drown in his own blood. If you didn’t kill him, where did the killer go?”

  “Sherlock’s not the M.E., so he’s guessing. When Dallas left the bar, I was still sitting there. Check with the bartender.”

  “The killer was up here and met him? Is that your take on how this happened?”

  “I don’t know, but when I saw him at the bar, he was alone.”

  “What time was that?” Donny kept the tape recorder pointed at me.

  “I didn’t check the time.”

  “Take a guess.”

  “Somewhere after breakfast at eight and before the ten o’clock jam sessions.” It wasn’t the precise answer they wanted.

  “I know who Dallas is, I watched him on the award show,” Alfredo said. “This is going to be big news, right?”

  “Sure, in Nashville and Austin.”

  “You going to get paid more for the murder story than the interview?” Donny pushed the recorder closer, while his tone turned accusing.

  “You going somewhere with this?” I didn’t believe he thought I’d killed Dallas.

  “Answer the question.” He held the recorder inches from my face and lost his smile.

  “I was contracted for a story on Dallas. I don’t expect they’ll pay more because he was murdered.” I didn’t look away and neither did he. “I didn’t know the man well enough to want dead.”

  “But now there’ll be follow-up stories, right?” Alfredo said.

  “Why are we listening to my wife’s music?” Chief’s voice bellowed from the hallway before we could see him.

  I didn’t answer Alfredo.

  Sherlock walked to the bar to shut the music off. He spoke to Chief, nodding a couple of times toward the stage and once at me. Richard followed Sherlock and observed the body, never touching anything.

  Off the stage, Sherlock pointed to the bloodstains and footprints on the carpet and at me. Chief put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, pulled him closer, said a few words, and then motioned me to join them.

  “We done?” I asked.

  “For the moment.” Donny put the recorder away.

  “I told Sherlock you didn’t do this.” Chief said, as I walked up. “I’m correct, right?”

  It’s a good thing having the chief of police as a friend when you live on a two-by-four-mile island.

  “This is how I found him, Chief.” I kept eye contact with Sherlock.

  “Chief, right now the evidence points to Murphy. The vic was killed around ten, when Murphy says he arrived, and he didn’t see anyone else in the room or on the stairs. The bloody footprints are his.” Sherlock pointed to the footprints. “He’s admitted to touching the remote control, the light switch, and other things. Someone sat here and watched the vic drown in his own blood.”

  “Guilty of most of those things, but not the murder.” I didn’t turn away from Sherlock and he didn’t flinch, either. “I found the room dark and cold and the CD playing loud as hell, so I turned down the A/C and the music, and put the stage’s sound mixer light on because I needed to take notes. I walked through the blood, because I didn’t see it in the dark. And they’re not all my footprints.” I looked down at Sherlock’s tennis shoes.

  “Bag the shoes,” Chief said. “Check everyone’s shoes.”

  “I gotta go barefoot?” I protested, as I slipped off my boat shoes.

  “Buy a pair of sandals, downstairs.” Chief turned toward Sherlock, who nodded.

  “Now, tell me what we’ve got here and who the vic is.” He spoke to me, not Sherlock, which didn’t endear me to the crime scene cop.

  “A dead songwriter, but I’m not the person to tell you about him.” I looked at the bloodstained carpet. “You need to talk to Charlie Murdock and Rob Bauer.”

  “Murdock I know, who’s Bauer?”

  “Rob’s the BMI rep. Big sponsors of the festival.”

  “BMI?” Chief waited for me to explain.

  “Broadcast Music International collects royalties for songwriters and singers,” I said. “Polices the industry and pays the royalties out. The Nashville office helps the festival with talent.”

  “Okay. Now I know about BMI. What can you tell me about the vic?” He forced me toward the windows, his large arm over my shoulders, and we sat down.

  “Rumors.”

  “I love rumors.” He adjusted his glasses. “Let’s hear one.”

  “Dallas was a womanizer.” I began by recalling things I was sure of. “And I don’t think it mattered if they were single or not.”

  “Some of the husbands and boyfriends downstairs?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “He’s also been accused of stealing songs from new songwriters he’d taken on as a mentor, mostly women.”

  “Some of them are downstairs, too?”

  “You’re sharp as a tack.”

  He ignored my comment. “You think the killer is downstairs too?”

  “I’d bet on it.”

  “Sherlock likes you for it,” he said. “Why do you think it’s someone downstairs?”

  “No one could’ve got in without an invite,” I said. “I was at the bar until ten, and

  Dallas left, I’d say, a little bef
ore nine-thirty, but I don’t know if he came up here or went to the head. But the likelihood that an outsider got up here that late in the morning,” I shook my head, “is impossible. Your detectives think the murderer watched Dallas bleed to death. That’s cold and that’s somebody with a grudge.”

  “You were here and had an invite,” he said. “No grudge between you two that I should know about?”

  I looked at Chief. “You don’t think I had anything to do with it.”

  “You’re saying the vic could’ve been up here with the killer for half an hour before you showed up?” He was asking the questions, not answering.

  “Easily.” I wondered how long it took to whittle a point on a drumstick. “Can I tell you something that you’re not going to like?”

  “I don’t like anything about this.” His sigh was so loud I couldn’t imagine no one else heard it. “Yeah, but if you’re going to admit to the killing…”

  “No, not that.” I needed him to believe me. I told him about the whittled shavings.

  “So, someone sat up here, waiting to kill him.”

  “That’s what it looks like, a sharpened drumstick like he was a vampire. I thought it had to be a strong guy to drive the drumstick in. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Maybe someone downstairs thought he was a blood sucker?”

  “Has to be to be something like that.”

  “Let’s go downstairs and find Murdock and the BMI guy.”

  As we walked toward the hallway, Chief stopped and told Sherlock about the shavings and then a commotion at the door caught everyone’s attention.

  “Gene,” Chief yelled.

  “Woman says she’s supposed to meet Murphy up here at eleven,” Gene yelled back, keeping the impatient woman at the door.

  “No idea,” I said without being asked and watched Sherlock smile.

  We walked to the door and I knew the attractive woman with short, blonde hair and blue eyes. She was a new songwriter. I had to think hard and fast to remember her name.

  “Melissa,” I said, not speaking to her, but telling Chief her name.

  “Dallas wanted me to come in at the end of his interview, Mick,” Melissa said.

  “Do you have a last name, Melissa?” Chief asked quietly.

  “Ratcliff.” She growled the name. “What are you cops doing with Dallas? Damn, you ain’t bustin’ him for a joint, are you? I mean, not even Nashville cops would do that. I thought Key West was supposed to be acceptable to different lifestyles.”

  By the time she huffed out the last words, Sherlock, Donny, and Alfredo where behind us. When I turned, Donny had his tape recorder directed at her.

  “We’re not arresting Dallas for anything,” Chief said. “Tell me why you’re here.”

  “Dallas is going to feature me tonight in his show,” she said and grinned, which did little to hide her bloody-Mary eyes. “He wanted me here at eleven, so Mick could end the interview by talking to me. Just ask him, he’ll tell you. Dallas,” she yelled his name, expecting a reply. “Where is he?” She looked past us toward the stage, while Gene held her arm, to keep her in the hallway.

  “Dallas can’t talk to you right now.” Chief put his large hand on her thin shoulder, taking over from Gene, and walked her toward the door. “We really need you to wait downstairs and you can have your interview with Mick in a little while.”

  Gene closed the door as Melissa looked like a lost kitten in the rain, unaware of how she had ended up outside.

  “Who is she?” Chief turned to me, while the detectives waited quietly for my answer.

  “I met her last year,” I said. “Melissa Ratcliff, she’s written a song or two that have become hits. But the interesting thing is Dallas said I had a half-hour for the interview, so I would have been gone before eleven.”

  “Why’d he tell her eleven?”

  “Did you look at her, Chief?” Donny whistled as we watched Melissa light a cigarette and pace on the outside deck. “She’s not hard on the eyes.”

  “I told you, Chief, Dallas liked his women,” I said.

  “She married?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Maybe a boyfriend?”

  “No doubt about that,” I said, because she was a good-looking woman. “I saw her earlier with a couple of guys at the indoor bar.”

  “Could she have killed him?”

  “I’d put her on my suspect list with Murphy,” Sherlock said, before anyone else could answer.

  Richard pushed his glasses in place. “Well, we have a lot more suspects downstairs, so let’s go talk to them.”

  “You want me to wait up here for the medical examiner?” Sherlock’s tone said he didn’t.

  “Give it an hour. The M.E. should be here by then,” Chief said. “Join the team boys.” He nodded to Donny and Alfredo. “Go see Detective Morales and help him with the interviewing. Gene, no one comes in.”

  Melissa watched us walk down the stairs, dropping her cigarette and crushing it on the deck, without saying anything. She stared at Gene, as if she considered trying to get in the room, again, but followed us instead.

  Uniformed police officers stood at the Saloon’s three exits, but it didn’t seem anyone paid attention to them. The buffet was gone, but both bars were full and Tim and Danny Carter were on the stage with Emily Roach and Texas Rich, for another brief jam session.

  Charlie Murdock and Rob Bauer were waiting at the bottom of the stairs, a police officer kept them from coming up. I introduced Rob to Richard as Donny and Alfredo met with lead detective Luis Morales.

  “I need to get sandals,” I told Charlie.

  He looked at my bare feet and pointed to the empty T-shirt shop. “Just take a pair off the shelf. You can pay me later,” he said, “and explain why you’re barefoot.”

  As I walked away, I heard him ask Richard what was going on upstairs. When I got back, they were huddled on the first landing, away from the crowd that was beginning to realize something was wrong.

  “Looks like we’ve got a room full of suspects,” Richard said as I came to the landing. “Is there anyone here that didn’t want to kill him?”

  Rob Bauer scanned the bar and bandstand area. “There’s only one person who ever walked out on Dallas and is successful. No reason for her to kill him.”

  “And why’s that?” Richard followed Rob’s stare.

  “Because she’s the woman who left Dallas, the others were dumped by him, and you know what they say, ‘a woman scorned…’”

  “Who is she?” Richard interrupted. “The one without the reason to kill him.”

  “Barbara Linder, over there between the bar and bandstand.” Rob pointed.

  “There’s a dozen women over there,” Richard said. “Let me guess, the petite blonde?”

  “You know her?” Rob was surprised.

  “No, but she’s a double for Melissa.”

  “Miscalculation, Richard,” I said. “Dallas liked blondes, but he’d mess with brunettes or redheads.”

  “Someone hold a rattlesnake, he’d probably do it.” Rob laughed before realizing his humor was out of place.

  I handed Richard an event program I found in the T-shirt shop. “This has photos of everyone participating in the festival. It might help in the interviewing, if your officers had copies.”

  “And where they’re playing is listed too,” Charlie said. “If you need a follow up interview, it could be helpful and maybe get some of them out of here before show time.”

  Richard glanced through the program. “There a place you two can walk me through all this? Maybe give me your opinions?” He slapped the folded program against his open palm. “I need some quiet and privacy.”

  “My office.” Charlie pointed toward the T-shirt shop.

  “We all want to get this over with.” Richard looked at the crowded room. “We’ve got suspects because the vic stole their songs or slept with their women,” he said, shook his head and straightened his glasses. “This could take forever.”
r />   Charlie looked at his wristwatch. “Shows begin late this afternoon.”

  “Maybe.” Richard walked down from the landing. “You wait out here.” He pointed at me. “Sherlock thinks you’re a suspect, you can’t leave,” he said and followed Charlie toward the Saloon’s office.

  I took a seat at the bar, as far from the commotion on the stage as possible. “A bloody Mary, Brian.” I opened a program that lay on the bar and started looking through it.

  “This seat taken, cowboy?” Barbara Linder drawled the words softly, like Bacall whispering to Bogie, and sat down next to me. She was wearing an oversized Songwriter Festival sweatshirt, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, and shorts that made a fashion statement.

  She sipped from her glass. I’d watched Brian earlier, as he made her drink, so I knew there was a double shot of vodka in her orange juice. Her green eyes sparkled, even with morning drinking.

  “Hell of a morning,” I said, while I reread her profile in the program.

  “Everyone thinks it’s drugs.” She smiled. “Dallas get busted for drugs?”

  “You asking or you know?”

  Brian brought my drink. It was a little heavy on the hot sauce and vodka. I liked it.

  “Tellin’ you what the gossip is.” Her voice was naturally sultry.

  “You’re playing at the hotel by the beach again.” I read from the program, as I bit into the drink’s piece of celery. “A good gig with great surroundings.”

  “You took photos of me last year, remember?” She turned to face me.

  “We had lunch before the show.”

  “I remember.”

  “That’s good.”

  “No, I remember because you didn’t make a pass at me.” She smiled and touched my hand. “Most men do, even without my encouragement.” She was one of those women whose sex appeal came effortlessly and she’d given up trying to hide it.

  It was my turn to smile, a little embarrassed because smart, beautiful women scare me.

  “I was there to photograph you,” I said. “I think you’re talented and I was trying to capture that on film.”

  “You still use film?” She giggled.

  “No, it’s all digital, but capturing you on memory card doesn’t sound right.”