Dead Beat

by Micheal Maxwell

  “But the girl.”

  Flynt nodded. “Maybe. I don’t know. Probably wrong.”

  Steele couldn’t help but smile. He wondered if Flynt always assumed he was wrong about everything.

  “No, that’s a good theory,” he said. “Now let’s get to the address on this storage unit lease for Mark’s grandmother.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mindy seduced them all the way to an old, tree-lined neighborhood. All the houses looked to have been built in the early eighties, and most of the cars in the driveway looked to have also been stuck in that strange time portal: lots of big Oldsmobiles, Buicks, and a few Cadillacs, and mostly white. The people walking or working in their yards were in their mid to late sixties, maybe older. They were mostly white as well.

  “Not exactly Punk Rocker’s Paradise,” Steele said. Flynt gave no reply.

  The house they came to visit sat on the shady side of the street, with a yard that was well maintained and proudly displayed someone’s love for flowers. The lawn was recently mowed and edged. Little white pellets of fertilizer could still be seen on the sidewalk. A plaque was stuck in the ground with two hummingbirds framing the words: Grandma’s Garden.

  Before knocking on the door, Steele wondered why anyone who grew up in a place like this would have to rent storage from a dump like U-Store Secure Storage. The name on the unit’s rental agreement was Cindy Johnson; she’d apparently paid for the storage unit as a gift to her grandson.

  Steele gave the front door three hard raps. Thirty seconds passed and he did it again, harder. Flynt winced at the noise of it beside him.

  “Coming!” a voice called from somewhere deep inside the house. Moments later the door opened to a woman in her late fifties, blonde, slim, and very attractive. Not at all the image of the grandmother, Steele was expecting.

  Steele held up his badge and said, “I’m looking for Cindy Johnson.”

  “That would be me.” She looked a bit alarmed at the sight of the badge and two detectives on her porch, but not scared.

  “I’m Lieutenant Steele, and this is Sergeant Flynt. We’d like to speak to you for a moment.”

  “Is there a problem?” Cindy was as charming as she was attractive. Steele compared her to his spindly old grandmother and shut the thought down right away.

  “Well, that depends,” Steele said. “It is our understanding you are on the rental agreement at U-Store Secure Storage, is that correct?”

  “I am.” After a moment’s thought, she added, “Oh no, there hasn’t been a break-in, has there?”

  “That’s part of why we would like to speak with you, yes. May we come in?”

  Steele didn’t wait for an answer. He just began moving toward the door. Nice people like Cindy tended to politely yield to movements like that.

  “Of course.”

  Cindy obliged, stepping out of the way and warmly gesturing for them to enter. Steele swept past her, and Flynt awkwardly followed along behind. She showed the two detectives into the formal living room, where the three of them took their seats. It was a cheery room with plenty of sunlight and furniture that matched the aesthetic outside of the house.

  “So how can I help you?” Cindy asked.

  “What is your connection to the band that occupies the storage unit?” Flynt asked, jumping in.

  “My grandson—he plays in a band. They use the space to store their instruments and things like that.” She absentmindedly pointed down the hall at her back as she said this. Steele liked that. It meant the kid was home.

  “Can I ask your grandson’s name?” Steele asked.

  “Oh, of course. Sorry. It’s Terry.”

  “No need to apologize.” She was uncomfortable. Steele needed to loosen her up a bit. She seemed like the type that would not be upset if her grandson was mixed up in something questionable. Instead, she’d be upset with the law enforcement trying to enforce the law.

  “What instrument does Terry play?” Steele asked.

  “Guitar. And he sings…if you want to call it that.” Cindy Johnson chuckled. “I’m not much of a Punk Rock fan. I’m more an Eagles and Doobie Brothers girl myself.”

  “Yeah, the Doobies are—” Flynt started, but Steele cut him off.

  “Would it be alright if we spoke with your grandson?” Steele asked.

  “He’s still asleep,” Cindy said. “He has a late class today at the Community College. Is there something I can help you with? He was up late last night studying.”

  “I’m afraid this is more important than Terry’s rest.” Steele winced realizing that he needed to drop the bomb earlier than he intended. So much for making her comfortable. “I have some rather bad news about one of the band members.” Steele hated the idea of dragging death into a conversation that thus far was so pleasant, but…that was the business.

  “Nothing has happened to Julie, has it?” Cindy Johnson threw her hands up to her mouth.

  “Julie? And she is?” Steele asked, even though he was pretty sure he already knew. After all, he saw the band pictures already. And he’d seen the letter to someone named Julie from over Flynt’s shoulder back in Mark’s room. Still, he needed to see how much information Cindy might be able to volunteer.

  “Julie is in the band. Plays bass, I think. She and Terry have been dating for about a year.”

  “Well, Julie is fine as far as we know.” Steele smiled reassuringly. “However, last night there was a report of a break-in at the band’s practice space. When officers arrived they found the body of a young man. He had been murdered. The drummer, we believe. Do you know him?”

  “Only by name. Mark, right? God, that’s terrible. Do you know who did it? Or how it happened?”

  “Those are exactly the two questions we’re trying to answer.”

  “Oh no!” Cindy shook her head. “How awful. Let me go wake, Terry. He will want to know.”

  “If you don’t mind, I would prefer to do it myself,” Steele said. “Procedure, you understand.” He started toward the stairs in the entry.

  “Wait! Are you saying Terry is a suspect in all this? No, no, no he wouldn’t—he couldn’t. Please let me!”

  “Sergeant, will you please stay here with Cindy?” Steele asked, looking to Flynt.

  Flynt nodded nervously, then smiled at Cindy, who looked more confused than appreciative.

  As Noah made his way up the stairs he observed the photographs covering the wall. They showed a little boy in different settings—by a tree, running in a field, flanked by a couple that looked to be Cindy Johnson and a ruggedly handsome man in his forties. Steele saw that boy grow up in the pictures, from the age of nine or so to his high school graduation. The family gallery seemed to have its own set of mysteries.

  At the top of the stairs, there were three bedroom doors; all were open except one. Steele rapped on the closed door and called Terry’s name. He waited less than a heartbeat and opened the door.

  Terry Johnson was sitting up in bed, wide-eyed and angry. But he also looked very confused.

  “Who the hell are you?” Terry yelled, throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

  “Lieutenant Detective Steele.” He held up his badge slowly and watched the kid’s eyes hover over it.

  “What are you doing in my bedroom? Where’s my grandma?” Terry went from attack to panic mode.

  “She’s fine. I need to talk to you downstairs. There has been a problem at your band practice space. Relax, get dressed, and join us as soon as you can.

  “What happened? Is our gear ok?”

  “Whichever answer gets you out of bed faster, that’s that one,” Steele said. “I honestly don’t have time to waste. You drink coffee?”

  “Yeah, I do. But seriously…”

  Steele didn’t bother listening. He left the room and headed back down the stairs, passing by the pictures. When he returned to the living room, he nodded politely to Cindy.

  “I think your grandson is going to need a cup of coffee. I could stand one myself. Wo
uld you mind?” He smiled at Cindy Johnson with a double-barrel blast of charm.

  “Sure.” But, it was obvious she was not thrilled with being dismissed. “Detective, would you like a cup?”

  Flynt seemed shocked at the question. He was just sitting, staring off into space as if his mind was elsewhere. “Oh, no thank you, ma’am,” he replied.

  In less than a minute, Terry came stomping down the stairs and entered the room. He was fairly tall, slim, and muscular. He wore his hair in a buzz cut that was due some maintenance, a badly wrinkled Misfits t-shirt, and a pair of green, khaki shorts that appeared to be a size too big.

  Terry also sported a nose ring; Noah figured it to be some sort of clip-on and large black and silver gauges that stretched half-inch holes in his earlobes. He was every inch a Punk. But if he was trying to look tough, the appearance was failing miserably.

  “So where’s my grandma?” Terry sneered.

  “Getting you coffee.”

  “Do I get to find out what’s going on now?” It seemed that not even police presence could get Terry over his disrupted beauty sleep.

  “I am here as part of a criminal investigation,” Steele said. “I will do the questioning and you will answer respectfully.”

  “Or what?” Terry glared at Steele with a curled lip sneer.

  “Hey,” Flynt said out of nowhere. Steele assumed his partner was about to flub a retort, but he did one worse. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  Terry pointed down the hall without breaking eye contact with Steele, who picked up right where they left off. He waited for his clueless partner to leave the room first.

  “Or we’ll do this down at the station,” Steele said. “So, I suggest you knock off the bad Johnny Rotten act and answer my questions.”

  “I’ll answer,” Terry grunted with a condescending sneer. “And who is Johnny Rotten?”

  “That’s twice; don’t try me a third time.”

  “Third time for what?” Cindy asked, re-entering the room with two mugs of coffee.

  “We were just getting to know each other.” Steele smiled. “And it seems Terry might not be as punk as he’d like to think. Now,” he said, turning back to Terry. “Let’s start with your full name.”

  “Thorny Bone.” Terry glared at Steele, daring him to do something in front of his grandmother.

  Cindy offered a nervous laugh. “Terry can be a kidder. Terry, be serious. Not your band name. Your real name.”

  “Terry Len Johnson.”

  “Age?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Funny,” Steele said.

  “What’s funny about my age?”

  “You’re legally an adult, but you’re not acting like one. Where were you last night between nine p.m. and two a.m.?”

  “Here. Studying most of the time.”

  “That’s right,” Cindy said, eager to help. “I went to bed at midnight and there were books all over the kitchen table. I told you he was here already. I don’t see what he has to do…”

  “Cindy, I’m going to have to ask you to only speak when I ask you a question,” Steele was trying to be cordial, but it was difficult with Terry being such a…well, such a punk. “I need to have Terry answer for himself. Would that be alright?”

  “Sorry.” Cindy got up, gave her grandson a sad little look, and left the room. The bluntness of Steele’s last request seemed to ruffle her feathers.

  “OK. Here’s the deal, Terry Len Johnson,” Steele leaned forward in his chair. “We found your drummer last night in your practice space. Dead. He’d been killed in a pretty brutal fashion.”

  Steele waited for the news to sink in. It didn’t seem to, at all, though. The reaction was so minimal that Steele wondered if the news was actually news to Terry. It was similar to the emotionless reaction of the cereal twins.

  “Do you know why he would have been there alone?” Steele asked.

  “No. That doesn’t make sense. What happened?” Terry’s thoughts seemed to finally catch up with him. He wrestled for his next words and when they came out, they were softened. “He died? What was wrong with him?”

  Flynt came back into the room just in time to answer. “Someone shoved his drumstick through his neck,” He reported this as if someone asked him what the weather was like outside.

  “He was murdered?” Terry asked. “Oh, god, oh god.” The color drained from Terry’s face, making the smudged eyeliner around his eyes look darker than usual. “Was anyone else there?”

  “That’s what we would like to know,” Steele said. “Who all has keys to the storage space?”

  “Just us. The band, I mean.”

  “Did you speak to your other bandmates yesterday or last night?” Steele was gearing up to ask questions rapid fire. Terry was wound up, and that was good. If he was indeed hiding information, it wouldn’t take much for him to break.

  “Just Julie,” Terry said, still not focusing.

  “Julie have a last name?”

  “Vernon, Julie Vernon. She’s my girlfriend. We talk all the time or text.”

  “Who else is in the band?”

  “There are, uh, uh—” Terry obviously couldn’t think and talk at the same time. “The four of us. Passion Pitts, Fatty Gristle, and Bloody Fingers.”

  “I need grown-up names, Terry Len Johnson. Start with Passion, I’m betting that’s Julie?”

  “Yeah, Fatty’s real name is Tommy, Thomas Mayhew. Then Bloody is, was, Mark Reagan”

  “Your drummer,” Steele took pity on Terry’s attempt at talking. “I’m going to need phone numbers and addresses for your other bandmates. Can you get those for me?”

  “Yeah. My phone’s upstairs. I’ll get it.” Terry stood, finally as eager to please as his grandmother.

  Steele nodded for Flynt to follow the kid. Flynt seemed to miss the cue, simply giving Noah a nod in return. Steele sighed and then made it crystal clear.

  “Could you go with him, please?” Steele asked.

  Flynt’s face went slack as he understood how he missed the signal. “Yeah, got it.”

  Steele watched his partner go. When Flynt was out of sight, he rolled his eyes. He was starting to understand why everyone else at the department was so judgmental towards Flynt. The guy was getting on his nerves, too. But Steele could sense something in the guy, sort of floating behind the aloofness.

  He sipped from the coffee Cindy brought him and glanced around the living room, trying to get a gauge on Terry. He was still struggling with how his new partner was able to acquire a badge.

  * * *

  At the top of the stairs, Terry turned to Flynt. Flynt saw that there was some sadness finally creeping into the boy’s expression, but he was still irritated more than anything else.

  “Why are you following me?” Terry asked.

  “We wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself,” Flynt said. In honesty, though, he wasn’t sure why Steele sent him to follow after Terry.

  “Getting my phone?” Terry snarled. “How would I hurt myself doing that?”

  “People do all kinds of crazy things when they hear about dead friends.”

  “You think I’d kill myself over that stupid excuse for a drummer?” Terry laughed. “That’s rich.”

  “So you’re the singer, huh?” Flynt knew the personality type. In the music world, not all lead singers were jerks, but most jerks were lead singers. It didn’t matter if you were Celine Dione or Johnny Rotten…the leads were usually jerks.

  “And guitar,” Terry confirmed.

  “You’re the leader, then?”

  “Guess so.” Terry picked up the phone from the bed. “I got the PA and Grandma pays for the rehearsal space, so yeah, I guess that makes me the leader.”

  “And what does Julie do? Your girlfriend. Passion Pitts.”

  “She plays bass,” Terry said with no expression as he squeezed past Flynt and back out into the hallway.

  “So, Gristly Fat does what?”

  “Fatty Gristle,” Terry corrected, i
n a growl. “He’s lead guitar. Anything else?”

  “Beatles or Stones?”

  “What?”

  “Beatles or Rolling Stones?” Flynt repeated.

  “The Ramones,” Terry said sarcastically as he bounded down the stairs.

  Flynt smiled. He sort of agreed, though, he could jam to the Stones every now and then. He was so caught up in Terry’s answer that he nearly missed the moment the kid started heading back down the stairs. Flynt hurried to catch up and as he did, he realized that something about Terry didn’t seem right to him. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was there—itching at him like that spot along his lower back he could never quite reach to scratch.

  * * *

  Back downstairs, Terry flopped down on the couch and immediately started scrolling through his phone.

  Steele stood from his chair and moved to the couch. “I’ll be taking that with me.”

  “Yeah, I just don’t see that happening!” Terry said.

  “Look, this is a murder investigation. You’re a part of the victim’s band.”

  “Leader.” Terry glanced at Flynt.

  “That’s nice, and grandma rents the space where the victim was found. Give me any more crap and I’ll haul you both in. Hand it over.”

  Steele thrust out his hand. Terry stared at the detective’s hand for a moment and made a sound of frustration. Steele imagined it must be what his voice sounded like when he was cupping the microphone and bellowing about whatever imagined grievance kids into punk conjured up these days. With that little growl, Terry slapped the phone onto Noah’s waiting palm.

  “You wouldn’t dare take in my grandma.” Terry’s anger softened and the statement was more of a plea.

  Steele just huffed. Of course, he wouldn’t take Cindy in for just renting out the space. But Terry didn’t need to know that.

  Steele found Terry’s contact list and emailed the two remaining members of Border Bigots info to his phone. With a smile, he said: “I think we’re done here. One last thing. Is there anyone you can think of who would hurt Mark? Like someone that maybe had something against him?”

  “We don’t hang out except to do band stuff.” Terry hesitated. But he hesitated for a moment and then added something else. “Check the guy two or three doors down over at the storage place. He got into it with Mark, actually punched him. Almost got arrested for fighting. Stupid Fatty called the cops. Some sort of construction guy, I think.”