The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (58 page)

Fine
, Berenger thought.
Let ‘em talk
. He didn’t care.

Case eventually appeared and sat next to him on a bench. “Hey, Spike.”

“Mike.”

“Where’s Suzanne?”

“I sent her over to Bud Callahan’s place. He’s got a bunch of old clippings about the various bands. Who knows, maybe she’ll find something everyone’s missed. She’s good at that kind of thing. How’s Jim?”

Case shook his head. “Doesn’t look good. He was in surgery most of the night. Still in ICU.”

Berenger sighed heavily. “What’d you want to see me about?”

“The suspect, Felix Bushnell, is coming in for questioning. I thought maybe you’d want to get a look at him.”

“You bet I do. But what about Doherty?”

“He doesn’t want you around at all, but your friend the mayor must have said something to the Superintendent, who said something to the commander. Doherty’s supposed to cooperate with you. Not only that, you can pick up your handgun today.”

“That’s really fab, but the mayor’s not my friend. I’ve never met him. Did Rudy get involved? Rudy knows him.”

“Rudy’s your boss?”

“He’s my partner. We co-own Rockin’ Security.”

“That must be what happened.”

Berenger smiled. “Good old Rudy. I knew I liked that guy for some reason. So, can we go upstairs.”

“Yeah. Come on. I was told to escort you and make sure you don’t roam around by yourself.”

They got up, were buzzed through the door, and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

“Doherty doesn’t still think these shootings are
armed robberies
, does he?”

“I don’t know what he thinks. But we had to lay it on pretty thick to get Bushnell to come in this morning. Threatened to put on a big show on his street with patrol cars, flashing lights, the whole she-bang. I understand he’s lawyered-up, too.”

“He’s already here?”

“Yeah. His lawyer made sure he was brought in the back way. No publicity.”

“I didn’t see any press outside.”

Case shrugged. “It’s what Bushnell wanted.”

Case led Berenger through a series of doors to an interrogation viewing room, where Doherty and several other detectives were watching. There was a one-way glass through which law enforcement officials could observe the questioning without being seen or heard by the suspect.

“You again?” Doherty grumbled. “Don’t you ever go away?”

Berenger smiled and answered, “I’ve grown accustomed to your face, Doherty. I’ve decided to spend
all
my waking hours in your picturesque station. Gee, I left last night at two in the morning and I couldn’t sleep because I just
had
to get back over here and see all my friends in uniform again.”

“You’re really annoying, you know that?” the sergeant fumed. He nodded at the window. “There you go, Berenger. Felix Bushnell. Ain’t he pretty?”

The interview was already in progress. In the next room, two detectives sat at a table across from a man and his lawyer and their voices could be heard through a speaker above the glass.

Felix Bushnell looked like Iggy Pop during the glam heyday of makeup, androgyny, and glitter rock. He resembled the mug shot Berenger had seen, but in the flesh the guy appeared much more effeminate. He was a drag queen with a man’s haircut. The makeup was pristine, complete with lipstick, eye liner and shadow, and dangling earrings. His fingernails were polished red and he wore a black turtleneck pullover and black trousers. It was a very bizarre get-up. Berenger wondered why the guy wasn’t wearing a wig—it would have made the ensemble a bit more palatable.

“I
told
you where I was that night,” Bushnell was saying in a voice that channeled Joan Crawford. “Would I lie to you?”

“Yeah, you said your alibi is airtight,” the detective answered.

“Just like my anus. Can I leave now?”

Doherty groaned, looked down, and shook his head. “Unfuckingbelievable.” Others in the viewing room laughed.

One of the detectives said. “What’d you expect, sarge?”

“Shut up, everyone,” the sergeant said. “Berenger, the guy works as a drag performer in a club frequented by a—how do I say? An alternate lifestyle clientele. When he’s working he does the whole female impersonation bit. By day he… looks like this.”

Berenger didn’t care about the suspect’s lifestyle. He was more interested in the man’s build and demeanor. Bushnell was in his early to mid-forties and was the right size. The suspect was thin and appeared to be in good health. Like many gay men, he apparently took good care of his body. With the right wig and sunglasses, it was entirely possible that Bushnell would resemble the shooter.

“Does he own any firearms?” Berenger asked.

“It’s a condition of his parole that he can’t own firearms,” Doherty answered. “But he has a handgun in his apartment. He volunteered that information. It’s registered to his brother, who lives in Rockford. And guess what—it’s a
nine millimeter
Browning.”

“What about a sniper rifle? Whoever shot Jim Axelrod knew what he—or she—was doing. Does Bushnell have military or law enforcement experience?”

“No. But that doesn’t mean he’s not our guy. Or
girl
.”

Berenger continued listening to the interview.

Detective: “Do you have a grudge against rock musicians?”

Bushnell: “Of course not. I love rock musicians. They throw great parties.”

Detective: “Where were you yesterday afternoon at five o’clock?”

Bushnell: “I
told
you already. I was walking my dog in my neighborhood. You can ask Cinderella and Aurora’s mom.”

Detective: “Cinderella and Aurora?”

Bushnell: “Those are the pugs that live on my block. They’re my dog’s girlfriends. Named after the Disney princesses. I don’t know their mom’s name, but they saw me walking Butch.”

Detective: “Your dog is named Butch?”

Bushnell: “That’s right. Appropriate, wouldn’t you say?”

Detective: “Why do you have a handgun, Felix? You know you’re not supposed to.”

The lawyer leaned over and whispered something to his client.

Bushnell: “I told you already. That’s not my handgun. It’s my brother’s. He left it at my house the last time he was visiting. Look, would I lie to you?”

Detective: “We can get a search warrant to take it, you know. Run some tests on it. We can determine if certain bullets were fired from it.”

Bushnell: “I know that. I watch television. Go ahead. Be my guest.”

Berenger turned to Doherty and said, “Have you tried putting a wig on him?”

Doherty grimaced. “What the hell for?”

“I’d like to see him with a blonde wig on. Remember—I saw the shooter.”

“But you didn’t see his face. Or her face. If you had, we wouldn’t let you watch this interview. If this ever went to trial and the defense knew you’d witnessed an interview, you couldn’t testify for the prosecution.”

“I understand that. I’m just trying to get a better idea of what this guy looks like with a blonde wig on.”

The sergeant rubbed his eyes and said, “We don’t have a blonde wig at the station, Berenger. This isn’t a costume house. And the suspect didn’t bring one with him, all right?”

Berenger nodded toward the window. “You say that’s how he dresses when he goes out in public?”

“Yeah.”

“So he’s not really a cross dresser.”

“He puts on women’s makeup and jewelry.”

“But he wears men’s clothes when he’s not working.”

Doherty shrugged. “So?”

“So, the man is gay and he’s eccentric. He dresses up as a woman when he works. But unless he actually wears women’s clothing when he’s off duty, then he wouldn’t be a cross dresser.”

“What the hell difference does it make? You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, Berenger? When he was arrested for armed robbery in ninety-two, he was dressed as a woman. We’re waiting on a search warrant for his house, which we’ll get this afternoon. Among other things, we’ll be looking for a blonde wig, sunglasses, and a sniper rifle. Satisfied?”

“I guess so.”

One of the other detectives in the room cleared his throat and asked, “Sarge, you gonna let the commander call in the Feds?”

“Fuck no. We don’t need no goddamned FBI. We’re going to solve this case ourselves.”

Doherty looked at Berenger and asked, “You think you could talk Joe Nance and the others into not having that benefit concert this Friday night?”

“Why would I do that?”

The sergeant held out his hands. “Gee, I dunno… maybe because they might get
shot
or something?”

“Look, Doherty, I’m just as concerned for their safety as you are. But if they want to put on a show to benefit their friends’ and loved ones’ families, I’m not going to stop them. I would, however, like to call in Rockin’ Security’s resources and work the concert. We’re experts at that sort of thing and I believe we can protect them.”

“You mean, you think you can protect them better than
we
can?”

“I think you should consider it.”

“And who’s going to pay Rockin’ Security? Is Zach Garriott’s family going to do that? Come to think of it, who’s paying your bill now? The City of Chicago sure ain’t. Are you working for free?”

“Maybe I am. I haven’t thought about it.”

“Well, you can forget about providing security for the concert. We can handle it. The venue has its own security teams and we’ll beef it up with a few men and work the street outside.”

“What about the CDs?”

“What CDs?”

“The compact disks left at the crime scenes. I understand the shooter left two more yesterday. One for Axelrod, and one to make up for not leaving one when she killed Zach.”

“No, Berenger. Forget it.”

“
I can help you, damn it
!”

Doherty addressed Case. “That’s it. Get him out of here. He’s seen enough. I don’t care if your buddy in New York
did
call the mayor. I can cooperate as much as I see fit. I’m lead investigator. I call the shots. Go on. Scram.”

Everyone in the room except Case looked at Berenger with contempt. Case was simply embarrassed.

The PI sighed and said, “Okay. I hope you guys know what you’re doing. I’m going to pick up my weapon. Thanks for keeping it
safe
for me.”

He turned to leave just as Bushnell answered a question with, “Yes, I shave my legs. Would I lie to you?”

P
rescott sat in front of a table cluttered with newspaper clippings, envelopes, music posters, ticket stubs, and other artifacts of memorabilia associated with Chicagoprog’s long and tortured history. It was a bit overwhelming, but Bud and Sharon Callahan were hospitable and friendly by providing her with plenty of coffee and refreshments. Neither of them worked day jobs, so they were available all day to answer questions.

“I can’t believe how well organized this is,” Prescott told Bud. “It’s all in chronological order and everything.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m anal. And a Virgo,” he remarked. “I haven’t looked at this stuff in years. Let me know if you find my orthodontic retainer. I lost it years ago.”

A centerpiece of the collection was a scrapbook that Sharon had put together during the seventies but eventually allowed to let slip. Nevertheless, it was fairly complete up to the mid seventies. Beyond that, the clippings were loose and not archived. Prescott spent most of the morning going through the book, reading the articles and examining candid photographs taken at gigs and backstage.

“How well did you know The Loop when it was active?” she asked.

“I knew all those guys pretty well. I was a couple of years behind them in high school, so they were like gods to me. After I graduated in sixty-nine, I tried going to college and doing the sensible thing. But after two years, I was fed up with school. I followed my calling, which was music. So in seventy-one, I formed Rattlesnake. Rick Tittle, the drummer, and I were already good friends and he knew this bass player from Italy who was interested in being in a band. So by seventy-two we were gigging and recording our first and only album.”