WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (3 page)

Still tracking on the sound, Brad caught sight of his quarry as he turned abruptly. Stock-still, the target waited. His eyes were doing double-time, checking the area. Brad’s icy stare gave him no reason to suspect danger.

The target continued slowly along his path, then froze. Only his dark eyes were moving.

Brad elevated his Tikka T3 rifle the last few inches until the pad on the ultra-light polymer stock met his shoulder. Gradually, he brought the barrel above parallel with the ground. In the same motion he tilted his head and maneuvered his right eye into alignment with the rear lens of the scope. He centered the magnified image on the reticle. No adjustment needed. Target at twenty yards.

Point of aim equals point of impact.

The only thing between Brad’s right eye and the target’s left eye was the glass-etched crosshairs on the lens.

The high-pitched report of the small-bore rifle raced through the woods and echoed across the valley. The target dropped. Brad stood.

His eyes still on his victim, Brad cradled his rifle across his left forearm, grunted and stretched, attempting to recover from the period of immobility.

Brad stepped cautiously through the previous year’s slick decaying leaves and empty acorn shells. As he reached the kill, he smiled. He bent over and inspected the entry wound. Blood trickled from the left eye socket and the exit wound in the rear of his head.

“Center of the eye; one shot—one kill,” Brad said.

He picked up the large amber-colored fox squirrel and finagled it into his game bag at the rear of his hunting vest.

“That ought to keep Rocky busy for about five minutes.”

Rocky was Brad’s Rottweiler; his friend and the hungry beneficiary of all Brad’s target practice kills.

As soon as he heard Brad’s footfalls nearing the house, Rocky began his raucous welcome ceremony. It was rare when Brad’s homecoming failed to deliver Rocky a fresh breakfast. His barking and jumping against the chain link fence grew more energetic once he caught sight of his benefactor. Brad chuckled, then reached back into the game bag, extracted the rodent and hurled it up and over the fence. As always, Rocky was ready. It appeared he was killing it again, the way he pounced on the bushy feast, holding it with his paws and tearing at its body with his huge canine teeth. Brad could hear the bones break as fur flew in the wind. Rocky’s bark was now replaced by a satisfied low-pitched growl.

As he reached the house, Brad removed his hunting vest and draped it over a hook on the screened-in back porch. Julie would have demanded he remove his boots before entering the ceramic-tiled kitchen, but she wasn’t there to remind him. He laid his rifle across the top of its hard composite case and grabbed the cold pot from the coffee maker. After pouring the remainder of his 4:00 a.m. coffee into his mug, he stuck it in the microwave for a minute and fifteen. He stepped to the sink, rinsed the coffee pot and gazed out the window at his buddy who was finishing his morning snack. It was just him and Rocky now. It wasn’t the same.

Four months ago, Brad’s wife Julie was returning from a trip to Nashville to see her doctor when her car was struck by another driver who ran a stop sign. She was killed. Just that day, Julie had been diagnosed with stage-four breast cancer. She didn’t get the chance to share her fear or her depression with her husband. Brad found out about the cancer a few days after the funeral when Julie’s doctor called, concerned about why she’d failed to make her next appointment.

“Realistically, she had maybe three to six months,” the doctor told Brad.

“That was three to six more than we had together, thanks to the son of a bitch that hit her,” Brad told him, wishing he’d been able to help her through what was to be a short period of grief and pain.

The time following Julie’s death was dreadful for Brad. He had difficulty keeping his mind focused on anything.

Brad was a self-employed gunsmith who worked out of his home. He was also an independent contractor working as a wildlife exterminator. Brad’s sniper training made him the perfect choice for the duties involved in varmint removal. The task called for someone to either trap or exterminate persistent pests such as beaver, raccoon, or coyote who were infiltrating the world of the humans. Many of his referrals came through his gunsmith customers.

Brad enjoyed the independence that came with being self-employed and self-sufficient, but that was when he had motivation at home. He spent much of this time now sitting in his rocking chair on the front porch, staring at and talking to Julie’s empty rocker next to him. So many times they spent their evenings there talking, laughing, sharing today and planning tomorrow.

Brad wanted justice for Julie and for himself, and he was becoming less and less concerned about how he got it. He knew enough about the legal system to know the guilty seldom reaped all they sowed. He’d been told very little about the driver who struck Julie’s car, but one of the witnesses told him the man was a Latino. It would be months before the man would be tried for his crime, assuming he didn’t plea it down to a lesser offense or dash back to Mexico. Brad prayed that some silver-tongued defense lawyer wouldn’t be able to prevent this killer from paying for his crime.

“There is something seriously wrong when a person can just kill one of us and walk away like nothing happened,” Brad told the assistant DA. “What’s happened? Where’s our protection?”

I’ll tell you. It’s in my holster.

Crimnal Justice Center

Homicide Unit

Nashville, Tennessee

Monday Morning

“Hey, Wolfe.”

“Yeah, Lieutenant?” Detective Doug Wolfe rode his desk chair from his gray cubicle out into the aisle, so he could see Lieutenant D. W. Burris.

“Have you seen Neal or Wallace this morning?”

“I haven’t seen either one. Aren’t they working the Sandstone shooting from last night?”

“Yeah, but we had an update scheduled at ten.” Burris looked at his watch. “Obviously, they’re late—again.”

Burris was painfully punctual. The pain was all his. He tried to demand the same respect for promptness from his detectives, but he was convinced by each of them daily, it was pointless. His men had an unstructured job, and they always had an excuse for being late. He made an effort to tolerate it.

At forty-seven, Burris had spent half his life with the Nashville Police Department. When he saw fifty sneaking up on him, he decided to reject the idea of getting old. He was determined to stall it, or at least give it one hell of a fight. He worked out faithfully at the department gym. He played racquetball with a passion and made it a habit to defeat all comers, regardless of rank.

Burris’s desk was positioned so he could see through his office door and down the rows of matching cubicles to the entrance at the opposite end of the large room. It wasn’t that he had to monitor the comings and goings of his team, but this way his booming voice was better able to reach all the ears that needed to hear it. This morning most of the detectives were where they should be, on the streets conducting interviews and following up on leads.

He heard movement at the far end of the room and looked up to see Norm Wallace’s bulky form fill the doorway. He watched Norm trying to prevent the heavy metal door from clanking shut behind him, announcing his arrival.

“Did you lose your Rolex, Wallace?” Burris shouted as Norm turned and aimed himself toward his boss.

“Uh—no, Lieutenant,” Norm said. “Sorry we’re late. Didn’t Mike leave you a voicemail?” Norm said, preparing his defense as he strolled to the door of Burris’s office.

“I haven’t had time to pick up voicemail, Wallace. I have been working.”

“Lieutenant, we were sort of attacked while we were eating breakfast,” Norm said, as his ample girth stressed one of the cheap metal-framed chairs in front of Burris’s desk.

“You were what?” Burris leaned forward, dropping his forearms on his desk pad.

“Gabriel Sanchez is the older brother of the victim from the Sandstone shooting last night. He saw us having breakfast, drove up behind our car and took issue with the fact we were feeding our faces instead of searching for his brother’s killer.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Kinda what I thought at the time. The goofball even took a swing at Mike. That was a bad idea.”

Hearing the door as it closed, Burris looked up and watched Mike approach his office. “Detective Neal. Glad you could join us.”

“Morning, Lieutenant.” Ignoring the sarcasm, Mike took the chair alongside his partner.

“Norm tells me you had a confrontation this morning?”

“You could say that,” Mike said, preparing his folder for their discussion. “Nothing like starting your day with a little hand-to-hand combat.”

“What happened?”

Mike shared the details of their morning adventure and assured Burris that the EMS team cleared Sanchez, confirming he was okay after his brush with forced unconsciousness. Burris admired Mike’s skills, but he hated it when the detective used combat moves he’d learned in the Army. Some were capable of injuring people, and most were against departmental policy.

“Okay, what have we got so far on this Sandstone shooting?”

“Victim was nineteen,” Mike said, “male Mexican-American. He was delivering pizza—worked for Pauletti’s off Nolensville Road. He was robbed and shot. Three nine millimeter brass were found at the scene; no prints. Victim took two in the chest and one under his eye which left a large exit wound in the back of his skull.”

“What’s the medical examiner’s schedule?” Burris asked.

“I put that call in on the way here,” Mike said. “I left her a message. I know she’s short-handed now and blitzed with work.”

“Do you expect any revelations from the autopsy?” Burris asked.

Mike looked up. “I can’t imagine what they would be.”

“I’d say the nine was the cause of death,” Norm said, shrugging his shoulders and offering a faint smart-ass smile as he glanced up at Burris, and then at Mike.

Burris looked over the top of his reading glasses at Norm. “No shit?”

“I know.” Norm exchanged solemn looks with Mike, “This stuff comes to me all the time. It’s a gift.”

Mike turned his attention back to his notes, refusing to comment on Norm’s weak attempt at humor.

“We spoke with four witnesses who admitted they heard loud talking, gunshots or both,” Mike said scanning his notes. “Our most confident witness is a single black female, forty-seven. Her apartment is on the second floor facing the common area from the shooter’s right. Says she turned off her lights when she heard the shouting. She went to the window and looked out the edge of her mini-blinds. Said she saw muzzle flashes—couldn’t remember how many. She said she saw Sanchez drop, then she witnessed three men run to a dark colored car at the end of the parking lot. She let us know she’s tired of all the violence and wants to know why we can’t do something about it, so she and her neighbors can live in peace.”

“That’s quite an observation from a civilian,” Burris said.

“I thought so. I asked her how she was able to see and remember so much. She said she watches all the cop shows on TV.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep,” Norm said. “That’s what she said.”

“You think that taints her recollection a little?” Burris asked.

“I don’t know,” Mike said. “She didn’t appear to be embellishing the story.”

“I don’t get the idea she’s been at Sandstone very long if she’s still griping about the area?” Burris asked.

“No,” Mike said, “she didn’t give the impression she was aware she lived on gang turf.”

“If she watches the local news like she does the network, she’ll get educated real soon,” Norm said.

“We also have a single Mexican-American male witness, twenty-six, asleep at the time in a first floor apartment and woke up to the shots. Says he jumped up and looked out the window in time to see two, maybe three men get into a black Chevrolet. He says one of the men had a green bandana and baseball cap in his hand.”

“Two men?” Burris asked.

“Yeah, maybe three,” Mike said.

“Green, huh?” Burris leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his wavy salt and pepper hair.

“Yes, sir.”

“Does this witness know he lives on gang turf?” Burris asked.

“I got the distinct impression he knew,” Mike said. “He was wearing a black and gold cap during our interview.”

“Hmm. You think he was lying about the green bandana to throw us toward his rivals?”

“I didn’t get that from him. He said nobody in their right mind wears green around there. He said green is the color of a target in that neighborhood, and he was surprised these dudes made it out alive. He seemed like he was being honest, but you can’t tell.”

“Interesting,” Burris said. “What about your other witnesses?”

Mike flipped the page. “One is a married, looked to be mixed-race, male, thirty-five. He said he saw the victim get out of his car and approach the building. I asked him what caused him to notice Sanchez. He said he heard his car sputtering when he parked, and then saw the clip-on pizza flag on top of his car. That’s all he admitted to seeing. He said he didn’t see the other men, but for the record, the look on his face and his body language said otherwise. He knew the environment where he lived. He had two young kids at his feet.”

“Another concerned citizen,” Burris said. “Okay, what else?”

“The last one is a female,” Mike said. “Widowed, white, no age given. I’d say late fifties to early sixties. Claimed she heard the shots and called 911. Said she was watching the news when she heard the commotion. The call was registered by 911 dispatch at 22:20, so that appears to match. She said this wasn’t the first time she’d called 911 since moving to Sandstone.”

“It won’t be her last,” Norm said.

“Is that it?” Burris asked.

“Yes sir,” Mike said. “Everything that’s meaningful so far.”

“What about the people in B-26 who ordered the pizza?”

“Well, we talked to two couples there. They said they didn’t hear anything suspicious. In their condition, and judging from the volume of their music, they may not have. They were barely coherent when we talked with them. The place was in a fog and smelled like a rock concert. They asked if we’d seen the pizza man; they said they were starving.”