WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (9 page)

Mike’s experience told him there was something here, within these few pages, to help him find Connie’s killer. Since he was not involved in the investigation, Mike had not been able to decode it all. He tried to remain confident, reminding himself, some cases take more time. He knew the odds. Few cold cases which remained unsolved after nine years were ever cleared. But, that was true of other cases. Those cases were filed away—in a box.

The first page protector in the binder contained Mike’s own notes from his discussions with Ellis. As he reviewed his remarks, he recalled more of the Clarksville detective’s words.

“Entirely too many people were at the scene when we arrived.” Ellis paused. “You’ve got to remember this was our biggest murder scene of the last decade. All the forensic folks were there. We don’t have that many. We get help from the TBI when we need them. We needed them.

“The criminalists were waiting for us to arrive and do our thing, so they could do theirs. Much of the scene was already contaminated by the Rescue Squad whose divers were already in the water. The dirt and rock around the site were splattered with considerable amounts of blood dried in place. Some was contaminated and some was washed away by the actions of the divers, the EMTs, and the Rescue Squad as they removed the bodies from the water.” Ellis shook his head. “Most of these folks didn’t have a clue how to handle a crime scene of this magnitude.”

“The precise location of each of the four murders was fairly obvious from the concentration of blood on the rocks and the ground. Based upon the footprints, drag marks, and other evidence at the scene, we determined the killer attempted to re-dress the bodies. One of the girls was wearing what had to be one of the boy’s shirts.

“It appeared the killer dragged them to the water’s edge where he collected flat limestone rocks. We found the rocks crammed inside their clothing, and after securing the rocks in place by tying their shirttails and tightening their belts around them, he rolled each body into the water and dragged them out to the lake.”

Ellis continued. “One of the too few pieces of meaningful evidence collected at the scene was multiple common shoe casts and photos of shoe impressions taken from near the murder sites. Some of the victim’s shoes were on their feet and others were found in the lake. Impressions made from the victims’ shoes were later used to eliminate many of these prints. There remained several common impressions of a man’s size ten boot with a deep hiking tread. This same boot impression was found numerous times around the lake’s edge and also tracked back toward the access road away from the quarry. None of the victims, or the old man, wore boots that matched these prints.

“The location, freshness and number of these common shoe prints was significant. The fact they appeared to move repeatedly between the concentrations of blood increased their importance and likelihood they belonged to the killer. Alone, these prints are of limited value, but they could be used to confirm a suspect, assuming we secure one and assuming he’s dumb enough to still have the boots in his possession.”

Mike’s computer desktop came to life and grabbed his attention. He clicked the Internet access icon and the modem responded with the expected series of tones. Once online, Mike opened his email. He was hoping for another Iraq status report from his mentor, Colonel Wm. T. Lee. It had been almost a week since his last. Mike scanned through a list of over two dozen emails. There it was.

Hey, soldier. What’s shakin’ in the Music City? Sorry I haven’t been able to write in a few days. We’ve still got our hands full here in beautiful downtown Mosul—the jewel of Mesopotamia. Wish you were here to share the load.

We’re starting to receive quite a number of requests for investigations into assaults on, and mistreatment of, detainees, even in the prisons. We’re getting similar complaints of abuse from some Iraqi citizens while their homes are being searched, as well as grievances claiming property theft by our soldiers.

Last week we had a Corporal who fired his weapon into the floor of an Iraqi family’s home because they weren’t being as cooperative as he thought they should be. He said he was trying to get their attention. Can you believe this shit?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Mike said out load.

Some of these young men have so much repressed anger and so few options on how to release it—they’re looking for payback. They’ve witnessed their best friends get shot or blown apart by IEDs and RPGs. Then, they watch as the boys that survive the attacks are sent home to face their future with broken bodies: missing arms or legs or eyes. It’s troubling.

Mike knew too well what the Colonel was talking about. His thoughts momentarily turned to his friend and fellow CID investigator Ron Kremer.

Over here, the ones that aren’t scared shitless should be. They don’t have a clue where the next attack is coming from. They know it’s coming. The knowing serves to strain every nerve and prime them for their out-of-control anti-social behavior.

Enough with the bad news. How’s the world of the homicide detective? Hopefully, it’s at least more colorful than this place. As you well know, the only colors we get to see over here are sand beige and blood red.

Let me get out of here and get some sleep. Maybe I’ll be back in my old skin tomorrow.

Oh, before I forget. There’s a group that’s been formed to replace the United Nations inspections teams. It’s being called The Iraq Survey Group and they’ve been mandated to search for weapons of mass destruction. I told my buddy Lieutenant Colonel Rob Vaughn, who’s assigned to the group’s North Sector, about your theory on Sinjar Mountain being Saddam’s storage closet. He laughed, but I told him you spent considerable time in that area in ’91 and may have a unique perspective. I asked him to give it some consideration as a favor to me. He said they’d already done that dance.

Don’t worry. I’m not gonna give up. He’ll listen.

We miss you, buddy. Take care. - Tim

Mike responded to the Colonel’s email with some current information about his life and his job which, after writing the email, seemed more like one and the same than he realized. He also offered Lee some additional data on Sinjar Mountain and his suspicions on the significance of its proximity to the Syrian border.

Before shutting down his computer, Mike finished his PC session the same way he had every one since his sister Connie’s death, nine years ago. Over the years that he spent away from home, he saved all of Connie’s email to a file that he had intended to give her when he returned. He created a diary of sorts for that purpose.

Since her passing, his ritual included bringing up her last email, dated 6/3/1994 and reading it—again.

Hey, Big Brother. How’s Sand Land?

Mike could hear Connie’s voice saying the words.

Caught any camel killers today? I wish that was all you had to do. I hope your corner of the world is getting safer. I watch the news every day to see the endless footage of that sand colored hell you guys are living in—if you call that living. I sure hope this doesn’t turn out to be Vietnam Vol. II.

Michael, I miss you so much. Please come home soon. Mom’s death is draining the both of us. Dad might as well be gone too. He’s no help to me, or even himself. He’s a vegetable. I can’t talk to him like I can with you. We share no interests, nothing. He sits in front of the damn TV trying to stay distracted from thoughts of Mom. I guess I can understand that, but he’s like a zombie.

You are the only family I have left. I felt so safe when you were here. I’m proud of your work to try and make the world safe for all of us, but I’d rather have you home. I need you here. Why don’t you see if you can get one of those special discharges? You know, a hardship discharge to care for Dad and me. God knows I’m a hardship case, having to tolerate Dad.

Hey, do you remember when we were kids? Well, at least I was a kid. We used to sit in the porch swing and talk? I crawled up in the swing, hugged your arm and leaned on your shoulder as you kicked the floor and kept the swing moving. You told me stories about all the people and places you’d read about in school. I remember closing my eyes and telling you that your words were like music that took me away to those places. Remember that? I was just thinking about that today and wishing we could relive those days. I was wishing your words could take me away from all this and deliver me to where you are, so we could swing on the porch again.

Mike, your email is therapy for me. Your words are still music to my ears. Every day, I rush to get home, praying you’ve written. I read your email over and over again. I really do. I guess I sound silly, but I can't wait until you are home, even if it’s just for a visit. Michael, please come home, as soon as they’ll let you. And write as often as you can. I’m serious. I need to hear from you as often as possible. It really sucks here!

I miss you so much, and I love you. Please come home.

Your Sis, Connie

“I love you too Sis,” Mike whispered, “and I miss
your
music.”

Mike leaned back in his chair and called up memories of the hundreds of conversations he’d shared with his little sister. Always the manipulator, she had a way of getting him to do almost anything for her. Mike smiled.

The metallic click of Carol unlocking the deadbolt on the kitchen door brought him back to the present.

Mike Neal’s Home

Nashville, Tennessee

Monday Late Night

“No—No!” Mike’s screams jolted Carol from her sleep. She sat up in bed.

Mike was tossing his head side to side, groaning, sometimes talking, but his words were unintelligible. His brow and jutted jaw told her he was mad at something or someone. The violent shifting of his body had pushed the blanket to the foot of the bed. His hair and pillow were soaked with sweat. Carol placed her hand on his chest; his body was clammy.

“Mike. Wake up. Mike. You’re having a nightmare. Carol patted his cheek. Wake up. Mike?”

Mike’s eyes opened abruptly and he sat up. In the same motion, he grabbed Carol’s wrist jerking her arm away from his face. He pulled her to him and wrapped his arm around her neck. Carol screamed and after a brief moment Mike, realized where he was, and released her. He fell away from Carol and sat leaning back with his hands behind him, propping him up. His chest still heaving; he continued to exhale forcefully. Carol sat staring at him, petrified. His rapid blinking verified the nightmare was over, for now.

“Mike, are you okay?”

He turned toward her, wide-eyed and still not breathing normally. He stared at her face.

“Mike?”

He took in another large volume of air and blew it out. “I think so.”

“What was that all about?”

“What?”

“You know what. The nightmare.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t give me that.”

He closed his eyes and prayed something intelligent would come to him which would appease Carol without his having to tell her the truth. Nothing came. He had awakened from the same distressing nightmare for the sixth, maybe the seventh, time. But, this was the first time for Carol, or anyone else, to witness it.

“Mike, talk to me. I want to help you.”

He sat unresponsive for a moment, looking down and away from Carol. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“I can’t talk about it.”

“About what?”

He turned to her. “About the nightmare.”

“This isn’t the first time is it?”

Mike looked into her eyes knowing they would force him to be honest. “No,” he said at the end of another deep exhale.

“What is it, Mike? What’s haunting you?”

Mike had never told anyone. Only
he
knew the facts. It seemed like a mistake to even consider sharing it now. He trusted Carol, but sometimes people knowing things—changed things; sometimes knowing things changed people. Maybe things were best kept as they are.

“I need something to drink,” Mike swallowed.

“At this time of the morning?”

“I mean, like hot cocoa.”

“Oh, sure. I’ll fix you some.” Carol laid her hand on Mike’s cheek.

Carol took Mike’s t-shirt from the chair where she’d tossed it last night after she yanked it over his head. She pulled it on over her naked body as she walked to the kitchen. Mike followed her and sat at one of the bar stools.

He pointed to the cabinet with the cocoa and watched as she nuked the water and mixed two large mugs. She came around the bar, delivered the steaming chocolate and sat on the stool next to him. He hoped she knew enough to practice patience. She had worked around Mike long enough to know he didn’t like being pushed.

After a few minutes, Mike began to open up.

“Did I ever tell you about Ron Kremer?”

“Hmm, I don’t think so. Who is he?”

“He was my best friend at CID when we were in Iraq.”

“Really? I guess you’ve never told me much about Iraq.”

Mike nodded. “He was great. He saved my life once after a fire fight near the Turkish border. He kept me from bleeding to death the day I got all these.” Mike pointed to his scars. “He was so worried about me.” Mike smiled. “I could tell how much he cared. It was all over his face while he was patching me up. I knew then—I had a real friend.”

“Sounds like it,” Carol said.

Mike sipped his chocolate and took his time before speaking again.

“We were a good team and Captain Lee, who’s a Colonel now, knew it. So, he kept us working together on a lot of investigations.”