by Jacki Moss
“Does Chad shoot hoops with you all?”
Steven returned with Chad’s headshot and held it out to Ketchum without a word. Ketchum raised up in his chair, took the photo, looked at it a couple of seconds, and placed it in Chad’s file folder. Was that the all-American-boy face of a stone-cold murderer?
“Not on this tour, but he used to. He used to be great. He had a basketball scholarship, but he gave it up to come be in the band.” No matter what a pain in the ass Chad was, his brother still loved him and was proud of his accomplishments.
“So he was pretty good, huh? Forward or guard?” Ketchum persisted, seeming to be making small talk.
“Small forward. Short, but fast and scrappy. Could get in there and mix it up inside, or take a fast shot from the perimeter when he spotted an opening.” Kirby fondly recalled Chad’s tenacity and unexpected success in high school basketball.
Ketchum was sure he had his suspect dead to rights, so to speak. Now to the moment of truth. He didn’t want to show them the photos of his dead guy’s head unless he had to. There was no need to subject people to such grotesque images without a very good reason. He had a very good reason. In fact, he had several very good reasons. Now he had to somehow make the connection between his suspect and the victim.
“I have some photos here of the victim we talked about previously. I want to warn you they are very graphic. Very, very graphic. Mrs. McCooter, since you are not part of the band, I don’t need you to view these. But the rest of you need to take a look at the photos. I want to know if any of you recognize this man.” Ketchum took the front and side photos of the victim’s head and carefully laid them on top of Chad’s folder.
Everyone immediately gasped. Bynum almost fainted and had to grab the table edge to keep upright.
“Baby, it’s Dang. It’s Dangcat, baby,” he sobbed through his hands as Mattie rushed over to hold him. “Oh, my God. It’s Dang.”
The boys backed away from the photos like they were rattlesnakes, and collapsed onto the sofa. Joshua started weeping softly. Ketchum wasn’t sure if Joshua was crying because he knew the victim or because he realized his brother was probably the perpetrator of such a heinous act.
“Mr. McCooter, who is Dang?” Ketchum asked very gently.
“He’s my friend. He’s my engineer at my record label. Willie Dangcat.”
“Spell that, please.”
“D-a-n-g-c-a-t. Willie,” Bynum sobbed. “We call him ‘Dang.’ ”
Ketchum was furiously scribbling notes.
“Caucasian?”
“Yes.”
“From Nashville?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“He has been missing since we left on tour.” Bynum clutched Mattie’s hand. She handed him a room service napkin to wipe his eyes and nose.
“I’ll need to get some information from you about Mr. Dangcat. Address, next of kin, things like that. Oh, and another thing. Does Chad know Mr. Dangcat?”
“Yes. Dangcat is, was, the engineer on the band’s upcoming record,” Bynum moaned. “They were at odds, having a disagreement about his record.” Bynum knew Miller would bristle at him offering the information, but Bynum was now sure Chad had done this to Dang, and he wanted him brought to justice.
“So was Chad angry at Mr. Dangcat?”
“Yes. Mad at Dang and at Cafton.” Bynum turned to Mattie. “We’ve got to tell Cafton! Chad might go after him next, if he hasn’t already!”
“Cafton?” Ketchum asked, as if he didn’t know who Cafton was and his connection.
“Cafton Merriepennie. He’s my friend and business partner. We co-own the record label where Dangcat works…worked.” Bynum stopped short of telling Ketchum about the threatening phone calls and firebombing, not wanting him to draw unsupported conclusions.
“Please add his name and contact information to the piece of paper,” Ketchum instructed, keeping his knowledge of Cafton to himself. The picture was filling in now.
“Unless anyone has something to add, I can wrap this up now,” Ketchum offered.
“Are we under suspicion?” Joshua asked.
“No, but you do need to understand that when we do find the murderer, if it is Chad, you all will be subpoenaed to testify at the trial. Until then, you can go about your business as usual. I very much appreciate your cooperation in this. I know it is difficult for you. If you think of anything else that can help us bring Mr. Dangcat’s killer to justice, please let me know. Here are some of my cards.” Ketchum laid six business cards out on the table, one for each of them.
“By the way, do you have anything that might have Chad’s fingerprints on it?” Ketchum asked.
Bynum thought a second and remembered Chad slamming his juice glass down. “Yes, this was his glass this morning,” he said, pointing at the glass on the mantel. Everyone else had put their assorted dishes back on the tray for room service to take away. “He took it out of the paper wrapper and drank from it right before he left.”
Ketchum took out his handkerchief, covered his hand and fingers with it, and deftly picked up the glass, grasping only the flat bottom and the rim. “Will someone get me one of those wrappers?” Bynum took a clean glass out of a wrapper and held it for Ketchum as he slid Chad’s glass inside. Ketchum then wrapped the glass in a clean washcloth and delicately placed it in his briefcase.
The group sat quietly, absorbing what they had just found out and what the possible future ramifications might be, while Ketchum re-packed and forced shut his briefcase. “I will put a BOLO out on Chad across the U.S., but especially here and in Kentucky. I doubt he will stick around here long, but Mr. McCooter, and boys, you still need to keep an eye out for him. And if anyone hears from him, you need to call me immediately.”
After saying his goodbyes to Ketchum, Bynum knew he had to be the leader. Everyone would take their cue from him and his actions. He had to pull himself together and find a way forward for the tour.
“I know this has been a very upsetting day, but we have a job to do. We are here because Cafton believes in us. We are here because we believe in each other. We have promised our fans we will give them a show, and that’s exactly what we are going to do. We are professionals, and professionals get the job done. Can you do it?” Bynum held his hand out, palm down like a football team locker room cheer. They all placed their hands on top of one another and agreed they were ready.
“See you at eight sharp, boys. Thanks.” Bynum took a deep breath as they filed out the door.
“What’s going to happen to Chad?” Bynum asked Miller.
“Premeditated murder draws life imprisonment or the death penalty,” Miller answered, “but they have to catch him and then prove it. The sooner he’s in custody, the safer you all will be.”
Chapter 17—Mark My Words
“Throw me off the tour! That’ll be the day. You can’t just throw me off the tour! I quit!” Chad yelled to a truck passing by that had to swerve to keep from hitting him on the side of the busy road. “You’ll be sorry when all those teen girls who come to see me, not you, old man, me, walk out when I’m not there. They will walk the hell out! And word will get out that I’m not there, and your precious tour will fold in a week without me! I’m done letting you all ride my coattails and use me any longer! Chad Overstreet is putting you all on notice!” Chad scampered across the busy four-lane to get to the interstate entrance ramp.
He had been building up his courage to hitchhike back home to Kentucky since he fled the hotel room in a panic. He had meandered aimlessly around on foot all day, blocks away from the hotel, until he finally spied the interstate. Chad had never hitchhiked before and was apprehensive but overly optimistic about it. He was sure his heart-throb good looks and gleaming smile would prompt someone, hopefully a car full of cheerleaders, to pick him up in no time.
Meanwhile, as he sauntered along the roadway, he was absorbed in a vociferous tirade against his predicament, severing his already
tenuous grasp on reality. His parents and brothers had inadvertently allowed, or enabled, Chad to slide into total craziness by not proactively addressing his mental illness early on when he first started showing signs of deranged thinking.
They knew Chad was unstable, but they continually accepted his excuses and apologies for his behavior. The most disturbing incident was when he was just eight years old. Several days after the family cat had gone missing, Chad showed up with, as he called it, “a coonskin cap like Daniel Boone’s.” It was immediately apparent he had not only killed the pet but had butchered it, skinned it, and made a trophy hat out of it. Had the family been as much alarmed as they were set on keeping the incident from being known so they would not be embarrassed, a mental health professional would have informed them murderers often begin as animal abusers. But instead of taking a pro-active approach, they chose to cover up and ignore his aberrant behavior.
No one ever seriously considered either offering or forcing him to seek mental health treatment. They just opted to attribute his arrogance and self-absorption as his “creative” personality, and a product of him being the baby of the family. His unstable behavior had been tolerated so long it had crept up the crazy continuum from “peculiar” all the way to “psycho.” Still, his family thought they could control him, that he was harmless.
They were wrong. His self-indulgence, coupled with his seething anger about being held accountable for his actions by Dangcat, had sent him flailing wildly over the edge he had been dancing on for so long. Dangcat paid the ultimate price.
“I don’t need you. You need me. And I am now officially free! Thank you! It’s the best damn thing that has ever happened to me!” He continued to shout, waving his hands back and forth like a Shakespearian actor on an amphitheater stage. “I’ll just leave all your asses and go on my merry way. It will be like hitchhiking to Haight-Asbury like I’ve always wanted to do.” Chad bolstered himself as he stood with his thumb out on the interstate ramp headed east. He placed the awkward mandolin case and the bowling ball bag that held his mandolin-in-progress on the concrete between his feet. The bowling ball bag still stank from holding Dangcat’s head while they traveled to New Orleans and until he chucked it from his hotel room balcony onto a float down below, but he had frantically stuffed a couple of T-shirts and a pair of jeans into both bags, along with the contents of the hotel room’s self-service snacks and drinks.
He was standing under the No Hitchhiking sign, so he didn’t dare walk any farther down the ramp, lest he draw the attention of the police and risk being picked up.
“Got to fly under the radar so that nosey cop doesn’t interfere with me and my career. Whooo, boy, he has no idea what happened to the last asshole who stood in my way. He lost his head over it! Hah! His body’s now a crispy critter, his head’s in a coroner’s refrigerator somewhere, and his teeth are jewels in my new mandolin. I’ll remember him every time I play it! Thank you, Dangcat! Much obliged!” Chad laughed, tossing his head backwards as if to tell the heavens of his witty joke. “That cop doesn’t need to mess with me, if he knows what’s good for him.” People entering the interstate, even truckers who would normally stop for a hitchhiker, could tell from a distance Chad was talking wildly to himself, and they wanted no part of it.
Chad continued to rail against the world, and Ketchum in particular, while he awaited his chariot to fame. “Damn pig doesn’t know me. He has no right to just decide I have to talk to him. It’s like a frigging police state anymore. No one can just do their own thing without somebody sticking their nose in it, bossing them around.” Chad steamed.
“Besides, that cop thinks he’s such hot shit. He ain’t got nothing on me. He’s got a damn head without any teeth. Thank you, Daddy, for the extraction experience. It finally paid off, just not like you planned it would. So no dental records. But he hasn’t got a body to go with the head!” Chad gave himself a congratulatory laugh at his own brilliance. “And”—he snickered—“the body is, or was, in Nashville, miles and miles away!” He cackled. “The good Lord said, ‘Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.’ And Chad said, ‘The hospital incinerator made you combust!’ ” Chad bent over in laughter, hands on his knees. “Whoo, boy! I crack myself up.”
In a flash, Chad’s maniacal laughter turned even darker as he remembered the reason he was on the run. Momentarily deflated, he sat down in the grass next to the on-ramp. Gathering his bags around him, he pulled the bowling ball bag behind him to use as a pillow and lay down like he was in a wildflower meadow, cloud watching. “Why am I always the scapegoat? Everyone else does all sorts of things, and they don’t end up in this bullshit. People just seem to single me out, to target me, for no reason. This is the same old crap. People make all kinds of promises and then, down the line, they end up screwing you over. I’d say we are just about even now, Dangcat. You cut me out, I cut you up. An eye for an eye, you know.” He wallowed in his self-pity and insane rationalization for a couple of minutes, gathered ego and adrenalin steam again, and resumed his braggadocio.
“Oh, they just think they’ve heard the last of me, but no, sir, I am not done with them,” he muttered. “And Mr. Dangit, Dangdog, Dangcat, you are just the first. I have to teach Cafton a lesson, too. He’s the one who put you up to it. He could have stepped in and made you act right, but he didn’t. So he has to be dealt with too. The sooner the better. Guess I’d better get on the road so I can pay you a visit, Mr. Know-it-all.” Chad stood up, brushed himself off, put on his best smile, and put his thumb out again.
“Now it’s just me, all on my own, answering to nobody.” Car after car passed, but no one stopped to pick up the highly animated stranger. “Hey, asshole! How about a lift?” he screamed, turning his thumb gesture into a middle-finger gesture and chasing the vehicle for a few feet as the driver gunned the car to get away from the menacing hitchhiker.
Chad had about $150 cash on him, part of the weekly advance from the label for miscellaneous expenses, but he didn’t want to use it for a bus ticket, thinking law enforcement might be on the lookout for him there. He was crazy, but he wasn’t stupid.
“Just go on. I don’t need you anyway. Just like I don’t need that friggin’ tour. Just like I don’t need that crappy record Dangcat played for me on that mix tape. What friggin’ good is it if I’m not in it? He should have done what I told him to do. He should never have mixed me out. If he had just been reasonable, he might be around to reap the rewards of my labor.” Chad was wagging his finger like he was scolding a child about stealing cookies between meals.
“I’m a one-man band, making a name for myself the old-fashioned way, one beer joint at a time. I don’t need any stinking band. I don’t need any big brothers keeping me under their thumb and reporting back to Ma and Pa. And I sure as hell don’t need any stinking record label keeping their boot on my neck, holding me back!” He snorted, again bloated with his self-aggrandized fantasies.
After standing on the ramp in the sun for half an hour with no results, he decided to walk down to the truck stop he could see in the distance. He would try to hitch a ride there. “Stupid people. They have no idea who they are passing by. They’ll be sorry when they have to pay seventy-five dollars for a ticket to see me.”
By the time Chad walked the half mile down to the truck stop, he had worn himself down enough to appear to be sane, at least for a while. He walked into the truck stop coffee shop, crammed his bags into one side of a booth, and slid into the other side. He had built up a fierce thirst and appetite. “Cold water with lots of ice, black coffee, and fifteen pieces of bacon,” he ordered when the waitress came up.
“Fifteen pieces of bacon?” she questioned, making sure she heard him correctly.
“Are you deef? Yes. Fifteen. Pieces. Of. Bacon,” he enunciated. “Want me to draw you a picture? Baaaaa-con. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” the waitress quietly said, embarrassed. “Five orders of bacon, water, and coffee. I’ll be right back.” She couldn’t get away from his booth quick
enough.
“No, Chad. Don’t eat so much bacon, Chad. No, Chad. Don’t ride a motorcycle without a helmet, Chad. No, Chad. Don’t hitchhike, Chad. Calm down, Chad. Shut up, Chad. I’m sick and tired of people telling me what to do. No more. It stops here.” Chad inaudibly muttered quietly to himself, drawing the apprehensive attention of other diners and the staff.
The waitress arrived in five minutes with a platter full of bacon, a large tumbler of ice water, and the coffeepot to fill his cup. “Thank you, darling. I appreciate it,” Chad cooed, smiling the picture-perfect smile that had temporarily won hearts over the years. He crammed piece after piece of bacon into his mouth like a feral animal, stopping only to gulp some water to keep him from choking. When he was done slamming down the bacon, he wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve and his hands on his jeans. He motioned to the waitress to get him more water. When it arrived, he gulped it down in one long swig, belching loudly to draw attention to his accomplishment. His coffee had cooled enough to drink, so he drank it down in one long swig, as well.
“’Scuse me, darling.” He motioned to a passing waitress. “Where’s the little boy’s room? I have to take a dump.”
By now, everyone in the restaurant was glowering at Chad. “I bet they recognize me!” he told himself. All the wait staff were also uncomfortably aware of his bizarre behavior. Bizarre behavior wasn’t particularly unusual for the truck stop. Truckers hyped on uppers were often loud, obnoxious, and demanding. Lot lizards, the hookers who trolled around the trucks soliciting business from the truckers, were less than delicate in their interactions. But Chad was the winner of the award for creepiest customer this week.
“It’s down the hall to the left,” the waitress answered Chad, pointing with her order pad toward the hallway.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Chad said demurely, donning his best artificial smile.
He got up to sneak out before the check was delivered, but as he gathered his bags, his waitress gently put the ticket on the table face down.
