by Jason Deas
Miles lived in Tilley for nearly eight years before R.C. rolled into town. He was an insider. Miles knew the ebb and flow of the town. When the tide pulled R.C. onto its shores, he knew. The problem was, it also pulled in a kid named Red. Red was the monkey wrench in his thirty year plan. The kid, Miles thought, was such an enigma of seeming retardation, he would surely slant suspicions in his direction.
Miles made his first kill during each of their first days in town. The plans were already in the works and Miles resisted hitting the panic button and canceling the operation. One of Mile’s personalities seduced Ryan Mableton. He was easy – such a horny little bugger. With a search engine and knowledge of a few sites that males on the prowl frequented, he digitally baited the field and waited. Miles used the screen name Little Red Hen to add yet another feather to the pile he hoped would eventually break the camel’s back. Taking the bait, sinker and all, Ryan frothed at the mouth, and elsewhere.
Luckily, Ryan was an incredibly trusting soul; wayward penises will do that to a man. Miles arrived at the house on Little Pond Road first. He parked his car out front where it would not be missed. He rolled the windows down and intentionally left the interior lights on so Ryan could view the contents of the car. Miles sprayed 12 shots of perfume through the opened windows, praying the smell would linger long enough to further entice Ryan. He put a purse on the front seat with lipstick, mascara, and packs of breath freshening gum encircled the still life. On the front door he left a note written in a well-practiced girly cursive, the lower case i’s were dotted with hearts.
Following the written instructions, Ryan entered the house, disrobed, and lay down, eyes covered on the mattress surrounded by blue candles. Miles pushed play on his boom box and sounds of the 70’s filled the air. Taken slightly aback by the musical selection, Ryan soon forgot his concerns as blood rushed away from his brain to other areas of his body. Miles used a piece of wire to conduct an invisible orchestra of sounds before wrapping it around Ryan’s neck. Ryan flopped like a fish out of water. Miles pranced with the music as he tied Ryan’s lifeless body to a pre-constructed cross. He didn’t have the stomach at this point of the game for nails. From his bag of tricks, Miles retrieved and added a half-crown of thorns. He felt Ryan’s blood that was still warm as it trickled down Ryan’s forehead and dripped onto his own forehead. With the music narrating Mile’s actions in seemingly perfect synchronization, Miles wound odd morsels of differing materials around Ryan’s right arm. He carefully placed rings on his four fingers and thumb. Miles viewed his art, pondering its last piece.
From his bag, he produced a dead bird. Miles smiled as he cupped the limp creature. Miles continued smiling as he sat the lifeless bird under Ryan’s right foot. The bird’s head fell to one side and Miles straightened it, pushing it down into the bird’s torso; the bird’s neck snapped and stood still in a way that pleased Miles.
Chapter 62
Benny received the letter from Bobby Baker’s office claiming the paternity test results proved negative. He expected the opposite. Benny’s gut beaconed with a message that something was amiss. Red came in the back door and Benny stuck the letter in his pocket. He set a folder of crime scene photos on the coffee table.
“Hey, Bendy.”
“What’s going on Red?”
“Red helping plants and listen tapes.”
“What are you helping them do?”
“Grow,” Red said, incredulously.
“Oh,” Benny laughed. “Can I see them?”
“Oh sure. Pleasure Red.”
They looked at the plants and Red waxed poetic about the greenery. He told Benny things that were obvious to everyone, he told him some things he did not know, and he talked about many things that did not translate with his odd verbiage. Red handled and stroked the plants with a genuine care and love that touched Benny.
He admired Red’s simplicity and his happiness with such a state of existence. Red’s eyes glimmered with each piece of information he doled out to Benny. Red smiled like a child and Benny did the same, in the fashion of an amused parent.
Strolling about the yard, Red told Benny about the vacuum cleaner salesman. He called him the dirt eater machine showing man. Benny understood what he meant and the beacon that began as a glow radiated further. When Red completed his lumbering description of how the man took his picture, Benny’s gut roared.
“He did what?” Benny protested.
“Yeah. Little picture maker machine. Snap, snap, snap.” Red acted as if he was taking a photo.
Benny was furious and Red was confused.
“I’m not mad at you, Red. Keep up the good work with the plants. I have to have a talk with that man.”
Leaving in a rush to find answers, Benny left the folder with the crime scene photos on the coffee table.
Chapter 63
It took Benny an hour to realize he left the crime scene photos on the coffee table. It only took Red a dozen seconds to find them. They were a nasty lot. Benny had additional prints of other angles and items back on the houseboat. The forgotten folder contained about ten shots of each victim. Benny felt they were images of particular importance. Upon remembering the glossy depictions, Benny almost flipped his Jeep reversing directions and heading back to the house.
When he burst through the door, Red was still visually buried in the photographs. Benny stood still, knowing that it didn’t matter now—it was too late. Red looked up and said, “birds.”
“Yeah Red, I saw the birds.”
“No. Birdsongs.”
“What?” Benny asked confused.
Red ran to his room, grabbed his gunnysack full of tapes and dumped them once again at Benny’s feet. Quickly finding what he was looking for, Red held up four cassettes that were held together with rubber bands.
“Byrds,” Red said again holding the tapes in front of Benny’s face. Benny read the tape jacket, which read, “The Byrds 20 Essential Tracks.”
“The Byrds!” Benny said, clueing in as a warm wave of revelation sloshed against the piers of his brain.
“Yes!” Red replied, relieved as he held a picture of victim number two in Benny’s scope. “Tambourine Man.”
“That’s a Bob Dylan song. I bought the record two days ago!” Red removed the rubber bands and handed the tapes to Benny. The second tape Benny looked at had it—Tambourine Man—a Bob Dylan cover. “What else you got Red?” Benny said in the same tone and manner he would to any partner.
Red held out his right arm to Benny and asked, “This Red right arm?”
“Yes.”
Red handed Benny a photo of victim number one and said, “Jesus all right.”
Not being exceedingly familiar with the Byrds’s library of songs, Benny scanned the tapes. He found it. There was a song titled Jesus Is Just All right. “Jesus Is Just All right,” Benny said out loud as he read it for the fourth time. He did not say it as a question and it wasn’t a statement. Benny continued to look at song titles and found Turn, Turn, Turn. Looking up at Red and holding up three fingers he said, “Turn, turn, turn.”
Red said, “Yep. Dead person three is Turn, Turn, Turn.”
“Holy shit—what the hell?” Benny said exasperated.
“What is holy shit—what the hell?” Red questioned.
“Umm… It means I don’t know what to do Red,” Benny confessed.
“You need find next song bad man kill to.”
“Red, you’re a genius.”
“What is genius?”
Chapter 64
Miles thought it was easier to pull Danny Hill into his web than it was to snare Ryan Mableton. Danny was aching to make it big. He wanted so much to believe he was on the threshold of stardom—he had MTV dreams. He easily fell into the trap Miles set.
Miles, being on the verge of what was considered a Tilley native, had witnessed Danny pouring his heart out with other musicians after hours at Hanks Bar and Grill. Finding his address was easy, so was writing him a letter as a phony record labe
l executive. As expressed—it was all too simple.
Danny was willing to do anything. He was even willing to meet someone at midnight claiming to have the ability to sign him to a record contract. These beliefs led him to his death.
When Danny arrived at Hanks Bar and Grill a few minutes before midnight the front door was wide open. He walked in and saw the spotlight, the only light lit in the room. It was beaming over the grand piano. He did not see or hear anything or anyone else and decided this was his cue to have a seat. He sat on the piano’s bench and stared into the ivory keys.
As soon as he sat down, the bright white spotlight turned to red and the Byrd’s cover song of Bob Dylan’s Tambourine Man played over the sound system. Before Danny had a chance to ponder the meaning of the light change and the music coming from the ceiling, Miles was upon him. Miles rammed his knee into Danny’s back and wrapped a wire around his neck. The shooting pain in his back accompanied by the wire taking his breath and tearing into his flesh caused his entire body to convulse and slide beneath the piano’s bench.
Miles held on until his giddy was gone. He dropped him and watched his head bounce on the floor. Miles chuckled. Sucker.
Miles headed to the car—the trunk was full of dead birds.
Chapter 65
Benny listened to Bob Dylan’s version of Tambourine Man as he drove toward Larry’s hole-in-the-wall record store.
Larry actually noticed Benny come in the door and greeted him with bleary eye contact and a salutation. “Hey Larry, I mean hey Benny, how do you do, bro?” He said the words as if he were hearing himself speak for the first time. Larry laughed with his eyes and they brightened.
Benny winced. “Give me all your Byrds.” Larry laughed. “What’s funny about that?” Benny asked.
“Is that some new robber term that means give me all your money?”
“Not one that I’ve heard, Larry. I’m talking about the music group the Byrds.”
“Oh—there’s a guy in the Super Savior comic book series that I could totally, majorly hear say that.”
Benny’s suspicions were no longer suspicious. Larry did like comic books. Benny decided nobody had used totally and majorly in the same sentence since the late 80’s. He waited for Larry to continue but Larry was busy staring at something on his forehead. Benny cryptically wiped his brow and Larry returned to the third dimension.
“No. Not here,” Larry answered. “I do at my house—we can go get them if you want and you can borrow them.”
“Right now?” Benny questioned.
“Yeah man, you drive,” Larry said, walking past Benny and out the door.
Benny quickly followed saying in a loud voice to catch Larry’s attention, “Hey Larry—don’t you want to lock the door?”
“Oh, right man. My keys are on my desk. I’ll be right back.”
It took Larry five minutes to return. When he entered the car Benny sensed a sweet smoky aroma. Benny had pulled the Jeep up to the curb in front of the record store door and the windows were down. As Larry neared the car with his hand reaching to open the door Benny said, “Lock the door.” Larry turned with a snap and locked the door like a robot completing a command. When Larry plopped into the seat, the Jeep bounced and Benny’s head bobbed.
They rode in silence as Benny knew where Larry lived. Benny figured Larry was unable to participate in a lucid conversation. Not a word was said during the seven-minute drive. As they came to a stop in Larry’s driveway, Larry exited the car without his keys.
“Don’t you need your keys?” Benny asked, in a fatherly manner.
“Not locked,” Larry wrestled the words out of his throat.
The inside of Larry’s house had pathways leading to the various rooms and areas of the home. Boxes of records and comic books created the pathways. The boxes were numbered, lettered, and otherwise coded in an undecipherable manner. Larry walked directly to a stack of boxes adjacent to a monstrous box filled neatly with comic books. Solid proof Benny thought. Larry moved and shuffled a few boxes and grabbed two full handfuls of records.
“Do you have a record player?” Larry asked.
“No.”
“You wanna listen to some of them now? If you like them I can order you the CD’s.”
“You don’t mind? Don’t you have to get back to the store?”
“Nah. It’s Tuesday. Nobody seems to buy records on Mondays and Tuesdays.”
“OK. Please play Jesus is Just All right.”
Larry never asked Benny about his sudden interest in the Byrds. Benny did not think he would. He did though have a prepared statement to hide the truth in case he did.
Larry played deejay for a shade past an hour. Needing to get going, Benny asked, “Can I borrow these?”
“I thought you didn’t have a record player?”
“I don’t—I just want to read the titles.”
Once again Larry did not ask any further questions.
Chapter 66
Benny scanned the records quickly before starting the car. A couple of titles caught his eye and his curious ears led him to Ned’s. Benny was certain Ned would own a record player—he thought he might even have an antique phonograph in his Ripley’s Believe it or Not collection. Benny had some computer business for Ned as well. Being on the state payroll, Benny was granted unrestricted access to the state and national search engines and databases the department utilized. Through Benny’s private practice and the discovery of Ned, he believed Ned could find more than both combined.
Benny dialed his number. When Ned answered, he said, “Hey Ned, it’s Benny. Do you have time to do some computer work for me? I’m sorry this is short notice.”
“Sure—and you don’t have to pay me this time, Benny. You overpaid me last time.”
“We’ll see about that,” Benny stated. “Is it ok if I come now? I just left Larry’s.”
“Sure, come on over.”
“Do you have a record player by chance?”
“I have a couple of them.”
“Thought so—see you in a jiff.” Benny hung up and dialed Rachael’s number. “Hi babe,” Benny said, as she answered, excitement in her voice. He tingled.
“Hey lover boy,” she teased. “What’s up?”
“Do you have somebody that helps you with research?”
“The network has an entire research department.”
“Wonderful. Could you get them to dig around on a couple of guys if I give you their names? This has to do with Red. My research department is having trouble digging up anything.”
“My pleasure.”
“The first is Peter Banks. The second is Robert Baker.”
“Well, I know one of them already.”
“I just pulled into Ned’s—my research team,” Benny said, making Rachael laugh. “I am planning to be back on the boat around six-thirty. Vernon is going to meet me there so we can discuss what each of us found. Do you want to come by?”
“Sounds great—good luck at Ned’s.”
“Thanks babe, have a great day and I can’t wait to see you tonight.”
Ned always had a sign on the door accompanied with instructions. Never had he answered the door on any of Benny’s previous visits. He was either in the yard, the sunroom, or the kitchen. This time he taped a piece of cardboard torn from a diet coke box that read, “C’mon.”
Benny knew he would find him in the sunroom. Ned’s solarium was part techno-genius land, mixed with a slice of Ripley’s Believe it or Not, with an outdoor aviary hovering above it all. With each subsequent visit, Benny was surprised that with the number of birds flittering about there were never any bird droppings on the massive glass formation. In Ned’s Ripley’s Believe it or Not collection there was a gun on display he claimed was the gun used to shoot Ronald Regan. Benny didn’t believe him, but he pretended he did. Ned believed it.
“Did you take a look at those birds that were in the baby grand?” Benny asked, as he entered the room, startling Ned. “I left the photos in y
our mailbox yesterday. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to come inside. The spook those birds gave me, along with the stench, sent me running without getting a good look at them. Hell, I probably could have stared at them all day and I still wouldn’t have been able to tell you what they were.”
“They were crows. Dime a dozen around here. That’s why it was easy for him to get so many of them. The big one was a buzzard. Your killer could have waited in the bushes by some road kill and picked one of those off pretty quick.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“They really aren’t disgusting right after they’re dead, to use your term. They’re still warm. A little twitchy though, with nerves firing their last shots. The way you saw them though—that’s revolting. What do you have for me today?”
Sitting down, Benny said, “I met this gal. All I know as far as her name is concerned is her first—Lola. She told me she writes a blog about me and she is in the process of writing a book about me.”
“Wow! I’m in the presence of a famous man,” Ned grinned.
“Get to work, boy,” Benny countered. “Where’s that record player?”
“It’s in the cabinet under the gun that shot Ronald Regan.”
Benny thought about saying something about the gun, but he didn’t. “Do you have any headphones?” Benny asked, before he opened the cabinet door.
“They’re in there.”
Benny didn’t feel like letting him in on the secret just yet. He didn’t want to overload Ned. Ned was one of those people who operated poorly with too much on his mind. Benny knew the Byrd’s records would skew his focus. Benny loaded the first record onto the deck and lowered the needle. The needle crackled and the music began with the melodic skip of the record, so subtle and sweet. Benny placed the records next to the player and eased the door closed so the album covers were out of view.
Ned’s eyes bugged toward his computer screen as he sent documents to his printer that whirled and spit pages from Lola’s blog. This one was easy. Ned walked the still warm papers to Benny and returned to his desk to begin a new search, as Benny listened to the records and read:
