by S. W. Lauden
Greg walked up the rickety stage steps, making a left to find the dressing room. He pushed through a heavy, velvet curtain and followed a hallway until it split. A white piece of paper was taped to the door in front of him, the letters “BCC” handwritten in black Sharpie. Junior was already sprawled out on the sofa when Greg walked in.
“If you’re looking for dead bodies, you’re out of luck.”
“Very funny. That’s the last thing I want to think about right now.”
He set his backpack down on the coffee table, eyes wandering around the dimly lit room. It smelled like the walls were recently painted, barely covering years of etched-in band graffiti. A cracked mirror was mounted on one wall between two framed posters from the night the club opened a decade before. He found it funny that this place didn’t even exist the last time Bad Citizen Corporation toured.
Junior stood up, walking over to stand beside him.
“Are you all right, Greg? You seem a little high strung.”
“Just need to get this first show over with. Everything will be fine if we can get through tonight. I should probably get out there for sound check.”
He followed the hallway back to the stage, finding himself face-to-face with Jerry. They hadn’t said a word to each other since the fight in the van.
“Has anybody seen the sound guy yet?”
Jerry strummed a loud power chord in response. The jagged tone reflected off the concrete floors, reverberating around the empty rafters before decaying into nothingness. A disembodied voice came from the wedge speakers at their feet.
“Sounds pretty good out here. If you bring the master volume down a little, I’ll turn you up in the mix.”
Jerry turned away from Greg to follow the sound guy’s instructions. Greg edged by him, fairly certain only one of them would survive this little tour. Chris stood in front of the drum riser, tuning his guitar. He shot Greg a glance while frantically fumbling with the pegs on the headstock.
“I can’t get this thing in tune!”
“You’re just nervous about the show, Chris. We’ll play a couple of songs once everything’s set up. That should help you calm down.”
Greg gave him a fatherly squeeze on the shoulder. He noticed Marco’s kit was already set up, but the cymbals were missing.
“I think you forgot something.”
“No shit. I’m kind of freaking out. Are you sure we loaded them?”
“They’re probably still out in the trailer. Go check.”
Marco jumped up, jogging out the back door. Greg watched him go before shifting his attention to JJ who ran scales on his bass. He couldn’t bring his bloodshot eyes to meet Greg’s stare.
“Is this how it’s going to be the entire tour?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re being a dick. Nobody even wants to be around you.”
“Tell you what. I’ll stop being a dick once you guys get your shit together.”
Marco raced back in with his cymbal case. He sat down on his stool and spun them into place one by one. The disembodied voice of the sound guy came back in the speakers when he finished.
“You guys ready to run a few songs?”
Greg stepped up to the microphone at center stage, taking his position. Chris turned to ask him which songs they should practice.
“All of them.”
Chapter 12
Junior swung the dressing room door open.
“Showtime, old man.”
Greg raced by her, hurrying down the backstage hallway. He could hear Marco banging on his snare drum and Chris nervously twiddling with his strings. The crowd stomped its feet, chanting the letter’s “B-C-C” again and again. A thick-necked bouncer with the words “Event Staff” stretched across his barrel chest was stationed at the edge of the stage. He waved a flashlight to escort the band on without tripping over the tangle of cables at their feet. Greg stopped to take a gulp of water, crushing the bottle in his fist as he bounded into the spotlight. The band kicked into the first song as he lunged for the mic.
The surging mass of bodies roared with approval as Greg unleashed a torrent of lyrics. Words followed words, utterly meaningless to him as they flowed freely from his memory, like a tired actor repeating his lines. He concentrated on the sea of faces in front of him, their lips silently echoing everything he screamed; faces contorted into a blurry, snarling mass of sweat and skin and brightly colored hair. Shoving matches broke out here and there, creating a vacuum in the center of the room that drew the most violent people among them.
Three songs down and Greg was already dripping with sweat. Marco showed no mercy, quickly clicking off song after song. The room got so hot and humid that Greg felt like he glided across the stage, swimming through a thick soup engulfing him in its sloppy embrace. It got so bad that the battalion of bouncers were dragging half-unconscious people from the crush down front. There were a few kids among them, but most of the casualties were men his own age; their shirtless, chubby torsos slick with radiant sweat that gave new life to old tattoos. He guessed they’d come there hoping to recapture a glimpse of their long-lost youth, ending up with a few new bruises and a massive hangover instead.
They were in the home stretch when a handful of young guys fought their way onto the stage. The overworked bouncers didn’t have the manpower to defend against the breach, being forced to chase them instead. Soon there were three times as many fans as band members on stage. One by one, the eager fans wound their way between Jerry, Chris, and JJ, kicking and flailing their way to Greg before leaping back into the crowd. Some stopped to pose for pictures with him, hamming it up for the appreciative audience. Others tried to share the mic with him, shouting out whatever lyrics they remembered. One of them leaned over and whispered, “I am Tim” in Greg’s ear.
It happened so fast—and Greg was so disoriented from adrenalin-overload—that he couldn’t say which one of them said it. He knew it was a guy, shirtless like all the rest, but it was all a blur beyond that. It could have been almost any one of the hundreds of people staring back at him. He scanned the room with paranoid eyes for the rest of the set, barely grunting a “thank you” and “goodbye” before slamming his mic to the floor when it ended. The rest of the band filed off behind him, stumbling like a line of soldiers marching home from war.
Greg reached the dressing room first, kicking the door open with the soul of his sneaker. He stuck his head inside to scan the space before entering all the way. Marco almost plowed into him in his haste to find a clean towel and a cold bottle of water.
“Shit or get off the pot, bro!”
Chris and Jerry followed Marco; each one of them sweatier than the last. Greg kept his eyes on the ceiling as they squeezed by him without saying a word. Any little movement in the room, every shifting shadow, made him think there was a lifeless body swaying gently overhead.
JJ came through the door last, shoving Greg into the room ahead of him.
“Great show! All that practice really paid off.”
The rest of them traded high fives, repeatedly congratulating each other. Greg stepped over to the sofa, slouching down against one of the arms and placing a towel over his head. He stayed there until all of his thoughts were quiet again.
h
The club was almost empty when Greg finally emerged from backstage. The rest of the band had broken down all of their gear and stacked it up in a pile on the dance floor. It shouldn’t take long to load the trailer between the five them, especially if Junior was willing to help. Once that was done, they could finally make it over to the motel to get some rest before the six-hour drive to San Francisco the next day.
Greg spotted Tina at the bar, settling up with the promoter. He hoped she got paid in cash so they had enough money to keep the band members afloat. Jerry sat on the stool beside her, sucking down free beer and glaring at his own
reflection in the mirror behind the cash register. Greg was heading that way when Junior took him by surprise. She sat up in a booth, grabbing the strap of his backpack to stop him in his tracks.
“Where they hell have you been?”
Greg knew instantly she’d had a few cocktails.
“Taking it easy backstage. Looks like you’re having fun.”
“I’m kind of on vacation. Where are you going?”
“To the bar. Need a drink for the road?”
“Better not, but thanks. I’ll see you out at the van.”
Greg went over to join Tina, who was packing her things up. Jerry was already gone when he arrived.
“Where’s your boyfriend?”
He tried to be friendly, but the comment fell flat. She slammed her bag down on the bar, looking up at him with an unreadable expression. He realized too late it was only the calm before a serious storm.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Excuse me?”
“I know this is your band and that, at least for now, we all work for you. But that doesn’t mean you get to be a bully.”
“Sorry. I was just messing around.”
“Well, it’s not funny. Jerry and I are friends, nothing more. Stop trying to make a big deal out of it.”
Greg threw his hands up.
“Okay, okay. I’ll back off. Can we talk about how much we got paid tonight?”
Tina reached for her purse, pulling out an envelope stuffed with bills of almost every denomination. Eyeballing it, he guessed they’d raked in close to two thousand dollars.
“Thirty-two hundred and change. Not counting whatever we made from T-shirt sales, which is where I’m headed next.”
“Amazing.”
“We’ll do even better tomorrow night. See you outside in a few minutes.”
Greg lingered at the bar alone. The room looked even bigger from this perspective, especially now that it was empty. Thinking back, he couldn’t remember ever playing to so many people in Santa Barbara—not even when the band was in its prime. I guess it helps to have older fans with money in the bank.
He walked the length of the club, emerging into the brisk night air. A southbound train rumbled by as he took the steps down to the sidewalk. He looked up, seeing the marquee had already been changed to advertise the next night’s show. Greg didn’t recognize a single band on the bill. He rounded the corner of the building expecting to find Marco and JJ, but the van was locked up tight.
He dropped his backpack to the ground near the front bumper and pulled out his phone. There was a missed call from Kristen. He hit redial, waiting for her to answer.
“Hi, sweetheart. How was the show?”
“Really good. You guys doing okay?”
“Timmy’s asleep and I’m sitting here trying to find something to watch. Before I forget, did Tommy get hold of you?”
Greg hesitated for split second, but hoped she didn’t catch it.
“No. I don’t see a missed call from him.”
“It’s nothing urgent. He called to say hi and check in on me.”
“Why would he be checking on you?”
“He’s my friend, too, in case you forgot. Give him a call. He’s worried about you.”
“Maybe I will. Call you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, Greg. I love you.”
“Goodnight.”
He ended the call, his thumb still hovering over the keypad. Tommy should be man enough to call me directly, rather than going through my wife.
Greg was still trying to decide what to do when the rest of the band walked up. Chris led the pack, his Marshall half stack bumping and skidding across the rocky parking lot. He still glowed from the show.
“Where the hell were you? We’ve been waiting inside.”
“I thought you guys were out here already.”
Marco walked by, carrying a kick drum on top of his head. Junior straggled behind him with his cymbal case. Jerry had a guitar in each hand and a cigarette dangling from between his lips. JJ cradled a cardboard box full of “BCC” T-shirts.
Greg grabbed the cymbal case from Junior, going around to join Marco near the trailer.
“How many trips do you think this will take?”
“At least three. Maybe four. Whistle while you work, bro.”
JJ set the box down, reaching into his pocket for the keys. Greg reached out to hold the lock for him, but it came free in his hand. It looked like the shackle had been clipped with bolt cutters.
“Crap! Stand back. Somebody broke into the trailer.”
Greg slid the latch aside, pulling the door open. The interior was pitch black and almost completely empty since they’d pretty much taken everything into the club.
“We’ll have to buy a new lock tomorrow, but I don’t think they managed to steal anything from us. Let’s load up and get out of here.”
He reached for Marco’s kick drum. The shocks squeaked and bounced when he stepped onto the bumper. Tina gasped.
“Something’s moving in there!”
Greg brought his phone up at the same time as JJ and Junior. One by one they flipped on their flashlight apps, filling the trailer with enough light to reveal the body dangling inside. The noose was tied to an eyebolt mounted high up near the ceiling so his feet cleared the floor. A familiar sign hung around his broken neck.
h
The Santa Barbara PD kept them at the club until almost one in the morning. They’d taken each of them back inside one at a time to ask the usual battery of questions. Greg knew it was a wasted effort since none of them was the killer, but that was a conclusion the investigators needed to reach on their own.
One officer in particular seemed very interested in Greg. His name was Alex Romero, and he looked to be in his early thirties with thick black hair parted neatly on the right. His friendly round face clashed with his muscular frame. Greg saw the fading remnants of several earring holes in both lobes.
“Tell me again why none of you saw the body right away.”
“It was dark. We were tired. What’s it matter?”
Officer Romero jotted down some notes in his flip pad.
“Might not. Trying to get a complete understanding of the crime scene.”
“Has your ME taken the body out of the trailer yet?”
“Should be all clear.”
Greg stood and headed for the door. Officer Romero was right behind him.
“You’re playing tomorrow night in San Francisco, right?”
“Yep. You a closeted punk fan or something?”
“No doubt. I used to listen to you guys in junior high. Do you mind signing something for me? I’ve got it out in the cruiser.”
“Sure…as long as it isn’t a book.”
Officer Romero froze. Greg held his ground for a second, before giving the guy a break.
“I’m kidding. Meet me over at the van and I’ll sign it for you.”
Marco closed the trailer door as Greg walked up. The band must have loaded the gear as soon as the cops got it on a gurney and dusted for prints. Who can blame them for wanting to get the hell out of here?
“Go wait in the van with everybody else. I’ll be there in a second.”
Marco shuffled off around the back of the trailer as the officer approached from the other side. He held his copy of Among the Grizzlies out along with a ballpoint pen. Greg flipped to the title page, scribbling a quick inscription along with his initials, then his phone number.
“You ever seen anything like this around here before?”
“This is definitely our first trailer suicide.”
There was that word again. Greg slapped the book shut before handing it back.
“What makes you think it’s a suicide and not a murder?”
“Good question. I al
most forgot you were a cop. I guess it’s hard to imagine a motive for something like this.”
“Even with a similar death at one of our shows down south?”
Officer Romero tapped the cover of the book with his pen.
“They’re calling that a copycat suicide. Besides, I doubt there’s a serial killer following your band around on tour. That sounds crazy.”
Greg wasn’t sure what to say in response. It did seem strange once he heard the officer say it out loud. Somebody would have to harbor a pretty serious grudge to follow BCC around killing their fans. But the only person I know who hates me that much is supposedly dead.
“Out of curiosity. If you were going to investigate this as a murder, where would you start?”
“With the band members, of course. You guys are the common denominator. If it’s murder, it’s either somebody in that van right now or one of them knows who it is.”
“Right. Well, enjoy the book.”
“Thanks! I’ve already read it, twice.”
Greg went around, climbing in behind the wheel. He shifted the rearview mirror, studying the slumped silhouettes and exhausted faces in the rows behind him. If one of them was the killer, this tour would be really short.
Chapter 13
Greg woke up the next morning in the driver’s seat of the van. An empty bottle of vodka was wedged between his legs as the sun poked up over the top of the hotel. He reached up to pull the visor down, spewing yellow bile into his lap instead. The clock on the dashboard read 7:00 a.m.
Greg picked up his phone to dial the Police Chief in Virgil Heights. He answered on the third ring.
“It’s a little early.”
“Is it true about Manny? Is he dead?”
“Christ, Greg. You sound like shit. Please tell me you aren’t hungover.”
“Still drunk. Answer the question.”
He heard a disappointed sigh on the other end of the line.
“I knew this tour was a bad idea.”
“Is he dead?!”
