by Emily Ford
***
The carnage in the hotel conference room goes unnoticed until the next morning, when a cleaning crew finds the bodies. The gunshots were presumed by the myriad of drunken hotel guests to be noises associated with the usual over the top parties that so frequently occur in the hotel. Detective Jenkins steps around the obstacle course of overturned chairs and bloody bodies, looking for clues.
“Seven bodies total, Detective,” Johnny reports to him. “There was plenty of shooting but none of these guys seem to have been shot. They all suffered from multiple lacerations.”
The Detective studies the scene and squats down by one of the bloody bodies. With a gloved hand he grabs the man’s jaw and pulls it down so that the mouth opens. He gazes inside the mouth and throat but sees only blood.
“No Tarot card. Any of the others have anything?”
“Nothing, Detective. No sign of a calling card on these guys,” answers an evidence technician.
“Different killers?” Johnny says.
“Hard to say,” the Detective answers. “They were basically massacred similar to the guys on the hotel roof. That means it’s likely to be the same individuals. But not leaving cards this time? It might mean they didn’t have time. We can’t be sure until evidence gets done sweeping the place.”
“Sir, we have a weapon,” the evidence technician announces. With gloved hands, he pulls a bloody throwing star from the throat of a dead mobster. He stands and shows it to the Detective.
“Holy shit,” the Detective says, squinting as he visually examines the exotic weapon. “Who uses a goddam throwing star these days?”
Apprehensively, Johnny steps closer to get a look at it. He looks from the bloody star to the Detective’s face. His pulse quickens. After a tedious moment of silence passes, he clears his throat. “It could belong to one of the dead. Guys like these can spend a lot of money on special collector items. Antiques. Weapons. Maybe the killer used it against them,” he suggests.
A police officer approaches the Detective along with a short mousy looking man with dark beady eyes wearing a red concierge uniform and a gold nametag on his lapel. “Sir, this gentleman is a manager here. He says someone tampered with the speaker system in this room. The maids that found the bodies said there was music playing over and over, like it was set to repeat.”
“All right, bag this,” he says to the evidence technician. He turns his attention to the officer. “What kind of music?”
“I heard it, Detective,” the hotel manager chimes in, visibly proud of himself for being a part of the excitement. “It’s Mozart. I would know. I listen to Classical music all the time.”
“Mozart?”
“And we found this,” the officer says handing him a cell phone inside a plastic police evidence bag. “This was inside the breaker panel, in the wall.” He points to the small grey panel in the far wall.
The Detective looks at the cell phone through the plastic bag. “Do we know who this belongs to yet?”
“Negative, sir. There aren’t any phone numbers in it, no text messages or pictures. The only thing we can see so far is that it has one song loaded onto it. Probably the song that’s been playing in the room.”
Johnny keenly observes the evidence and the conversation but remains silent.
The Detective looks up at the hotel manager. “How unusual is it that there’s music playing in here?”
“Well we do have clients from time to time request music. However it’s usually something my event staff will set up. We don’t use cell phones. We bring in other equipment.”
“What name was this conference room booked under?”
“It was the secretary of a private company that made the reservation. The only name she left was her first name, and the company name. Apex Associates.”
“Apex? Never heard of them. All right. Let’s hope someone left us some nice prints on this,” the Detective says, handing the bagged cell phone to the evidence technician.
“We’ll get it to the lab right away,” the technician replies.
“And find out who these guys are, and why they were here!” The Detective takes one last good look at the dead body next to him, then groans as he stands up. “Why the hell would someone play classical music while they’re murdering people,” he mutters. “What kind of man does this?”
“What kind of man, indeed,” Johnny says to himself quietly.
