“But maybe he won’t,” contradicted Rocky. “I’m more inclined to think there’s something strange going on.”
“So, Mom,” said Angela, “you’re the detective, what should we do?”
“We follow him and see where he goes.”
“No,” said Rocky, “that might prove to be dangerous. We’re not the police. I say we contact the police and explain this to them and let them deal with it.”
“Rocky,” argued Pamela, “Just what in the world would we say to the New Orleans’ police about this? We saw a guy in a bar who looks a lot like a guy who was murdered a few hundred miles away from here. We want you to come to this bar and question him?”
“I don’t know,” said Rocky, looking skeptical. The two couples sat quietly for a while looking around the table at each other, attempting to decide what to do about their dilemma. From the corner of his eye, Kent noticed the man at the bar, stand, throw a few dollars on the counter and head for the front exit.
“Oh, my god,” said Kent, “he’s leaving.”
“Let’s go,” said Pamela, standing and starting out. Kent and Angela followed her immediately. Rocky, sighing, placed two twenty dollar bills on the table and followed the three of them towards the doorway.
Chapter 28
Previous week--December 16, early Sunday morning
Daniel’s Acura was certainly a better car than David was used to driving. He was heading south, away from the center of what he knew would soon become a major crime scene. With luck, they wouldn’t discover the body until the morning when the next disc jockey was scheduled to arrive. If he was unlucky and anyone was actually listening to his show, they might report the gun shot and the resultant end of the program to the police. That might cause things to move faster. If it did, the sooner he got out of Reardon, the better. Immediately after he left KRDN, he drove over to the motel where he knew Daniel was registered, went to his room which he figured out from the hotel key in his wallet. In the hotel room, he cleared out any evidence of Daniel’s stay and carefully wiped away any finger prints that he (David) might have left. Luckily, Daniel had several hundred dollars in his wallet as well as two or three credit cards. He checked out of the hotel, signing the register in Daniel’s name.
As soon as he was outside of Reardon and on the road, he drove for several hours until, exhausted he stopped for the night at a small out of the way hotel off the Interstate. He slept for a few hours and left around 8 a.m., after a quick breakfast, paying with cash. On the road again, he used Daniel’s iPhone to make a few important calls. He started with the most innocuous. He called the Bridgewater Carpet company switchboard and listened to the answering machine just to get a feel for the old place. Then, after practicing Daniel’s voice out loud—he felt he’d heard him speak enough during their few hours together—he called Harold Vickers, the family lawyer. Daniel had made it clear to him that Harold was aware of his trip and Daniel appeared to update Harold regularly with reports on his progress in bringing David home. He also called Harold to get reports on his father’s condition. David knew that he would have to maintain this behavior in order to convince Vickers that he was Daniel.
He pressed the number on the iPhone listed for Vickers. The man came on the line.
“Daniel,” said the older man, “how’s it going? Did you convince him to return yet?”
“Harold,” greeted David in his new voice, “I’m working on it. Unfortunately, David seems to be embroiled in the middle of some problems of his own that are taking up quite a bit of his time.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” explained David, “I don’t know what it is exactly, but he’s all involved with some weird characters—tattoos, rock bands, drugs, that stuff. I’m afraid maybe he’s in over his head. Like, maybe he owes money or something. I couldn’t get a lot out of him.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” said Vickers, concerned. “Should I come over there? Maybe I can help. If it’s money….”
“No, no!” said David, quickly. “Um, don’t do that. I’m not even sure that’s the problem. It may be something else—like a woman—or drugs. He’s not terribly talkative. You know, very reserved.”
“Okay,” agreed Vickers, “if you think that’s best, but I can be there. I can wire as much as you need.”
“It’s fine, Harold,” said David, “but, let’s take this one step at a time. I don’t want to scare him off. I’ve got at least a dialogue going with him. How’s--father?”
“Same,” said Harold. “No change. Which, I guess, you can look at as good.”
“Yeah,” replied David, hiding his disappointment, “Well, I’m going to keep working on him. I’ll be checking with you. Just let me handle things here my own way, okay?”
“Sure,” agreed Vickers, “and I’ll give your best to your father.”
“Uh, yes,” said David, “please give Father my best wishes.” He grimaced, trying to keep the disgust he was feeling out of his voice.
David clicked off the line and continued driving. That was close. All he needed was that supercilious, over-attentive attorney mucking things up. Even so, the call had gone relatively well. He’d planted the seed he needed. When the murder hit the news—and it would probably hit the news sooner than later, he’d be ready for it.
The mileage sign on his right announced, “New Orleans 230 miles.” He knew this road well as he’d spent much time in the Big Easy. He even knew the perfect little out of the way bed and breakfast in the Quarter where he could stay—no questions asked. He knew the owner—a well-endowed middle aged woman with red hair—not just auburn, but red—like a fire truck. Just thinking about Melba and her attributes made him anticipate what he figured would be his last trip to New Orleans in a long, long time. However long it would be before he returned to his favorite town in the world would be too long. He would have to make this trip, worth the effort, even though it would, of necessity, be low-key.
He had a lot to accomplish. He didn’t know how much time he had; it all depended on his father. This was the one feature of his plan on which he had no control. With luck, the old man would kick the bucket sooner rather than later. But, Daniel had assured him that their father was dying and it was just a matter of waiting. Staying out of sight, until the old man was dead. He could do that. He could do that quite well in NOLA, where he knew the people and the locale. And while he was waiting, he had things to prepare—many things to prepare.
Not long now. The mileage sign said “New Orleans 180 miles.”
He didn’t call anyone else on Daniel’s iPhone—even though there were dozens of names listed—including #4 for an “Amy.” He figured she was probably one of Danny Boy’s main squeezes as were some of the other names listed by first name only. Around 9 a.m., when David heard Daniel’s iPhone ring, he picked it up and looked at the caller ID which indicated “Amy” was calling.
“No way, Danny Boy,” he said to the iPhone, “I’m not going to be chatting with your girl friends. They’ll just have to find another easy touch.” He slipped the iPhone back in his pocket and continued driving.
After receiving no response to several calls to Dan’s iPhone, Amy was getting terribly worried and decided to call Harold Vickers. After all, Dan had told her he’d told Vickers about their relationship and if she had any problems, she should call him. She still had that bug and she was sitting on the floor of her bathroom, her head over the toilet. Between rounds of vomiting, she called Vickers on her cell phone. When he answered, she cautiously told him who she was and informed Vickers that Daniel wasn’t answering his phone and she was worried.
“Amy,” said the kind sounding man, “I wouldn’t worry. Daniel just called me a while ago. He’s still working on David, although there are some problems—on David’s end—some problems David’s having that are keeping him busy and that Daniel believes are interfering with his ability to get David to return home. I figure he’s just embroiled in this personal mess of David’s. That’s probably why h
e’s not returning your call. He’s probably right in the middle of things over there.”
“You’re probably right,” agreed Amy, “It’s so like Dan to try to help his brother out of a jam. Does David need money, is that it?
“I asked him that and he said no,” replied Vickers. “Let’s just let him work on David in his own way for a while. I’m sure we’ll hear from him when he has something to report.”
“Okay,” said Amy, not as assured as she would like to be. “It’s a relief to know that you spoke with him.”
“Yes, I did,” said Vickers, “and he sounded fine. But, he told me about you…so, I understand why you’re concerned.”
“Thanks,” she said, “But if I don’t hear from him pretty soon, you’ll be hearing from me again.”
“And I want to hear from you. Take care, Amy. I’m on your side. Yours and Daniel’s.” Then he clicked off.
Amy tried to feel reassured by the fact that Vickers had just spoken to Dan, but she couldn’t help but wonder why Dan would call his lawyer and not his wife.
Chapter 29
Present time--December 22, Saturday
Pamela, Rocky, Angela, and Kent had arrived back in Reardon late the previous night—frustrated. They had tried to follow the person they thought was Ted Ballard—or who looked a lot like Ted Ballard. They had chased him around the streets of the French Quarter as he visited several bars involved in the vampire underground ball—each one more flamboyant than the next. The Ballard clone walked around each location, sometimes greeting people, sometimes ordering and consuming a drink. This went on until about 2:00 in the morning when the four detectives followed him to an Acura parked on a side street. The man got into the car, started driving quickly through the winding side streets of the Quarter and then, almost as if in a magician’s act—disappeared.
Rocky drove around several blocks again and again while the four of them looked for the man, but it was to no avail. He had disappeared and they had to admit defeat, give up and return home. They eventually returned to Reardon around 4:00 a.m. on Saturday morning. Kent had parked his car at the Barnes’ house and he left with a quick farewell to Angela and her parents. Then the Barnes’ family entered their home, discouraged and demoralized because they had failed in their efforts.
They all three—Pamela, Rocky, and Angela—slept late. Even Candide seemed to realize that his family had been through the ringer and allowed them all to stay in bed without his usual 6 a.m. wake-up call. It was after noon when Pamela finally opened one lid a mite and saw sunlight streaming in from her bedroom window. She rolled her head around to focus in on her digital clock which gleamed back “12:43 p.m.” in seeming accusation.
She took a deep breath and dragged her feet over the edge of the bed and into her awaiting slippers. Grabbing her teri-cloth robe from the chair by the dresser she wrapped herself in its warmth and headed out to the kitchen. Candide greeted her from his bed in the kitchen and nipped at her legs demanding his breakfast. A dog’s breakfast, thought Pamela, now there’s a meal I’m qualified to make, as she scooped some of her poodle’s favorite kibble into his bowl and replaced his water. Her pet was satisfied but she was anything but. All that work last night trying to find that man that Kent and her husband were certain was a perfect match for the dead disc jockey. They had driven all over the French Quarter with no luck. He could be anywhere, she realized. And what if they’d found him? What would they do? Ask him why he looked like the dead Ted Ballard? None of what happened last night made any sense to Pamela.
She thought back to her sound analysis. She was certain that the killer’s acoustic profile indicated that the killer was an educated, Southern male. She was certain that there was something strange about the actual gun shot. According to Mitchell, the initial explosion was too loud and there was no apparent impact sound—certainly, there was no sound from Ballard when he was hit by the bullet. Then, just a few seconds and the microphone was turned off—apparently. If the killer walked over to the mic and turned it off, there was no sound of his footsteps. She realized that the murder scene that she was envisioning in her head—the scene that was established in the dj’s monologue—was not actually supported by the sounds on the recording. Hmm. She was making assumptions, she thought to herself. They were all making assumptions--all based on what the disc jockey said on air.
She opened her bag of select espresso blend that she liked to drink on Sunday mornings when she had more time to savor it. She filled the filter to the brim, knowing that Rocky would want coffee too when he woke up. Heavens, even Angela might want coffee after the night they all had. She placed the filter in the pot, filled the upper container with water, and hit brew. Realizing that she was the only one in the family awake, she decided to attempt making breakfast. How hard could it be? Reaching above the stove where Rocky stored his cookbooks, she grabbed a particularly used-looking one and used the tabs to find the section on “Breakfasts.” Opening the book and placing it on the kitchen counter, she located a recipe that looked relatively easy and started gathering the necessary ingredients.
As she worked, she thought again about the assumptions she was making about the disc jockey’s murder. She had assumed—they all had assumed-- that the killer entered the studio door, remained at the door, shot the dj who was seated at the desk, walked to the desk, turned off the microphone, and then exited. Maybe that was not what actually happened. She poured flour into her large bowl. It did not flow out smoothly from the sack and a puff of flour exploded into her face. She wiped the white powder from her eyes and mouth and barreled ahead. If the gun shot was loud for the initial explosion but softer for impact, maybe the killer and victim had somehow exchanged positions. But how? And why? She wondered. Why would the killer sit at the microphone and the victim walk to the door? That scenario didn’t make sense. Well, at least it didn’t make sense according to what they knew was happening from what the disc jockey said.
She cracked an egg into the flour, added a cup of milk, and started stirring the thin liquid. Unfortunately, her mixing bowl wasn’t large enough for all the ingredients she was using, and large amounts of the mixture poured over the top of the bowl onto the counter and eventually onto the floor. Hmm, she thought. Cooking is such a messy activity. Maybe the problem was that they were all assuming that what they were hearing on the recording—that is, what Ted Ballard was saying--was an accurate representation of what actually happened. She added a spoonful of vanilla which dribbled onto her fingers, causing her to lick the tips. Not bad. She turned to the stove and extracted the large flat griddle from beneath the oven. She placed it on the largest burner, turned on the gas, and plopped a glob of butter on the surface. The butter sizzled and she grabbed a plastic cup and dipped it into the pancake mixture. As she brought it up to pour on the griddle, droplets of mixture trailed all the way from the counter to the stove and onto her slippers. Ick! How does Rocky do this and stay so neat? she wondered. Lucky for Ballard’s killer that he used a handgun because it wasn’t very messy. The bullet remained lodged in his brain, according to the autopsy. There was very little blood. But that still doesn’t account for the discrepancies in the sound. The only thing that would account for the sound being loud at the mic and soft at the door would be, she realized, if the killer was seated at the desk and the victim was standing at the door. In fact, she realized immediately, that such a repositioning would also account for the strange angle of entry of the bullet—the bullet coming from below rather than straight or from above. Let me think this through, she said to herself, as she flung another cup-full of pancake batter on the stove. She took a spatula and peeked under her first cake. Ooops! A little too done, she realized as she attempted to flip it. Too bad! It ripped in half, leaving one part stuck to the griddle and the other half now resting on top. A lost cause, she realized as scraped her first attempt off the griddle and dumped it in the waste basket. She resolved to keep a better eye on the second pancake.
Watching a second pancake—and a
third and a fourth—with an eagle eye, she hovered over the stove. If, she thought, the killer was seated at the desk in front of the mic and the victim were standing by the door—all of the clues fit. The gun blast would be loud because it occurred immediately in front of the microphone. We don’t hear the bullet impact because it’s further away, by the door. We also don’t hear any sound from the victim on impact because the victim is too far from the mic. The angle of bullet entry would be right too, she realized because if the killer was seated at the desk and the victim was standing, that would create a wound with the bullet entering from below. She flipped her three pancakes. One of the three made the journey unscathed.
This new scenario, she realized, also could explain the reason the mic was turned off so fast and why they heard no footsteps. If the killer was seated at the desk, he merely reached over and flipped off the microphone. He didn’t have to walk to the desk from the door. It all fit, she thought. She piled the three lop-sided little cakes on a platter and started on a new set with three new cupfuls of batter. These would be better, she vowed. All of the acoustic and physical evidence worked with her new scenario of having the killer at the desk and the victim standing—all except the recording. The recording seemed to indicate the exact opposite. The only reason she could see for the recording to be wrong would be if the killer somehow plotted to make it that way. But if he did, how did he do it? And how did he get Ballard to change places with him and make the tape? There were still so many questions. If she didn’t know any better, she would think that Ballard had masterminded his own murder, because everything with this new scenario seemed to implicate the seated person—by all rights—the disc jockey, as the killer. But, the disc jockey—Ballard--was dead. He didn’t kill himself, obviously. Or, did he?
FM for Murder Page 18
