Dead Center

by Bill Noel

  Charles nodded. “Sure. Known it since way back two nights ago.”

  That’s what I thought. “Where’s she from?”

  “Don’t know. Rocky ran out of beer and pleasantness. Gave me a farewell growl, and left.”

  “Don’t you think it strange she came to the Dog to ask about the body?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” my definitive friend said. “Not everyone is used to hearing about a dead body out their back door. You’re the only person I know who has a propensity for that. It riled up her curiosity, she heard about you finding him, and voila.”

  “That could be all, but it didn’t strike me as normal. Something seemed off.”

  “How do you know what Barbara’s normal is?”

  “Good point,” I said. “Regardless, I can’t put my finger on it. Something didn’t seem right.”

  “So, how are we going to find out who the guy was?”

  His question wasn’t out of mere curiosity. In addition to volunteering when I had the gallery, he had taken odd jobs for off-the-books cash from local businesses, and on a more frightening note, he prided himself on being a detective. He was unlicensed and untrained, but said he’d read enough PI mysteries that he ought to be able to figure out most crimes. The scary thing was he and I had been mired in more murders than anyone who doesn’t carry a badge should be. Through luck, amateur detecting, the help of a cadre of friends, more luck, being at the wrong place at the wrong time, and more luck, we had solved several of them. That reinforced Charles’s self-anointed private detective status.

  “I’ll call the chief later and see if they’ve identified him,” I said.

  “How much later?”

  “Tonight.”

  “And then you’ll call me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Four

  Good to my word, I called Charles, not to tell him who the victim was, but to let him know the police hadn’t learned the identity. The man’s fingerprints weren’t in IAFIS, the FBI’s national fingerprint database, and Chief LaMond said none of her officers had recognized him. The handgun found on the body was with Detective Adair who was trying to trace it through the serial number. Charles was disappointed and said I should have done more to learn who he was. I asked how, and he suggested I figure it out. He often offers similar helpful suggestions.

  A cold wave swept through the Lowcountry overnight and I couldn’t think of a good reason to leave the house. February on Folly beat being anywhere in the North, although the cold, damp air could still be uncomfortable. Besides, I had to start pulling together everything needed to prepare my taxes, which next to a trip to the dentist, was my least favorite event of the year. Chief LaMond would call if she learned more. If I called Charles he wouldn’t let me off the phone until I agreed to harass the chief; something neither I nor the chief needed.

  I was halfway through wading through my bank statements when the phone rang. I figured it was impatient Charles. I was wrong.

  “Brother Chris, this is Preacher Burl. Is this a convenient time?”

  I told him it was.

  “Brother Chris, might I impose upon you to meet me at First Light? I have a delicate situation to discuss and would rather not do it over the phone or at a public dining emporium. I have to wait here for a plumber, or I’d come to your house.”

  I was intrigued enough to agree; intrigued and would rather do anything other than taxes.

  I avoided the alley and rapped on First Light’s front door. Preacher Burl opened it halfway, looked to see if anyone was with me, and waved me in. Burl Ives Costello was five-foot-five, shaped like a football, and fifty years old. He and I had become acquainted the first year his nondenominational church had been open when three of his members, or members of his flock as he referred to them, had been murdered. I had suspected the preacher of the deaths, but ended up helping save Burl after the killer had tried to electrocute him.

  The preacher locked the door and pointed to one of the pews. “Thanks for coming, Brother Chris. I’m sure it was an inconvenience.”

  I sat and said it wasn’t.

  “I hope you don’t find what I’m about to say silly.” He paused and smiled. His blue eyes sparkled.

  I returned the smile. “Preacher Burl, you’d have a hard time competing with some of my friends when it comes to silly.”

  Burl knew I was referring to Charles and Dude, both semi-regulars at First Light. After I closed my gallery, which had been open on Sundays, I lost my best reason—excuse—for not attending, yet I still could count on one hand the number of times I’d been to a service.

  Burl smiled. “I will grant you that.”

  I leaned forward in the pew. “So, what is it?”

  He groaned. “If I were in your shoes, I’m afraid I would think the preacher man’s paranoid. You, of all people, know how much the devil has bequeathed upon my ministry.”

  “You’ve had your share of bad luck.”

  “Then I hope you can understand my trepidation when I learned a gentleman’s life was taken from this earth a mere inches from our walled sanctuary.” Burl nodded toward the back door.

  Inches was a stretch. “Did you know him?”

  “I don’t think so. Of course, I didn’t see the body. The police came by my apartment this morning and showed me a photograph. The dead don’t have the spirit within them and their appearance is never as remembered when they walked this flawed earth.”

  No would have sufficed.

  “Do you think he had something to do with First Light or one of your flock?”

  Burl stood and walked to the back of the sanctuary, opened the rear door, looked out, and returned to the pew.

  “Brother Chris, I am unable to detect a connection, but as you may recall, not that long ago I was oblivious to some of the events surrounding the unspeakable murders that I hold myself responsible for causing.” He pointed to the corner of the room where one his flock had been killed after being pushed from a ladder. “That’s not to mention how you and your friend Brother Bob saved me—praise the Lord—from electrocution in this very room. To reiterate, I do not see any direct connection between our church and the unfortunate soul who met an untimely death in yon alley.” He leaned toward the back door.

  I understood his anxiety, although if he didn’t see any connection and didn’t know the deceased, why had he called and requested this secretive meeting?

  I wanted to scream, why am I here? Instead, I said, “Preacher Burl, you and your flock went through a terrible time, and I admire you for continuing your ministry here. You’ve meant so much to many people.”

  I hesitated and waited for him to get to the reason. Charles would have chided me for hesitating and would have demanded an explanation from Burl.

  “Brother Chris, that brings me to the reason I requested your presence.”

  Halleluiah, I thought, followed by a pensive nod.

  “You have connections with local officials. You also have a reputation for aiding the civil authorities in identifying and catching those who have given their life over to the devil. Unlike many others, you are known for keeping confidences and not spreading rumors.”

  “Preacher Burl, I don’t—”

  He held his hand up. “Please allow me to finish.”

  I didn’t see an upside to irritating a minister, and stopped.

  “Thank you. To be candid, the events of the past two years have me, as they say, shell-shocked. I have had difficulty sleeping; I have had trouble eating, although you can’t tell it from my girth. I’m startled by the most innocuous loud sounds. My mother, God rest her soul, would say I was a mess.” He looked toward the front window, and back at me. “Please don’t share this with anyone. I’ve put my fate in the hands of the Lord. He hasn’t seen fit to help me successfully sail these choppy seas.”

  I felt his discomfort and pain, but didn’t know how I could help. “What would you like me to do?”


  “Brother Chris, I don’t feel I am doing justice to my ministry and to my flock as long as I remain in this unsettled condition. The latest death at the church’s doorstep has accentuated everything negative within me. With that in mind, I am asking that you grant me one wish—and a huge one it is.”

  I motioned for him to continue.

  “It may be paranoia, but I feel the death is related to First Light. Would you use your connections, intellect, and unique power to unravel the most amorphous clues to see if the death does, in fact, have anything to do with my ministry?”

  I exhaled, looked at the floor, at the large neon cross that was the focal point at the front of the room, and turned my attention to the suffering preacher. “Yes.”

  Burl closed his eyes like he was in silent prayer. After a moment, he said, “I will be forever grateful.”

  “I appreciate it, although I don’t know what I can do. The police have resources, Detective Adair, the detective in charge, is good, and you know Chief LaMond. She’ll not let anything get in the way of her department assisting the detective in finding who did it.”

  Burl shook his head. “I don’t doubt they’ll perform. Additionally, I would feel better if someone without the restraints imposed upon the authorities was looking at the situation. A different perspective is welcomed.”

  I didn’t see hope, yet also didn’t want to say no. “Preacher, I’ll do my best. I can’t do it alone. With your permission, I’d like to discuss it with Charles and one or two others. I can assure you confidentiality will be foremost in their minds as well as mine.”

  “I would prefer you didn’t,” Burl said, “Nevertheless, I trust your judgment. Do what you must.”

  He started to walk me to the door, hesitated, and said, “Please allow me to offer a brief prayer for your success.”

  I did, he did, and we shook hands. He invited me to church Sunday, and escorted me to the door. I said thanks to the invitation, but didn’t commit to attending.

  I stopped on the sidewalk outside the church, and thought I would have been better off working on taxes.

  Chapter Five

  Tuesday was open-mic night at Cal’s Country Bar and Burgers; known as Cal’s to the locals—first, because no one wanted to say the long name, and second, because no one wanted to associate burgers, good burgers, with the bar. The country music focal point on Folly was owned by Cal Ballew, a septuagenarian Texan who had spread country charm and music to most Zip codes in the southern half of the country for forty-five years. His fame had come when he hit the country charts in 1962 with “End of the Story.” It was followed by a string of records with song titles that had never become worthy enough for the most arcane trivia question. Cal took over the bar five years ago after the previous owner slithered over to the wrong side of the law and was now residing at taxpayers’ expense far from the beach.

  Open-mic night often attracted a handful of local wannabes, a guitar-toting vacationer or two, and each week, as regular as clockwork, Heather Lee. She was in her late forties, attractive, plied her trade as a massage therapist during the day, had the singing voice of a rooster, and was Charles’s girlfriend. Most Tuesdays, Cal reserved a table for Charles, Heather, and me. Extra chairs were nearby in case some of our friends happened to drop by in need of an adult beverage, moderately-entertaining entertainment, and to, as Cal would say, sit a spell.

  Tonight we were joined by the bar’s owner. The crowd was typical for a cold, damp Tuesday evening in February: sparse, a kind way of saying the place was almost empty. Three of the twelve tables were occupied, and each had a guitar case setting close to one of the occupants.

  Cal leaned his lanky, six-foot-three inch body back in his chair, pushed his sweat-stained Stetson back on his head, and turned to Heather. “Hon, guess you’re gonna get to honor us with three songs. Carla Sims, one of the other gal singers, don’t look like she’ll make it. Said she’d be here by now. Bad for her, good for you.”

  Heather beamed, Charles smiled, and I suppressed a groan. Cal, who had listened to hundreds of singers during his years on the road, and, as he seldom hesitated to point out, during his appearances on the Grand Ole Opry, tried to limit Heather to two songs and late on the program so his patrons would have had time for their ears to be desensitized by alcohol. Tonight there was more time to kill than entertainers to fill. Wisdom prevailed when he said he’d save her for last. To her, it meant she was the headliner, and none of us had the guts to tell her Cal’s thinking.

  “So, Kentucky,” Cal said. “Hear you stumbled on another dead body.”

  Cal had a tendency to call people by their state of origin. Charles and I had tried to break him of the habit and had made progress. Like many reformed addicts, he backslid.

  “Afraid so.”

  “Hear you chased the killer down the alley. That must’ve been scary.”

  I smiled. The Folly rumor machine’s been at work. “It would have been if it was true. I found the body. He was dead, and no killer was nearby.”

  “You did see him, didn’t you?”

  “Not a glance. Who said I did?”

  “Three or four people. They said they heard it from a guy who was hanging around after the murder. Said he heard it from the cops.”

  “Sorry, Cal. No truth to it.”

  He looked disappointed. “Then I don’t suppose you found a stack of hundred dollar bills beside the body?”

  “Did you hear that I did?”

  “Yep. The guy who said it was about four beers south of soused so I took it with a grain of mustard seed.”

  Charles glanced at me then turned to Cal. “Know who he was?”

  Charles was still displeased I hadn’t found out the identity.

  “Old drunk Jim.”

  Charles rolled his eyes. “The dead guy.”

  “Not a clue, Michigan.”

  Okay, maybe we weren’t making as much progress as I thought.

  Heather asked, “What’d he look like?”

  I gave her the best description I had considering I had only seen him for a few seconds, in the dark, and in a condition that didn’t show his best side.

  Heather pointed at a bar stool. “Sounds like that fellow in here Friday. Hung out over there. Cal, remember?”

  Cal looked at the stool Heather had pointed to. “Was I tendin’?”

  Bar owner talk for tending bar, I assumed, which was scary coming from Cal. After six years, had had mastered the hang of ordering beer and wine from the distributor, as long as the wine wasn’t more complicated than red, white, or pink. Cal’s never had any intention of owning anything other than his classic 1971 Cadillac Eldorado that had been his home and transportation. When the bar’s former owner went to grayer pastures, Cal, who had been a regular entertainer in the bar, stepped in and took over. A few friends pitched in and helped him learn the basics. No one was able to teach him the fine art of frying burgers, fries, and onion rings, although that hadn’t stopped him from trying and to our delight, had hired a part-time “chef,” as Cal called his help. Calling his part-time help chef was like calling Waffle House a five-star gourmet restaurant. Regardless, the food was tolerable, and after a few drinks, tasty.

  “Nope,” Heather said. “You were in the middle of a set covering Ernest Tubb classics.”

  “How long was he here?” Charles asked.

  “Don’t know,” Heather said. “I wasn’t here long. Stopped by for a beer after giving a massage to a flabby, conventioneer from Alabama. The guy was here when I left. Didn’t—”

  Cal snapped his fingers. “Got it. Know who you mean. Unfriendly-like character. He was here for a beer on Friday, but the night before he parked himself on that stool and took up space for an hour.”

  “Are you sure it was the dead guy?” Charles asked.

  Cal smiled. “He wasn’t when he was in here.”

  Charles sighed. “You know what I mean.”

  “Hang on,” Cal said. “Gotta play MC.” He scooted his chair back, tear
ing another runner in the ancient, dark brown, indoor-outdoor carpet he inherited with the bar. Years ago, I had suggested he tear it out, but he said it was disintegrating fast enough all by itself and it’d be gone soon enough. He had added, “It give off that good ole, stale beer, mushed in grease aroma of a fine country bar.” He’d played most of them, so I figured he knew.

  Cal mumbled something under his breath about the carpet, and waved for one of the aspiring musicians to meet him on the tiny elevated stage in front of the rectangular, tile dance floor. The future star unpacked his guitar and Cal switched off the old Wurlitzer juke box, cutting short John Anderson bemoaning coming home to count his memories. Cal tapped a microphone that was old enough Hank Williams Sr. could have crooned in it. He asked the musician’s name, and in his best master of ceremonies voice, announced to the uninterested assembly who was opening act was, and that open-mic night was brought to you by “Folly’s foremost country music venue.”

  Folly’s only country music venue would have also been accurate.

  Those who knew more about music than I did say many country tunes were made up of three chords and the truth. The young man on stage appeared to run out of guitar-strumming ability somewhere shy of three chords. His lyrics may have been the truth, but were hard to focus on. Heather may be the headliner after all.

  Cal returned to his chair and shook his head. “That ought to drive customers to drink. Where was I?”

  “The dead guy,” Charles said.

  Cal stared at the musician strumming two chords. “Oh yeah. Remember him now because he wasn’t dressed like most folks here. He didn’t come to town riding two to a mule.”

  “Huh?” Charles asked before I could.

  “The boy had dough. His clothes were casual and expensive. Can you believe his shirt was pressed?”

  “Wonder you let him in,” Charles said.

  Cal winked at him and looked toward the stage when the singer, whose name I forgot after Cal introduced him, began Kris Kristofferson’s “Help Me Make It Through the Night.”