by Hank Edwards
“Hey, guys?” she said. “This dude’s been shot. He’s bleeding pretty badly.”
“Call 9-1-1,” Michael said calmly, though he didn’t leave Jazz’s side. “Tell them we have a gunshot wound and someone who’s been a victim of an attempted strangulation.”
Over Michael’s shoulder, Jazz saw Ally Roberts kneeling by Herschel. Looking back at Michael, Jazz frowned and asked, “Ally?”
“She let us in,” Michael said with a wan smile.
Jazz pushed himself up a bit more, and Michael helped him. “She let you in? How?”
“I was up at your apartment, talking to Joe—”
“Joe?” None of this was making sense to Jazz. Maybe he’d lost some brain cells while being strangled.
His face serene and patient, Michael brushed some mussed hair off his face, the touch incredibly tender and soothing despite the nearby moans of pain and Oslo’s quiet sobs.
For a breath, a single heartbeat, however, Jazz only had eyes for Michael.
“You remember Joe? The guy renting the apartment next door to you?” Michael prompted, pointing at a familiar man in another gaudy hawaiian shirt.
Jazz nodded. “Why are you here?”
“As it turns out,” Michael explained, “Joe is in Lacetown on an investigation. He’s Blake Hanson from my favorite podcast, Frigid Forensics.”
“You like that too?” Ally asked, her face bright with an excitement that seemed wildly out of place after Jazz had almost been murdered.
Grinning, Michael looked at her over his shoulder. “It’s my latest obsession.”
None of this is important right now! Jazz let their voices fade away as he pushed onto his hands and knees, searching frantically around on the floor. “Forget all that. Where’s my gun? Help me find it, Michael!”
“Your gun?” Michael sat back on his haunches and looked around. “I don’t see it.”
“Oh, shit,” Joe muttered.
Flinching, Jazz turned his attention to the guy staying in his neighbor’s place—Blake or Joe from some podcast apparently.
Joe had his cell phone out, but he was staring past them with wide eyes. He raised a placating hand and his voice wavered as he said, “Be cool, man.”
Jazz carefully turned his head.
No longer crying but wearing an angry scowl, Oslo had gotten to his feet. He gripped Jazz’s gun in both hands and had it aimed at them.
“Don’t move,” Oslo warned, his scowl deepening into something maniacal.
Michael rose up to his knees and lifted his hands overhead on reflex. “Oslo…,” he began hesitantly. “We’re not the enemy. Please, put down the gun.”
Blinking a few times, Jazz shifted until he had the whole scene before him, and he slowly realized what was going on. He placed a hand on Michael’s raised arm and tipped his head toward Herschel.
“I think we’re good, sweetie,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Michael’s gaze darted quickly away from Oslo, and he sucked in a quiet “Oh!” the instant he saw what Jazz had seen.
Hands shaking, Oslo held the gun trained on Herschel, who had crawled a little closer to them. The preacher clutched a pair of scissors in one hand, the glint in his eyes dark and full of hate, his gaze locked on Jazz and Michael.
How the hell did he get ahold of a pair of shears without them noticing?
“No more killing!” Oslo shouted, face screwed up in anguish and fury.
Herschel glared as Michael crawled toward him, Michael’s attention carefully divided between the two suspects. Herschel’s jaw was set in stone, and he didn’t fight when Michael took the scissors from him. Nearby, Ally edged up to Oslo and slowly reached out until she got her hand on the gun.
“Let me have that, okay?” Ally said.
“Is it done?” Oslo asked, his voice a whisper. “Is he going away?”
“He’s going far away,” Joe announced confidently. “And for a very long time.”
Looking broken and weary, Oslo let Ally take the gun from his hand. Then he fell heavily into one of the salon chairs, weeping.
Michael focused his attention on Oslo, his face concerned.
“Ally.” Jazz spoke firmly, more in control than he felt, and held out his hand. “Give me my gun.”
She studied him, and Jazz felt his heart skip. Shit, what if…?
Before the thought could cross one side of his brain to the other, Ally flipped the gun around in her hand and held it out to Jazz, butt first.
“Sinners, all of you!”
Everyone flinched at Herschel’s shout, his anger swallowed up by a gurgling cough.
“What?” Michael and Ally both said at once.
“The Lord has seen fit for me to suffer the fate of his son,” Herschel said, voice shaking with pain as he glared at Jazz and Michael. “Sinners have no place on this Earth. I shall remake this place in his vision.”
After checking that he still had ammo and a bullet ready to go, Jazz expertly aimed it at Herschel. “First of all, you nutjob gasbag, Jesus never said a word about homosexuality. Secondly, you fucking murdered people. Last time I checked, that breaks one of the Ten Commandments. Funny how being gay isn’t even mentioned on those tablets.”
“He murdered a lot of people,” Joe added.
“So many,” Oslo said quietly.
“Did you call 9-1-1?” Michael asked.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” Joe said, then grinned as he tapped in the numbers. “I’m going to be famous. Fucking famous! Fuck you, Mrs. Ernsthausen!” Then he flipped off the ceiling.
“Who’s that?” Ally asked.
“My fifth grade computer teacher,” he said. “Gave me a D in computer and said I’d never be anything. Shows what she knew. I’m going to be on Ellen and Good Morning America. That’ll show her wrinkled ass.”
“Hey, here’s that guy’s Bible.” Ally picked up the book.
“Don’t touch that!” Herschel shouted.
A chorus of “shut up” went through the salon.
Ally studied the Bible. “Maybe he’s made a list of names or something in the margins. Dylan thought that would be a good clue for a murder mystery.”
A sad expression crossed her face at the mention of her cousin, and Jazz’s heart went out to her. Ally shook her head slightly as if shaking off her grief, and she opened the Bible that Herschel had dropped when he rushed Jazz. She flipped through it, checking the pages, then looked disappointed. “No list. Nothing’s been marked either.”
“Wait a minute,” Michael said and got to his feet. “Don’t touch another page. Let me see it.” He turned to Jazz. “Gloves?”
Jazz pointed at Misty’s nearby station. “Top drawer.”
He opened the drawer and plucked two latex gloves from a box, then collected the Bible. Jazz turned away to watch Herschel closely, keeping his gun trained on him.
The preacher clutched his bleeding abdomen and glared hatefully at Jazz.
If Jazz’s voice wasn’t raw, he would have added another “fuck you.”
Jazz watched Michael studying the Bible. “What do you see, sweetie?”
“The long bookmark is gone…,” Michael said.
The dreamy quality of his voice made Jazz smile. His sexy mortician was onto a clue.
Michael turned to him. “What did Herschel attack you with?”
Jazz gingerly touched the wound on his neck and flinched. “I’m not sure. Some kind of thin rope.”
“Find it,” Michael instructed, taking charge and pointing around the salon. “Everyone look for a thin rope. But don’t touch it.”
“None of you can stop the cleansing that is coming.”
“Didn’t we tell you to shut up?” Jazz waved the gun at him. Herschel glared, coughing blood and clutching his side.
Joe was talking to the 9-1-1 operator, asking for police and paramedics, but Ally pointed toward the break room doorway.
“There! Is that it?”
Michael hurried over and picked up the cord by one end. “
I think so. Yes, this is the bookmark I saw Herschel with while they performed. And like I suspected, it’s not one cord, but a collection of very fine strings. They’re very thin and braided together….”
He stopped and looked at Oslo, then back at Jazz, eyes widening. “The strings.”
“Strings?” Jazz said, then realized what Michael was saying, and his eyes widened as well. “The strings from Oslo’s bow! We saw him collecting them at the festival! And he was braiding them together at Misty’s house!”
“Exactly,” Michael said, his eyes bright with discovery.
Oslo’s sobbing intensified, and he managed to say, “He made me braid the strings I broke and give them to him. He told me tonight he’s been using them to kill people and that I needed to learn how to do it too. He took all of my braids and made his bookmark! I didn’t know he was using them for murder! I didn’t know!”
“You strangled people with the braids of bowstring Olso made, and afterward combined them to use as a bookmark in your Bible?” Michael seemed both confused and disgusted as he asked Herschel, “Why?”
Behind them, Joe was talking to 9-1-1. “I totally caught the Banjo Killer!” Then he lowered the phone and looked at Jazz and Michael. “That’s a good name, right?”
“Yeah, actually it’s pretty good,” Jazz conceded with a nod.
“You need to get the sheriff down to the salon,” Joe said into the phone. “We’re holding them by gunpoint… um…. Well? One of them is shot… yeah, you should probably send an ambulance.”
“Give me the phone,” Michael said, snatching it out of his hands. “This is Michael Fleishman, the Harbor County coroner. It seems there’s been a break-in at Misty’s Makeover Palace. Yes, a firearm was discharged.” Michael answered the questions methodically as Herschel groaned and seethed. “Okay, thank you. I’ll put you on speaker and set the phone down.” He touched a button on the phone’s display and set it on a cabinet. “They’ll be here momentarily, but we need to keep the line open.” He gave the room a studying sweep as he set the braided strings and Bible on a nearby station.
“You’ll pay for this, you homosexuals,” Herschel said through clenched teeth.
“You shitting me?” Jazz questioned, his temper rising. “That’s what this was? A hate crime? You just killed two random gay men, then left them at our places? Why? To frame us?”
Herschel’s eyes narrowed, watery and mean. “Nothing in the Lord’s world is random, sinner.”
Though the man bled, none of their group had stepped forward to help. Jazz had no intention to do so—bleed out for all I care, asshole—but it should have been no surprise that Michael collected some towels stacked near the sink and approached Herschel.
“Save your strength and confession for the authorities,” Michael began, holding out the towels. “Here, let’s get some pressure on—”
“Leave me be!” Herschel cried with surprising gusto. “Do not touch me!”
Michael stopped, his lips frozen in a tight line, as if struggling with professionalism, human kindness, and revulsion for the man before him. He impressed the hell out of Jazz when he placed the towels within reach and said, “You’ll need to apply pressure until the paramedics get here.”
Herschel eyed him shrewdly, coughed some blood, then snatched the towels up and pressed them to his side. Blood immediately blossomed on the fabric. “You can pretend to be kind and compassionate, but I know what you really are.”
“I’m not pretending,” Michael said, standing tall and giving the man a pitying look. He walked toward Jazz and knelt at his side. Their eyes met and Jazz let out a breath of air, relieved once more. “You still okay?” Michael asked, effectively ignoring Herschel.
“Yeah, I’m good, sweetie.” Jazz reached up and brushed his hand across Michael’s brow. “You’re such a good man.”
Herschel went into another spasm of coughing. “My son will not become one of you. I won’t allow him to be tainted by your agenda!”
“Oh snap, it’s the gay agenda,” Jazz said, rolling his eyes.
Behind Michael, Ally laughed.
“Jazz, I’m going to unlock the door for the authorities.” Michael pointed at Ally. “Keep an eye on Herschel.” He walked to the front of the salon, and Jazz watched him go with a smile on his face. Michael was taking charge now, and Jazz felt so grateful for the man he loved.
“I can see blue-and-red lights flashing,” Michael said. “They’re close.”
Ally approached Michael. “What were you saying about strings?”
Stepping back to the counter where he laid it, Michael picked up the long, twisted braid of violin strings again. “This is what he used to attack Jazz.” Face creased with concern, Michael glanced at Jazz, then quickly cleared his throat. Maintaining his composure, he indicated the dark fibers woven through it. “I don’t think Herschel had planned on killing anyone tonight, so he didn’t have a freshly braided cord with him. All he had when Jazz walked in on them was his bookmark. Thankfully it is thicker and didn’t break the skin like it did on his… p-previous victims.” His voice wavered before he continued. “These dark spots are most likely bloodstains, souvenirs, if you will. And the DNA evidence that will link him to every other murder Joe’s been tracking.”
“What other murders?” Jazz asked. His butt started to get numb, and he tried pushing to his feet. Michael rushed over to assist, gently guiding Jazz to an empty salon chair.
“Easy, hon,” Michael insisted. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“I’m okay.” Well, he would be. Jazz kept the gun fixed on Herschel as he sat down.
“The Banjo Killer, I can’t believe it,” Joe said, and patted his pockets. He looked around, then walked toward Michael. “Can I have my phone back?”
“We still have the line open for the emergency dispatcher,” Michael said and gestured to where he’d set it down. “Once the authorities arrive you can end the call and use your phone.”
“This is going to be my most downloaded podcast,” Joe said as he strode across the room and picked up his phone. “I don’t think I’m going to sleep for a week, I’m so excited.”
“I can’t wait to listen to it,” Michael said.
“Me too!” Ally said.
Joe turned, his face lighting up. “You have to be special guests!”
Michael and Ally exchanged excited looks before turning back to Joe and saying together, “Okay!”
“Seriously?” Jazz said, frowning at his boyfriend and Ally. “Could we all stop fangirling for a minute?” They appeared appropriately chagrined, so Jazz addressed Joe. “You’ve been following Herschel? Why? Has he killed before?”
“Oh yeah,” Joe said with a frantic nod. “I’ve been following the clues for over a year. Once I started putting all of this together, I really got into it. He’s been pretty slick, but I picked up on the similarities. All strangled, their hands cleaned with bleach, and propped up in seemingly random places. He’s left a lot of bodies behind him. A lot.”
“Well, in that case, I really don’t feel bad for shooting an old man,” Jazz said and sighed happily. He felt remarkably calm despite everything he had been through, and he wondered where this oddly relaxed feeling came from.
Then it hit him.
It was over.
Jazz smiled at Michael. “You know what this means, sweetie? None of this had anything to do with Russell. It’s just a crazy old religious nutjob. Isn’t that great?”
Michael returned his smile. “It is good.” Then he frowned. “And more than a little disturbing. Maybe you should put your gun away before Musgrave gets here.”
“I’ll wait,” Jazz said, then glared at Herschel. “I don’t trust him.”
Two sheriff’s deputy cruisers pulled up in front of the salon, tires squealing as they slammed on their brakes in the middle of the street. Michael gave Jazz’s shoulder a squeeze, then hurried to meet the deputies at the door.
Musgrave burst into the salon, gun drawn, Tanner right behind hi
m.
“Sheriff’s Department! Nobody move!”
Michael leaped out of their way and threw his hands up. “Don’t shoot! It’s all over.”
Musgrave’s beady eyes took in the room in one sweep, landing on Jazz and narrowing when he noticed the gun. “Dilworth, lower your firearm! Finger off the trigger and put the gun down. On your knees. Hands behind your head. Keep ’em where I can see ’em.”
Jazz flipped the gun to his thumb, fingers splayed and spread his arms wide. He slid out of the chair and slowly knelt on the ground, lowering the hand holding the gun. He carefully set the weapon on the floor before placing his hands behind his head and interlocking his fingers.
Michael stepped up beside Musgrave, his expression furious. “Jazz is the victim! You’re treating him like a common criminal!”
“No worries, sweetie,” Jazz quipped, feeling remarkably relaxed, given the situation. “Seems like standard procedure when you’re the one who discharged a weapon.”
“Back off, Fleishman,” Musgrave growled. “Now somebody tell me what the devil is going on in here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“I CAME in the back door to get ready for the day tomorrow,” Jazz explained. “I found Oslo and Herschel in here without permission. Herschel attacked me and I shot him.”
“He’s the Banjo Killer!” Joe exclaimed.
“None of us play the banjo, you sinning fool!” Herschel shouted, voice quivering with pain.
Musgrave squinted at Herschel lying on the floor. “That’s Misty’s cousin’s husband.”
“Yes, it is,” Jazz said, exchanging a glance with Michael. “He tried to strangle me, and I shot him. Can I lower my arms now?”
“Yeah, fine,” Musgrave grumbled, then addressed his deputy. “Tanner, see if that man needs your help before the ambulance arrives. But for God’s sake, holster your weapon and secure it before you approach him.” He stepped closer to Michael, and Jazz heard the sheriff say in a quiet voice, “Don’t need another gun pulled from law enforcement during an arrest.”
