by Hank Edwards
As Jazz returned to the styling chair, he had to agree with the sheriff on that one. Back when Musgrave had been about to handcuff Russell, the fucker had snatched the sheriff’s gun right out of his holster and nearly killed them all. Nice to see the good sheriff was able to learn from his mistakes.
“Sheriff, do you have evidence bags?” Michael asked. Still wearing gloves, he picked up the weird braid of violin bow strings.
Jazz felt squeamish looking at it.
Musgrave held out his hand toward Tanner, and wordlessly the deputy produced several bags from his pocket. Michael placed Herschel’s Bible and the suspect braid stained with blood inside the bag.
“What the hell is all that?” Musgrave demanded.
“Possible evidence and the weapon he choked Jazz with,” Michael replied, shooting a cool look at Herschel. The fucker glared right back at him.
The paramedics arrived then and wheeled a stretcher through the salon.
“Over here,” Tanner said. He stood guard a short distance away, looking green around the gills at the sight of Herschel’s blood.
As they got to work, Michael spoke up. “Jazz has been hurt too.”
“I’m fine.” Jazz waved it off, but a third paramedic from a second ambulance came up to him.
“You don’t appear so fine,” the young woman said, smiling kindly. “Lemme just check you out, ’kay?”
Jazz intended to protest—far more interested in what the hell was going on—but a stern look from Michael had him conceding to care. “If you insist, sweetie,” he said, and Michael’s sternness changed to relief. He placed the evidence bag on the station beside Jazz, stripped off the gloves, and crouched at Jazz’s side to take his hand.
“I do insist, but the name is Cortney, not sweetie,” the paramedic teased.
Jazz chuckled—damn, my neck does hurt—and he gripped Michael’s hand tight. Their eyes met, a million things unsaid, and a thousand more spoken with that glance.
Jazz was seconds away from a mushy love confession he didn’t want to be having here and now, when Musgrave interrupted the moment.
“Why the hell did you call him the Banjo Killer?” Musgrave surveyed the scene with his usual glower, scowling at Ally before addressing Joe. “And who the hell are you in all this?”
“I coined that name,” Joe said proudly, too excited to cower under Musgrave’s irritation. “The Banjo Killer. I produce a podcast called Frigid Forensics, where I dig into cold cases. I’ve been tracking clues about a possible serial killer for almost a year now.”
Musgrave actually paled. “Serial killer?”
The paramedics tending to Herschel shared furtive looks, and even Cortney paled before she squeezed the blood pressure cuff on Jazz’s arm.
Joe was undaunted, the gleam in his eye so like Michael’s when he stumbled upon a clue, it made Jazz smile.
“There have been a number of unsolved murders coinciding with musical festivals all over the country,” Joe explained. “All the victims were strangled and propped up in weird places. And each victim was involved in something biblically immoral, one might say. Gay, adulterous, gamblers. You get the idea.”
Musgrave glared at Herschel. “I do.”
“Since it was usually an acoustic musical festival, I named my killer the Banjo Killer,” Joe went on proudly.
“There is no banjo!” Herschel screamed, startling Tanner so much he scooted several feet away from him. “They were my son’s violin bow strings, you idiot!”
“I’m not your son!” Oslo’s voice was loud and filled with so much pain, Jazz’s eyes teared up. Misty’s cousins must have lived through hell under Herschel’s command.
“They deserved it, all of them!” Herschel raved as the paramedics struggled to get him onto the gurney. “I was cleansing the Earth of sinners! I washed their hands of their sins so they could find the Lord’s grace!”
“Is that why you bleached their hands?” Joe asked. “I thought it was to remove possible DNA evidence.”
“Maybe both?” Michael offered.
Musgrave approached Herschel where he thrashed on the stretcher. “I am legally obligated to ensure you know your rights.” As the sheriff Mirandized him, Herschel muttered something that sounded like the Lord’s Prayer.
“Did you know Bill Denton?” Michael asked afterward, his intense gaze locked on Herschel. “And Norbert? And why situate them at our places of employment?”
Herschel raised his head, eyes wild and burning and teeth grinding together against the pain. “I followed my boy into the woods, and thought he was admiring the Lord’s celestial magnificence. But instead I caught him watching dirty acts, being done in the dark, out of shame. Filthy sinners in a field of immorality.”
Oslo was openly sobbing now. “I told you I didn’t see anything. I told you! You didn’t have to hurt anyone!”
“See anything?” Jazz questioned, catching Michael’s eye at the same time Cortney dabbed something on Jazz’s neck. He hissed. “Ow!”
“Sorry, just gotta get this cleaned and sterilized. Skin’s not cut, but it’s rubbed a little raw in places.”
Herschel was a less cooperative patient. He struggled against the paramedics, still ranting. “Those sodomites exposed my innocent son to their sins of porneia.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Musgrave demanded. Then he caught Tanner’s eye and pointed at Oslo sobbing. “Calm him down.”
Tanner seemed grateful to be away from the blood and moved to Oslo’s side, speaking softly.
“Porneia, also translated as prostitution, fornication,” Michael supplied as he studied Herschel. Then his sad gaze drifted to Oslo. “He probably saw Bill and Norbert hooking up.”
“At the HPP,” Musgrave said. “Where Farthington met Denton.”
“Via Grind Him,” Jazz said, his chuckle breaking off in a raspy cough.
“I didn’t see anything, I swear!” Oslo cried. “I never saw what they were doing!”
“Shh, shh,” Tanner cooed. He wet a towel at the nearby sink, wrung it out, and approached Oslo. “Here’s a cool towel—”
“No! Get that bleach away from me!” Oslo cried, and darted to the other side of the salon. “It burns. I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t need to be cleansed.”
“Jesus hopped up Christ, Tanner,” Musgrave exclaimed. “Get him under control.”
Tanner tossed the wet towel aside and raised his hands as he slowly approached Oslo. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m not going to do anything to you, okay?” He got close enough to place a gentle hand on Oslo’s shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s all gonna be okay, buddy.”
“He sinned, you foolish boy,” Herschel snarled at Tanner. “He cannot lie to me. He needs to wipe his hands clean of sin!”
“I don’t know what that means,” Tanner said, scowling at Herschel. “But I know this boy is a good sight scared.”
“He made me wipe my hands clean,” Oslo said in a quiet voice.
“With bleach?” Tanner whispered.
Oslo nodded, big eyes hopeful and trusting, staring up at Tanner.
“Yes!” Herschel said. “Wipe your filthy hands clean of sin, boy. I know all your sinful thoughts. I know all about….” His words broke off in a coughing hack of blood, but Jazz got the drift.
Creepy ol’ Herschel had probably caught Oslo masturbating at some point and made him use those bleach-laced wipes to clean his hands. Jazz remembered Oslo using them at Misty’s house. Was that a thing he made the boy do often? Could it be how he cleaned his victim’s hands too? And the night Bill Denton was murdered, Herschel must have caught Oslo watching Norbert and Bill in flagrante delicto, then what? Killed the two of them? No, Norbert had been at the festival the next day. So Herschel had most likely followed Bill and killed him, then caught Norbert alone after he’d been questioned by Musgrave Friday night. All because Herschel was trying to teach his gay stepson what happens to “sinners.”
What the fuck?
&nb
sp; Michael had been right to worry about poor Oslo in a house with that hatemonger.
“Sir, you need to calm down,” one of the paramedics told Herschel.
“Yeah, take a pill,” Tanner scolded, obviously taking his job as Oslo’s protector seriously as he glared at Herschel.
Musgrave crossed his arms as he loomed above Herschel. “So you saw Denton and Farthington at the HPP together? Then what? Decided to seek some sort of vengeance?”
“Yes, I did,” Herschel said, a spark of evil in his eyes. “I sent Oslo home, to deal with later. Then when the sinners finished, I followed one of them and sent him on to be judged.”
“Oh, he waited for them to finish at least,” Jazz muttered. “Is that polite or creepy?”
“Both,” Cortney and Michael said at the same time.
Herschel seemed to relish telling everyone about his “righteous acts,” but it just made Jazz feel sick.
“And then?” Musgrave prompted.
“Decided to have some fun and see what kind of blame I could spread. The other abomination I followed after he finished talking to you, Sheriff, and I dragged him in here and sent him on to his judgment.” Herschel licked his lips and his smile widened, growing even colder as he looked right at Jazz. “Oh, how he struggled. But I finished my work and left him here as a gift for you, sodomite.”
“The name’s Jazz, and sodomy is only a fun pastime of mine. And I usually only accept gifts from clients, but thanks,” Jazz snarked.
Michael buried a snicker, and Musgrave seemed on the verge of a chuckle. Or maybe it was gas. Hard to tell with Musgrave.
Herschel began to bluster, as if working himself up for another hate-filled sermon.
“I think it’s time for some morphine,” one of the paramedics said, and plunged a needle into Herschel’s arm.
Herschel’s expression softened almost immediately and his head went back.
Nighty night, fuckface.
“Sounded like a confession to two murders to me,” Musgrave announced. He gestured to the paramedics. “Get him out of here.”
“Yes, sir,” the one paramedic said.
“Tanner,” Musgrave snapped, and the deputy jumped. “Go with the suspect and make sure he’s secured the entire time. Ride in the back with them and see to it the suspect is cuffed to the gurney. Do not leave his side.”
“Even during the surgery?” Tanner went paler still.
“No, not in surgery,” Musgrave said with a heavy sigh. “But stay close until I get there and we can decide how to manage him.”
“Okay, yeah, sure.”
Jazz watched as Tanner spoke quietly to Oslo, waited for the boy to nod, and then, with an expression of distaste, followed the stretcher out the door. Under the influence of the morphine, Herschel was now quiet, staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes.
“You should see a doctor,” Cortney told Jazz. “To see if you have internal damage.”
“That sounds fun,” Jazz said and rolled his eyes in Michael’s direction.
“I’ll drive him to the hospital myself,” Musgrave said to the woman.
“When I’m done being questioned, I’m sure,” Jazz muttered, and then he started coughing again. Michael was right there, caressing his back.
“Lemme get you some water,” Michael said. “I’m assuming there is some in the break room?”
Jazz nodded, loving how Michael cared for him. Misty had been right. He had a wonderful, handsome boyfriend, and he didn’t have to do things alone anymore.
Michael returned a moment later, and Jazz accepted the bottle of water. The coolness of it soothed his sore throat. Before he could thank Michael, the sound of a drawer opening behind Jazz startled him.
He turned to see Ally trying to act innocent as she kept her hands behind her back.
Jazz’s senses went on alert, and he pushed to his feet. He stepped past Cortney and Michael, saying in a demanding tone of voice, “What are you holding?”
Musgrave moved in front of Jazz and aimed his weapon at Ally. “Show me your hands. Slowly.”
Ally very slowly brought her hands out from behind her back. A long length of blonde hair hung over the palm of one hand.
“It’s nothing,” Ally said.
“Is that…?” Jazz noticed her frightened and embarrassed expression. “Oh.” Even more became clear, and he nodded as he smiled. “Ohhhh.”
“What is that?” Musgrave asked and sneered at Jazz. “Is that hair?”
“Yes, it is.”
“What the hell are you doing with that hair?” Musgrave demanded. “And why the fuck are you even here? We’ve been looking all over for you for questioning.”
Jazz frowned at Michael. “That’s a good question, actually. Why is she here?”
“She was, um… she let us into the salon,” Michael said, gaze jumping from Jazz to Musgrave to Ally and back again.
“Yeah,” Joe said, stepping forward. “If she hadn’t let us in, he might’ve been killed.”
When Joe pointed at him, Jazz swallowed hard. Really, why were people trying to kill him all the time?
“Be that as it may,” Musgrave said. He kept his gaze on Ally, but he’d holstered his weapon at least—though he kept a hand on the butt, ready to draw if needed. “How did you get inside? You don’t have a key.” He half turned to Jazz. “Does she?”
“I wouldn’t think so, but—” Jazz started, but Ally cut him off.
“I was working on picking the lock when I heard the gunshots from inside. I was scared and about to run away, but then Michael and Joe came running up and told me to open the door, so I did it.”
Before Musgrave could ask another question, Misty rushed in through the front door. She wore a bright floral print sundress with a light sweater over her shoulders. Her hair was down around her shoulders, and her skin glowed a lovely bronze from the sun she’d gotten at the cookout the day before.
Jazz saw Musgrave’s gaze drop to the swell of Misty’s breasts, bounce up to her face and hair, then back down to her chest. No bra… oh boy.
“What the hell is going on here?” Misty demanded.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Musgrave replied.
“Was that Herschel being loaded into the ambulance outside?” Misty asked, then looked at each of them, her gaze finally stopping on Jazz. “Oh my God! Your throat! Who did that?”
“Could you just stand down for a damn hot minute,” Musgrave said. “I’m trying to figure all of this out.”
Misty snapped her mouth shut, but the expression on her face pretty much told Jazz she was going to give the sheriff an earful once they were alone.
Ugh, he really didn’t want to consider what else might happen when they were alone.
“Oslo?” Misty noticed the boy for the first time. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“He hurt them,” Oslo muttered, his face crumpling at the sight of Misty’s concern. “But it’s over now.”
“Over?” Misty rushed to Oslo and threw an arm around the boy’s shoulders as he sat and stared at the floor. “Hilton, what happened?”
To Jazz’s shock, Musgrave didn’t give Misty any more attitude. Rather, he waved airily in Jazz’s direction. “You heard the lady, Dilworth. Catch her up.”
As Jazz repeated how he’d discovered Herschel and Oslo in the salon, and the events that followed, Misty’s eyes grew wider and wider with each revelation. When he’d finished, Misty inspected the braided length inside the evidence bag Musgrave held.
“Those are strings from a bow?” she asked.
“Correct,” Michael said. “A violin bow. Namely Oslo’s.”
“Then why the fuck are you calling him the Banjo Killer?” Musgrave snapped at Joe.
“I figured he used banjo strings to strangle his victims,” Joe said. “After all, he’s been part of a folk festival.”
Musgrave waved a hand. “Fine. Whatever.” He looked back at Jazz. “Why do so many people try to kill you, Dilworth?”
“I was just asking myself the same thing. Must be they’re jealous of my charming personality and succulent ass,” Jazz said. Michael made a choking sound, and Jazz shot him a wink.
“Yeah, must be,” Musgrave said dryly.
“Hilton, I’d like to take Oslo home,” Misty said.
“I’d really like to allow that, but I need to get a statement from him,” Musgrave said, only able to meet Misty’s gaze for a second or two at a time before looking away again.
Jazz sighed. “Let her take him back to her house, and you can talk to him there once you finish at the hospital.”
“You’re not running this show, Dilworth,” Musgrave said.
“No, but my throat hurts, and I’d like to finish telling you what happened before my voice gives out.”
He didn’t think he was anywhere close to losing his voice, but Jazz’s heart went out to poor Oslo. The kid had been through a lot ever since Herschel had married his mother.
“Fine.” Musgrave nodded to Misty. “But dammit, make sure he stays put. I don’t want him running off.”
Misty mouthed “thank you” to Jazz before leading Oslo out the door as the Tompkins twins walked in.
“Keep an eye on those two.” Musgrave directed his deputies to watch Joe and Ally, who still held the tied clump of hair, and then he turned to Jazz. “Let’s wrap this up. You were being strangled. Then what?”
“I managed to roll onto my stomach, and I pushed my gun into his gut and shot him. After that, I got the fuck away from him, and then Michael was there with these two.”
“All right, Fleishman, you’re up,” Musgrave said. “Why were you here?”
“I stopped by Jazz’s apartment and had just let myself in when Joe came out of the apartment next door,” Michael said. “We talked a bit, and I realized he’s the host of my favorite podcast—”
“What the fuck is a podcast?” Musgrave asked with a snarl.
Grace Tompkins stepped up. “It’s like a radio show you download to your phone, Sheriff.”
Musgrave released a long, drawn-out sigh and shook his head. “Technology exhausts me. Fine, your favorite podcasting guy was there. Then what?”
“We heard gunshots, and I thought they came from inside the salon, so we ran to the back door.” Michael gestured to Ally. “We found Ally standing by the door, with a lock-picking kit.”
