Birdsongs (20 page)

    “That’s disgusting.”

    “They really aren’t disgusting right after they are dead, to use your term. They are still warm. A little twitchy though, with nerves firing their last shots. The way you saw them though—that’s revolting. What do you have for me today?”

    Sitting down, Benny said, “I met this gal. All I know as far as her name is concerned is her first—Lola. She told me she writes a blog about me and she is in the process of writing a book about me.”

    “Wow! I’m in the presence of a famous man,” Ned innocently jabbed.

    “Get to work boy,” Benny countered. “Where’s that record player?”

    “It’s in the cabinet under the gun that shot Ronald Regan.”

    Benny thought about saying something about the gun but he didn’t. “Do you have any headphones?” Benny asked before he opened the cabinet door.

    “They’re in there.”

    Benny didn’t feel like letting him in on the secret just yet. He didn’t want to overload Ned. Ned was one of those people who operated poorly with too much on his mind. Benny knew the
Byrd’s
records would skew his focus. Benny loaded the first record onto the deck and lowered the needle. The needle crackled and the music began with the melodic skip of the record, so subtle and sweet. Benny placed the records next to the player and eased the door closed so the album covers were out of view.

    Ned’s eyes bugged toward his computer screen as he sent documents to his printer that whirled and spit pages from Lola’s blog. This one was easy. Ned walked the still warm papers to Benny and returned to his desk to begin a new search as Benny listened to the records and read:

            Genesis 1:1

    Former bureau investigator and homicide detective Benny James took an open-ended sabbatical from his government duties a few years ago (this is a polite way of saying what I will describe in further detail in a post to follow). Currently he is unsuccessfully trying to regain anonymity working as a private investigator in the town of Tilley, Georgia. Unable to keep his nose out of police business, he recently resurfaced as he is offering his expertise in a case that is gaining momentum and national attention.

    During elementary school, I read all of the
Encyclopedia Brown
books. He was my hero. Strange idol, I know, for a girl. In junior high, I decided that I wanted to be an FBI agent after I saw Benny James on television. I thought of him as a real life Encyclopedia Brown. From that day forward, I wanted to know everything I possibly could about him. Without his knowledge, he became my mentor. Everybody needs someone to put on a pedestal; Benny James sits on mine.

             Lonerville – Population: 1

    Before I go on and on about Benny, which I will, my interests include murder, smart cops, and writing. I live alone. I always will. You cannot write with other people around. People are fun, sure, but when the talking, loving or whatever is over—I will bid you a sweet adieu.

    I have a poodle named LP, or Lola’s Poodle. He is one lazy son of a bitch. He thinks I’m God. I guess I am the closest thing he has. We seem to manage.

    My sister is my best friend. She lives in Dallas. Without fail, we talk on the phone every day. She sells real estate, and a lot of it. Her purse overflows and she sends me an allowance. I live in the suburb of a Baltimore suburb. It’s not as small as it may sound. It takes about an hour to drive into the heart of the city. Other people say it takes about an hour and thirty minutes. I drive like a first class bank robber. If the writing career doesn’t pan out I might try out for NASCAR.

    I know you don’t try out for NASCAR.

    As for my career, I am writing a book. It is about…

    My father used to say, “I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”

    Nobody has written a book about Benny James. At the height of his career he was the media’s darling. He always said the right things on camera; he was cool, calm, and yes, you guessed it, collected. Benny was devilishly handsome. At forty-eight years old, he still turns heads. Mine too. I bet you already guessed that.

    It all tumbled down during a case the country watched unfold. It was everybody’s favorite soap opera for a time. People were glued to their television sets like they were during the O.J. and Laci Peterson cases. A college dean was murdered in his office. A letter opener was stabbed into his heart. As usual, when everybody else was in panic mode, Benny was cucumber cool. During the investigation Benny led, he assigned himself to the dean’s daughter. He got to the bottom of her story all right—let me make one point very clear about Benny—he is not a womanizer. He is more like a magnet. Turns out, the daughter of the dean gave her father the letter opener for Father’s Day. Oops. Yeah—she did it.

    When you are in the crime business it looks bad to your boss when you have sex with the perpetrator.

    Fired, Benny disappeared for a while.

         Tomorrow’s Update: A Surprise Visit to Chief Charles Neighbors.

“Did you read this shit?” Benny asked Ned, whom he once again startled.

    “No.”

    “Don’t,” Benny said, taking the records in anger heading for the door. He crumbled the papers and tossed them into a trashcan sitting next to Ned’s desk on the way out.

    Benny could not decide whether or not to have Ned search the
Byrds’s
angle. He sat in the car for a moment, his head spinning too fast to think. He slowly pulled to the end of Ned’s driveway and stopped the car. He knew from experience when he went too fast he more often than not ended up nowhere. He closed his eyes, relaxed his hands, and tried not to think but to listen and trust what he heard. After fifteen minutes devoid of controlled thought, letting the images and feelings come on their own, Benny knew he needed to go back to Ned’s. Frustrated, he put the Jeep in reverse, stomped on the gas and sent gravel flying as he spun the car around. Benny pulled down Ned’s long driveway again hoping he would find something to spark the investigation. Ten days, he thought was not a lot of time to solve a murder case, especially when the killer was careful enough to cover all of his tracks. He called Ned so he wouldn’t frighten him and told him about Red’s theory with the
Byrds
and asked him to start looking. Ned replied that unbeknownst to Benny, he saw one of the records he previously brought over and tried to hide from view. Ned said he was already deep into his new search.

    Knowing he would come back soon, not thinking it would be this soon, Ned left the front door propped open. Benny entered silently but Ned, without looking away from his computer sensed him in the room and solemnly said, “I think you better sit down.”

    “Find something?”

    “I’m double checking all my facts now. If they are what I think they are, I didn’t just find something—I found a goldmine thanks to Red.”

    There were two chairs across from Ned’s desk. There was also one next to him. Benny knew it made him nervous when he watched him work so he sat across the table. Ned’s eyes were buggier than ever as he double-checked his research.

    “This is wild-ass shit.” It was the first time Benny had heard Ned curse. “Wild-ass shit,” he repeated.

    “What?”

    “Two seconds,” Ned asked with a statement. “Alright,” he finally said.

    “Do you want to see the crime scene photos?” Benny asked.

    “I don’t need to,” Ned answered confidently. “I searched the computer for past murders dealing with song titles and related themes along that line—I found nothing that was pertinent to your case with that approach. Next, I searched birds—nothing again. As luck would have it, I was double-checking my search for
Byrd’s
songs and accidentally typed birdsongs. I spelled it B-I-R-D. I hit the enter key and a case popped up from 1976. A gal named Myra Robinson was murdered in her home. On the wall the killer wrote the word Birdsongs. A note was also found at the murder scene, which contained the word. A month ago the guy convicted for the murder made parole and he’s out. His name is Ray Clint Boyd.”

    “Oh my God. Did you find him? Do you think it’s him?”

    “That’s all I’m finding. Do you think he’s in town?”

    “I know he’s not at the Lakeside Motor Inn. I’ve been meaning to check the Tuck ‘Em Inn. God I hope he’s there,” Benny said rushing out the door again for the second time within the hour.

Chapter 67

   Rachael parked her car in front of Michelle’s house. The yellow crime scene tape flapped in the breeze. There was a car in the driveway that belonged to Vernon. Rachael recognized the vehicle and proceeded. Rachael ducked under the yellow tape and rang the bell. Vernon answered the door.

    “Hey Rachael. Big city reporters like you should know you’re not supposed to cross that yellow line out there.”

    “Jerry Lee got to cross it once—it’s my turn.” She walked past Vernon without protest through the foyer and into Michelle’s living room. It was clean. She saw candles, draperies, doilies, and magazines. The lines from the vacuum cleaner were still visible on the carpet. It was too clean.

    “It’s too clean,” Rachael commented to Vernon.

    “Thank you. That’s just what I was thinking. The only thing out of place is the piece of torn spiral notebook paper on the coffee table.”

    “Does it have writing on it?”

    “Yeah, it does.”

    “Did you read it?”

    “Yes.”

    “And?”

    “Read it yourself.”

    Rachael did and it read, “A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song—Chinese Proverb.”

    “What’s with all this bird stuff?” Rachael asked.

    “You got me. Benny called me a few minutes ago and said Red figured something out about the bird angle.”

    “Excuse me, what? Red figured something out?”

    “Yeah, I’m as interested as you. Benny said he had to tell me in person though. I am meeting him on his boat at six-thirty. You want to come?”

    “Yeah. I can’t wait to hear this.” Rachael did not tell Vernon that Benny had already asked her to meet him on the boat.

    “Hey,” Vernon cautioned. “That note,” he said, pointing to the piece of notebook paper Rachael had placed back on the coffee table, “that’s off the record. I could get in a lot of trouble for letting you in here.”

    “No problem.”

    “Since you’re already breaking the law with me do you want to come over to the Hair Palace?”

    “Yeah,” she laughed. “I love small towns.”

Chapter 68

   Vernon told Rachael where she could park and how to sneak over to the Hair Palace without notice. Not caring to wait for a locksmith and forgetting to get Michelle’s keys from the evidence locker, Vernon smashed out one of the square pieces of glass on the back door. Reaching his arm in and around carefully through the zigzags of broken glass still clinging to the window casing, he unlocked the door.

    The air was warm, stale, and smelled of chemicals and cigarette smoke. Without talking, Vernon and Rachael took a casual look around before opening any drawers, cabinets, or touching anything. It was a small place containing only two barber type chairs, a sink capable of washing one head of hair at a time, a bathroom, a couch that served as the waiting area, and a small closet.

    The only thing out of place was a stubbed out cigarette on the floor next to one of the barber chairs. There was a revealing tape in the cassette deck of a stereo that both Rachael and Vernon overlooked.

    “Did you know that Michelle and Benny slept together?” Rachael asked Vernon.

    “Yeah,” Vernon said and sighed. “I assure you it was an aberration of character.” Vernon sat in one of the barber chairs. Before he sat down he pushed off with one foot and spun around a time and a half. He gestured for Rachael to join him in the other chair. She spun around two times.

    “He screwed up. He’s done it a lot lately—not sleep around--screw up—in his mind anyway. When he slept with Michelle, I think he was going through a period where he was once again realizing he was human like the rest of us. You’re a journalist, a young one, but you’ve got to remember or have at least heard tales of his heyday. He was superman. Imagine what it would feel like to be fired from the FBI. Top that off with a quick first marriage and a divorce that wasn’t his fault. Don’t judge him with that piece of information. Please.”

    “I won’t,” Rachael said. “Do you not see what I don’t see?” she asked.

    “You mean scissors?” Vernon asked.

    “Yeah.”

    “This isn’t good. What’s he going to do with a bunch of scissors?”

    “I don’t want to know,” Rachael answered reluctantly.

Chapter 69

   As a member of the late night TV business, Rachael was accustomed to taking an afternoon nap. She found it difficult to be a peppy, hounding on-air news journalist at nine o’clock at night without her afternoon slumber. Rachael was a fastidious and energetic worker until lunch and after dusk. Her downtime in the afternoon hours and her daily nap she thought reset her brain, giving her bravado to battle conversely with opponents appearing on her show. The brief escape from reality provided her the means to wring every last drop from her intellectual nectar.

    She parked the car directly in front of her room. There was a girl standing close to her door smoking a cigarette. The fuming female was looking directly at her. Rachael did not divert her gaze from the stranger; the intensity she shot back doubled the incoming waves. It was Lola.

    As Rachael exited her vehicle, Lola deposited her cigarette in the soda can she held. She set it on a concrete wall’s ledge next to her room’s door. She smiled.

    “I hope that cigarette smoke doesn’t bother you Ms. Martin. I apologize.”

    “No problem,” Rachael said surprised by her faithful smile.