Extreme Justice (8 page)

Uncle Earl ran out on the stage. “Listen to me, cats!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Don’t panic! That won’t do no one no good!”

Nobody was listening. It was a virtual stampede. People had panicked, particularly those sitting toward the front. They were climbing on tables, clawing at the walls, knocking down whoever was in their way.

“Shut the doors!” Earl shouted.

Someone up front, probably the bouncer, obeyed. Several people collided into the doors, but they were shut and locked tight.

“There now!” Earl boomed. “There’s nowhere for you to go. So sit down already, before you hurt somebody!”

The news of the futility of flight seemed to have the desired calming effect. Gradually the panic subsided and the screaming stopped. Although, Ben noted, none of the front-row patrons reclaimed their seats.

“Thank heaven for that,” Earl said, wiping his brow.

“Amen,” Ben echoed. “And now, Earl, if you don’t mind or anything, now that you’ve got the crowd under control …
could someone please get me out of here
?”

Earl ran to his side; Scat dropped his sax and did the same. Gordo and Denny both stayed where they were, and judging from the queasy expressions on their faces, Ben thought it was probably just as well.

The men grabbed Ben by the shoulders and pulled him free of the body. “Thank you very much,” Ben muttered. He jumped to his feet and began brushing himself off. He didn’t know exactly what he was brushing off, but he knew that he
desperately
wanted to brush himself off.

“First time you’ve ever seen a stiff, kid?” Scat asked.

“Not even close,” Ben replied. “But they don’t usually knock me off the piano bench.”

He turned to thank Earl, but saw that Earl was looking down, staring blank-faced at the corpse.

“Oh, no,” Earl whispered, barely audibly. “Oh, no.”

Ben felt a hollow aching in the pit of his stomach. “Is she … someone you knew?”

“It’s my Lily-lady. My sweet, sweet Lily.”

And then, to the total stupefaction of the crowd, Earl wrapped his arms around the corpse, hugging it tightly, and began to weep.

When Lieutenant Mike Morelli arrived at the club, he took immediate control. He systematically began running through the crime scene protection checklist he kept permanently stored in his head. He cordoned off the stage with bright yellow tape and spread brown butcher paper on the floor. He deputized the bouncers and stationed them at all exits with instructions to keep potential witnesses in and, more importantly, to keep the press out. Ben could hear reporters outside the front door swarming, shouting questions; there was even a helicopter buzzing around overhead. Obviously, Mike wanted to delay the inevitable as long as possible.

Ben watched as two women in green jumpsuits hoisted the corpse onto a stretcher to take it away to the medical examiner’s office. He was pleased to see they had to work at it; it would’ve made him look pretty wimpy otherwise.

He took this last opportunity to gaze at the mutilated face. Even with the grisly handiwork of some twisted mind’s knife, Ben could see that the woman had been lovely. She was not young, but time had not masked the beauty that was her birthright. Her face shone in the low lighting. He could still see the powdery remains of makeup on her face, as well as eyeliner and mascara. A shame she thought she had to paint herself to be beautiful, he thought; she didn’t. She was a born looker.

Still, Ben was not unhappy to see the body depart. The whole club was being contaminated by a heavy, musty odor. The sooner the remains were gone, the sooner they could all breathe freely again.

Ben was relieved Mike had been dispatched to handle the crime scene. Ben and Mike went way back, all the way to college days, when they had been roommates and played music gigs in local clubs and pizza parlors. Mike fell in love with Ben’s sister, Julia, and ultimately married her. The marriage hadn’t lasted long, and after the divorce, Ben found himself on the outs with both Mike and Julia. His friendship with Mike had never really been the same. They were still sewing it back together, one stitch at a time.

Mike was crouched over the spot where the body had dropped, scraping the wood planks for blood samples. Ben noticed Mike had managed to smear some blood on the crumpled and disgustingly dirty trench coat he always insisted on wearing to crime scenes.

“Shouldn’t you be wearing coveralls?” Ben asked.

“Don’t like ’em,” Mike grumbled, not looking up. “They wrinkle my raincoat.”

“How can you tell?” Ben nodded at Sergeant Tomlinson, Mike’s protégé, who now served as a SID crime scene tech. He was fascinated, watching the players go through their motions. It was like watching an ant farm: everyone had specialized tasks, and a strictly observed caste system remained in place at all times. The detectives spoke only to each other or to Tomlinson; the uniforms spoke only when spoken to. And no one spoke to the people from the medical examiner’s office.

To be fair, the detectives would confer with the medical examiner himself or his tech, if either happened to be on the scene. In the main, the conversation would be a rapid-fire series of questions, most of which the examiner either couldn’t or wouldn’t answer, at least not until after the autopsy had been performed and the tox tests had been processed. Of course, that didn’t prevent Mike from asking “What was the time of death?” and “How was she killed?” The only inquiry that produced a useful response was: “Where was she killed?”

The tech had answered in reverse: “Not here.”

“Not D.R.T.?”

“No way. She’s been moved.”

Maybe that wasn’t all that helpful, now that Ben thought about it. Did anyone really suppose the murder had occurred on top of a stage light? But the tech’s conclusion went further. She didn’t think the victim had been murdered within the building. She thought the body had been transported a considerable distance.

Mike set his sergeants scurrying through the club interviewing employees and patrons, all of whom had been detained and several of whom complained audibly. Meanwhile, Mike continued his interview with Ben.

“Tell me more about this guy lugging the rug around. You say he was black?” Mike extracted a notebook from his trench coat.

“I thought so at the time. In retrospect, it could have been a disguise.”

“Tell me about his face.”

Ben sighed. “I didn’t really look.”

“Because he was a blue-collar worker, so he was beneath your notice.”

“Because it was dark and he was in shadow and I was preoccupied.” Ben’s lips pressed tightly together. “Don’t pin the snobby-rich-boy bit on me. You know better.”

Mike grinned. “I’m just trying to make you remember. It’s my job.”

“It’s not your job. It’s how you handle your job. And it sucks.”

Mike’s eyes fluttered. “A bit testy tonight, aren’t we?”

“You would be too if the sky started raining corpses on you.”

“You’ve seen dead bodies before.”

“Yeah, but I don’t normally play Twister with them!”

Mike flipped a page in his notepad. “How ’bout if I bring in a sketch artist? See if he can put together a composite.”

Ben shook his head. “It’d be a waste of time. I never really saw him.”

“And you’re sure about the hair? Bushy Afro. Bushy beard.”

“Right.”

“A ’fro? In this day and age?”

Ben shrugged. “That’s what I saw.”

Mike grumbled. “Maybe that’s what he wanted you to see.”

Sergeant Tomlinson stepped up on the stage, escorting Earl. “Got a minute, Mike?”

“Yeah. What?”

“This guy owns the place.”

“I know.”

“And he can ID the corpse.”

“ ’Zat a fact.” Mike’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about that.”

Earl held up his hands. “Now, don’t go gettin’ the wrong idea. I just know her, that’s all. Known her for years.”

“Uh-huh. What’s her name?”

“Lily.” Earl said the name soft and breathlessly. “Lily Campbell. She sang as the Cajun Lily.”

Mike continued scribbling. “She sang?”

“Lord, did she ever. She could put a spin on a song that would crumble your heart. She had a way with—”

Mike cut him off. “Just give me the facts, okay?”

Earl cleared his throat. “She was a hot number on the jazz circuit, back twenty odd years ago. ’Specially in this part of the country.”

“And you knew her?”

“Oh, yes,” he said softly.

“How well?”

His eyes darted toward the door where he had last seen Lily’s remains. “Very well.”

“Seen her lately?”

“No. But I got a phone call from her yesterday. Out of the blue. You can’t imagine how surprised I was. I thought she’d forgotten all about me. But no, she still remembered, and she knew about my club. Said she wanted to see me; said she had somethin’ to tell me.”

“Did she say what?”

“Not a clue. Just said she’d meet me at the club tonight, before the show started.”

“And?”

Earl looked at him helplessly. “She never showed up.”

Mike arched an eyebrow. “I think she did.”

“Well, I mean—” Earl became flustered. “I mean—hell.”

Ben laid a comforting hand on Earl’s shoulder. “Take it easy, Earl. Just tell your story.” Ben knew the man was caught up in the circumstances, confused. But unfortunately, he was acting like someone with something to hide.

“I mean she didn’t meet me beforehand,” Earl said finally. “I never saw her. Not till she took the tumble off that goddamned light.”

“I see.” Mike resumed scribbling. “Any idea how she got up there?”

Earl shrugged. “No idea. It’s a strong lamp and not that high off the stage. ’Spose anyone coulda propped her up there.”

“Anyone taller than Ben,” Mike remarked. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t eliminate many suspects. In fact …”

He didn’t have to finish his sentence. They could all see that Earl was almost a foot taller than Ben. Standing on the piano bench, he could have reached the light with ease.

“Ben tells me he fiddled with the light before rehearsal, an hour or so ago, and there was no corpse there.”

Earl nodded. “Right. I remember.”

“After rehearsal, Ben tells me there was only about a ten-minute break between the time he left the stage and the time he saw you outside.”

“I ’spect that’s right.”

Mike took a step toward Earl. “Mind telling me where you went after you left the club?”

“Well, I—I—” Earl’s lips went dry, and he seemed to be having trouble speaking. “I—”

“We’re waiting.”

“I went for a walk. Outside.”

Mike’s voice acquired a definite edge. “You went for a walk? Just before the show?”

Earl licked his lips. Beads of sweat were beginning to trickle down the sides of his head. “I—I was lookin’ for Lily. She hadn’t shown up yet and—”

“And you thought she might be walking around outside?”

“I thought she might be lost or somethin’. I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought. I just had to move.”

Mike folded up his notepad. “And let me guess. You were all alone during this walk. No witnesses.”

“Well …” Sweat continued to drip down his face, his chin. “I—well—”

Mike bore down on him. “Yes?”

“It’s like—I mean—”

“Let me get this straight. This is your club. You had access to the place where the body was found. You’re tall enough to reach the light fixture. And you’re the only one who seems to know the victim.”

“Well, I guess—”

Mike leaned into his face. “Are you sure there isn’t something more you’d like to tell me? Like maybe the truth!”

“I’m tellin’ you I don’t know what happened!”

Mike let out a disgusted snort. “Yeah, right.” He motioned to his assistant. C’mon, Tomlinson.

As they started off the stage, Mike called back, “Oh, and one more thing,
Uncle
Earl.”

Earl stopped in place.

“Tonight you give some real serious thought to coming clean and telling me the truth, understand? And whether you do or you don’t, I’d recommend you get a lawyer. You’re gonna need one.”

“A lawyer?” Earl raised his hands. “A lawyer?”

Ben squirmed uncomfortably. “It might be a good idea.”

“A lawyer?” He stared at Ben helplessly. “I can’t afford no lawyer. Where am I gonna get a lawyer?”

Ben looked away, not saying a word.

B
EN STOPPED MIKE
before he left the club. “Bit hard on him, weren’t you?”

Mike didn’t blink. “That’s my job.”

“What are you, a policeman or a terrorist?”

“I’m obligated to get facts out of people who customarily start out telling lies. Or embroidering the truth. I have to break through the deception somehow. And I’ve found the most effective way is to instill the fear of God. Or penal sanctions, at the least.”

“Seems brutal.”

“But it works.”

“Not tonight it won’t. Earl didn’t do this.”

“Says you.

“It’s true. I’m sure of it.”

Mike looked at him wryly. “But when the man freaked ’cause I told him he needed a lawyer, I noticed you didn’t jump to his rescue.”

Ben’s head dipped. “That’s different. I don’t practice anymore.”

“Not even for a friend in need?”

“Look, I’m trying to put that behind me, okay?”

“Like hell. You’re trying to pretend it never happened. These guys don’t even know you’re a lawyer, do they?”

Ben shook his head. “And I prefer it that way.”

“Don’t you think you’re carrying this a bit far?”

“You don’t know anything about it.”

“You haven’t told me what soured you after your last big case, true. But I can guess. I may know you better than you know yourself. And this I can tell you: it’s time for you to stop running and hiding and trying to be something you’re not.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Not you, too.”

“I don’t enjoy seeing you crawl under a shell any better than anyone else. You know what G. K. Chesterton said.”

“You know perfectly well I don’t.”

Mike held up his quoting finger. “ ‘Do not free a camel of the burden of his hump; you may be freeing him from being a camel.’ ”

“Very clever. And I gather I’m the camel?”

“Tell me something, Ben. Now that you’re a musician again, is it like back in the old days? Back when we played the college clubs and pizza parlors?”