The Cin Fin-Lathen Mysteries 1-3 (28 page)

There comes a time in life when the knowledge gained by
television watching and reading books comes in handy.  It also allows us to
separate ourselves from the horror around us.  This is one of my explanations
for continuing to sit on the stage watching Carl.  The other, I was covered in
blood, Carl’s blood.

Two police officers dressed in motorcycle uniforms arrived
first followed by the paramedics.  After a cursory examination the EMTs
pronounced Carl dead of an accidental fall.  The Coroner was called. 

I pondered how the men could come to the conclusion that
Carl had died accidentally.  I calculated the odds of finding oneself impaled
on an uncapped microphone stand.  Adding to it the absence of horrific death
cries.  “There had been only one scream.  I fought myself to keep quiet.  I had
just a few months before been in the presence of death, some I caused.  This
wasn’t accidental.

They were going to move his body off the microphone stand
when I spoke up. “Why was there only one scream?”

“Excuse me?”  The closest officer swung around and gave me
his full six feet four inches of attention.

“Why didn’t he call for help?  We all heard the scream in
Phantom.”

“What’s Phantom.  What scream?”

“It was the piece of music the band was playing, and there
is
supposed to be a scream, but it wasn’t
that
scream.  Hell, I will show
you in the music.”  I started to get up, and the officer now looming over me
motioned me to stop.  “Anyway I heard - everyone heard - Carl scream, once and
then nothing else.  No moans, nothing.”

“You heard him scream and you did nothing?”

“I didn’t know it was Carl.  You see if you would let me get
you the music...”

“Ed, come over here,” the officer interrupted me again.  One
of the paramedics got up and walked over to us.  The officer discussed my
questioning the lack of screams coming from the victim with the EMT.  He
thought a moment before he walked back over to Carl.  He got out his flashlight
and started prodding around with a pencil in Carl’s open mouth.

“Bill, get me a tweezers.  No, something bigger,” Ed
directed his partner.  Bill came back with a needle-nosed pliers.  Its well
cared for long metal teeth, caught by the spotlight, shown viciously.  Ed had
Bill hold the light while he reached into Carl’s open mouth and probed.  The
EMT exhaled as he extracted an alto saxophone mouthpiece with reed and ligature
intact.  “There’s still something black down in his throat, but I can’t get
it.”

“That would probably be the mouthpiece cover,” I said
dryly.  I wondered if they could tell I was screaming in my head.  Oh why, oh
why, didn’t they cover him up?  The smell of the blood was making me nauseous.  I
so
didn’t want to puke in front of these men.  I was sitting onstage
covered in Carl’s blood, thanks to Miles.  I was tired, I never got my coffee,
and I had to pee.  What annoyed me most was that they were just standing there!
 They hadn’t even interviewed anyone.  I was well aware that these were
motorcycle traffic cops.  I was puzzled as to why traffic cops responded to a
murder.  Aren’t they just supposed to pull over speeders and ticket people?  I
mean if they had a suspect would they drape them over the seat of the bike like
in a western?  Plus, these were babies, young men with the gleam of innocence
in their eyes.  Well, someone had to be the adult here.  I ignored “Chips,” my
new name for the officer in reminiscence of my visit to Los Angeles, and
directed my question to the paramedics.  “How did the mouthpiece get in his
throat?”

“Excuse us for a minute.”  The group walked out of earshot. 
Finally Ed, I think it was Ed, by this time they all looked alike to me - men
in uniform would no longer thrill me in line at the checkout - anyway, Ed
walked over and said that they were going to call in Homicide and questioned
who the hell let the audience leave.  This may not have had been an accident.

“Murder?”

“Maybe.”

“Can I go p...to the bathroom?”

“Just don’t leave the building.  And don’t wash.”

“What?” I snapped.

“Leave the evidence alone.”

“Evidence.  I didn’t touch him.”

“The blood.”

“Oh.”  I walked across the stage to the dressing room where
there were facilities for the performers and waited till I was in the bathroom
in a stall before I let the tears flow.  Then I puked.  Thanks, Carl.

~

I stood at the sink, looked in the mirror and surveyed the
damage.  My performing ensemble was ruined.  The still wet blood had made dark
patterns in the black tuxedo jacket and pants.  Rust seemed to form were the
blood was drying. I started to feel faint so I grabbed the counter and focused
my brown eyes on my reflection.  I felt if I could look at myself long enough I
could get the image of Carl out of my mind.  My long red curls had escaped my
updo, and I do believe my hair was redder than I remembered on the ends.

I walked to the sink and washed my hands in rebellion,
savoring the feel of the warm water. A knock startled me, and I swung around to
see Chips red-faced in the doorway.  I didn’t know if his blush was caused by
the embarrassment of being in the ladies room or anger at my being gone so long. 

“Yes?” I asked quietly.

“Detective Curtis has arrived.”

“So.”

“He needs to talk to you.”  Taking a bold step into no man’s
land he grabbed my arm and guided me out the door.  Once in the hallway, he
nudged me forward and kept invading my personal space as we walked back out to
the stage. 

“You can back off Chi…  Officer, I’m not going anywhere,” I
snapped at him.

He didn’t, and by the time I crossed the stage I was really
upset.  Carl was still on his perch looking worse as time had not improved his
condition.  He did, however, have a couple of new guests to keep him company. 
A young blonde woman was taking pictures as a very large man with a clipboard
directed her.  The man stopped, looked at me and motioned me over to the side.

“You are the person that found the deceased?”  He puffed a
little as if talking was an aerobic event.

“Yes, I found him, er.”

“Detective Curtis.”

“Detective, I found him at the beginning of the
intermission.”

“What time would that have been?”

“Oh lord, I don’t know exactly.  We started at seven and
played five arrangements, and there were announcements in-between?”  I just
looked at him and shrugged.  “Seven fifty-five?”

“And Officer Dudley here says you heard a scream when?”

“A quarter of the way through
Phantom of the Opera
.  Which
was the third arrangement.”  I started to count on my fingers.  “First was the
Star
Spangled Banner
.  Oh let’s say, three minutes.  Then the
Barnum and
Bailey March
, announcer, blah blah blah, I would be guessing but I would
say Seven forty-five?  You could ask the conductor for his scores.  They have
time on them.”  I saw the blank stare.  I clarified, “How long the piece is. 
Did you say Officer Dudley?”  I glanced at the mentioned uniformed man. Brown
trousers hugged the muscled thighs of the man not unlike an equestrian, or a
Canadian Mounted policeman.

He looked up from his clipboard, locking his blue eyes on my
face.  “Yes, Officer Dudley.  You said seven forty-five?”

“As in Dudley Do-Right?” my lips twitched.  I rolled my eyes
and tried to contain the laughter that was bubbling to the surface.

Detective Curtis shot me a stern look that sobered me
instantly.  “I need you to walk me through the events of this evening, step by
step.”

“Can I ask you a question first?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The reason why I ask is.  No one here has asked me my name.
 You haven’t used it.  So I am a bit curious, who do you think I am?”

Detective Curtis scanned his paper and pulled up several
more papers underneath.  Shaking his head he read off “tall middle-aged woman.”

My sharp intake of air must have been quite audible because
he took a step backward as if to create a secure space between him and my
mounting anger.

“This tall middle-aged woman is getting a bit pissed.  I’m
tired of babysitting your patrol cowboys.  Dudley Do-Right has been pushing me
around, which is all he is good for.  Do you normally send out these brain
trusts or did they just happen by?”

“Miss.”

“Ms.  Ms. Cindy Fin-Lathen.  F I N hyphen capital L A T H E
N.”

“Calm down.  Ms. Fin-Lathen, I’m sorry if this looks like a
dog and pony show to you, but dispatch didn’t quite get the whole story when
they sent the officers.  They were just here to help the paramedics with the
accident.”

“Does that look like an accident?”  I pointed to Carl.

“It’s really too soon to tell.  I’ll wait for the coroner,
Doctor Monitor’s, decision on that.”  He absently pushed his callused hand
through his graying sandy hair.

“Come on Detective, he had a whole mouthpiece shoved down
his throat!”  I stuck my finger in my mouth and was rewarded with a gag.

“Maybe that happened in the fall.  After all he was carrying
his instrument.”

“I take it you don’t know much about musical instruments.”

“No.  Maybe you could enlighten me after I get your
statement?”  His eyes softened and this calmed me.  I took a deep breath and
walked him through the events of my finding Carl.  Detective Curtis was very
thorough and even let me show him where in the music the scream happened.  I
then pointed out where the scream was orchestrated to be.  He asked to keep the
music, and I said that I needed a copy of it because we only had one alto
clarinet part.  Nodding, he asked what an alto clarinet was, and I showed him
my instrument.  I held up my four foot long black Buffet Eb alto clarinet with
pride.  Not many people get to see an alto clarinet.  Most think it’s a skinny
saxophone.  I usually have to explain what it is so I prepared myself and
mentally loaded my mini lecture.

The detective reached out and took the instrument from me. 
He held it not as to play it but to determine if it could be used as a weapon.  He
slid his hands down from the mouth piece across the silver keys and down to the
silver bell at the bottom.  “What is that silver rod for?” he pointed to the
peg stand.

“It holds the instrument up in playing position so I don’t
have to with my arms. It’s heavy.”

“You’re pretty healthy.  Why would the weight be a problem?”
he said picking up the alto and testing the weight.

“Normally not, but I had an accident a year ago that left me
without three inches of my radius, one of the bones in my lower arm.  It
doesn’t connect into my elbow.  I can’t support my own weight and turning it
past this point is nearly impossible.”  I demonstrated.  “I can carry about ten
pounds and no pushups.  Not that I would want to do a pushup anyway.”

Detective Curtis put my alto down.  Reached out.  I gave him
my arm.  He pushed up my blood-crusted sleeve.

“Wicked scar, how did you do this?”

“Knife fight,” I said which wasn’t a total fabrication.  I
had been in a nasty knife fight, but it didn’t damage my elbow.

His right eyebrow went up mocking me.

“I fell off a motorcycle.”

More eyebrow action and his mouth twitched.

“Okay, surgery scar. I fell off a ladder.  I was painting.”  I
was unnerved at the attention I was getting.  “I didn’t kill, Carl, detective.”

He looked at me.  “I didn’t ask you if you did.”

“I just thought I would throw it out there, just in case you
were curious.”

He jotted something down on his clipboard.  “Is this where
you were sitting?”  He nodded and pulled out my chair.

“Yes.”

“And when did you notice that Carl wasn’t sitting in the
band?”

I thought about it for a moment before answering,  “We were
almost at the end of the Phantom piece.”

“Did you notice anyone else gone?”

I sat down and thought a minute.  “I could tell you who was
here directly in front of me, but in all honesty you would have to ask someone
like the conductor or someone in the audience about who was or wasn’t here.”

“I intend to ask the band members.  The audience is long
gone, which distresses me.  The whole way this was handled was poor, very
poor.”

“Most of them are season ticket holders.  You could ask
Miles for a list,” I said trying to be encouraging.

“Miles?”

“The stage manager.  Wait a minute, sometimes they videotape
a performance.  I remember that we had that option as long as we brought our
own tape.”

“We?”

“The band.  I don’t know, you could ask Miles about whether
or not there’s a tape.”

Smiling, Detective Curtis said, “I have a lot to ask Miles
it seems.”  Looking back through his papers, he asked, “Ms. Fin-Lathen, how did
you get so much blood on you?”