Rock & Roll Homicide (4 page)

Chapter 4

Kelly loves going to baseball games, though she doesn’t seem particularly attuned to what’s happening on the field. She grew up in a dysfunctional family with two alcoholic parents and two older brothers who followed their parents lead down the same road. Kelly got out at 18 to attend school on the East Coast, primarily to get away from the family. I think she likes engaging in what she perceives to be normal family activities. While I’m watching the game she does a lot of people watching, which is OK until she feels compelled to share. A little sharing is fine. Getting nudged in the bottom of the ninth with the game on the line is not.

We’re both constantly amazed that we are dating someone of Irish heritage. Kelly associates the Irish with alcoholism and her bad childhood. On the other hand, I think of how Mom had to spend so many lonely nights while Dad was hanging out with his Irish buddies. As a teenager I would feel guilty leaving her alone while I went out with friends or played gigs with the band. I grew up not far from San Diego’s Little Italy section and dated girls of Italian heritage almost exclusively, until I met Kelly just over a year ago.

As is our routine, I slept over at Kelly’s house Saturday night, and we planned to have brunch after reading the Sunday papers, then go our separate ways. However, about once every month or two the Kennedy clan goes on the warpath and calls Kelly to be the arbitrator of who’s right and who’s wrong. They used to call at all hours, sometimes from jail. About the time we started dating, Kelly laid down the law and told them if they called before 9:00 AM she would change her phone number and make sure none of them ever got it again. At 9:01 AM Sunday her phone rang and she talked with them for over an hour. When she finished she asked if we could spend the afternoon at the mall and take in a movie. I managed to negotiate a no chick flick codicil to the agreement, and we had a fun day.

On the drive home I cruised the neighborhood surrounding Cerise Records and got lucky on two counts. First, the building offers underground parking for employees, requiring a keycard for entrance. There are two, labeled visitor parking spots per tenant around the perimeter of the building. Second, there is a park directly across the alley from Cerise’s parking spots. Cory, my stakeout photographer, could easily sit at one of the picnic tables with a book and his trusty Nikon to keep tabs on the comings and goings of Cerise’s visitors. I called Cory and set up a meeting at the office for first thing tomorrow.

At 8:00 AM on Monday morning I met with Cory Pafford, who suffers from Tourette’s Syndrome. This is a very unusual psychological disorder that results in many victims uncontrollably uttering the foulest language you can imagine. Cory is forty years old and has been unable to hold a job for any length of time. He’s a truly gifted photographer who had a few of his photos printed in major magazines. Unfortunately, most of the steady jobs in photography involve working with journalists, babies, mommies and numerous others who are immediately incensed by the symptoms of Cory’s affliction. When I worked with him at the mental health center, I helped him get a job with a National Geographic journalist I had dated briefly. To make a long story short, apparently there is a lot more English fluency in Ecuador than you might imagine. When they got unofficially deported Cory got officially sacked.

Since most of the obscenities Cory spews are not germane to the conversation, I’ll spare you as much of it as I can. I laid out his assignment and sent him on his way.

At 10:30 AM I rang the doorbell of Doberman’s Stub bassist, Jack Pascal. He lives in a large old house in a lower-middle class neighborhood. On the outside, it looked like most of the other houses on the block, in need of a paint job and some minor repairs. Inside was a very different story. A small entranceway was kept to match the outside; undoubtedly to lead pop-in neighbors, girl scouts and delivery people to believe he was just like them. However, once we walked into the living room it was obvious that Jack had an artist’s eye for detail, and excellent taste.  The furnishings were modern, but not trendy. The art was phenomenal and his use of electronics to conceal computer, sound system and TV was inspired.

“I’ll bet the neighbors think you’re a regular Joe Lunchbucket,” I said.

“That’s the idea,” he said.

“Don’t they get curious when the bass riffs rattle their windows?” I asked.

“Check this out,” he said and led me out of the living room and into a room where all of the walls and ceiling were completely covered by one-foot square cubes, designed to absorb and dissipate sound. The soundboard, amplifier, speakers and cased guitars were all laid out and arranged as if he had prepped for an MTV Cribs photo shoot.

“If I had a set-up like this, my Dad could have actually spent time at home during my teenage years,” I said.

“You play?” he asked. I explained a bit of my background and he selected a gray suede case that housed a 1959 Gibson Les Paul. The neck was as straight as any new top-of-the-line guitar you could buy at a quality shop. Jack got us plugged in and we jammed for about 20 minutes.

“You sound familiar. Did you play the club scene?” Jack asked.

“Yeah. I played rhythm guitar and sang for a band called Tsunami Rush until three years ago,” I said.

“I heard you a few times. Good stuff. So, what do you want to know about Terry?” he asked.

“Could you take me through what happened the day he died?” I asked.

“OK. We all met at the Denny’s on Broadway, near the studio. I got there first and read the paper while I waited for the others. We ordered before Ian arrived, since he’s not very punctual. But, he was only about 15 minutes late, which is as close to on time as he gets,” Jack said.

“What did you talk about?” I asked.

“We covered the two songs we were going to be working on that day. We planned on finishing one up by early afternoon and starting on the other. Terry was excited about the second song. We had played it several times over the past month and Terry felt it had potential to be big. But, he also couldn’t get comfortable with Ian’s drum line. To me, it seemed like Terry was blaming Ian’s lifestyle for why it wasn’t coming out like he wanted it. But Ian was playing it like Terry was telling him. Terry was just having a time making it measure up to his standards. Ian had about two bites of his breakfast before he and Terry got into it. The argument accelerated quickly and Ian left with most of his breakfast still on his plate.”

“Did Nigel take sides?” I asked.

“No. We usually tried not to do anything that would get Terry pissed at us. Terry was a lot mellower when it came to playing Nigel’s compositions. If it wasn’t his baby he didn’t feel the need to be the parent,” Jack said.

“Were the headphones in Terry’s car while you were at Denny’s?” I asked.

“I guess so. He usually brought his recorder and headphones into the studio when he got there,” Jack said.

“Did you go straight from Denny’s to the studio?” I asked.

“I did. But I think Terry stopped at 7/Eleven for a gigantic iced tea. He’d work on it all day,” Jack said.

“Did he carry everything in one trip from the car?” I asked.

Jack replied, “I don’t think so. It was too much stuff. He also had a briefcase for his sheet music and notes.”

I asked, “Did he keep the headphones in the briefcase.”

“No,” he replied. “It was one of those thin, Italian leather cases. The headphones were big and bulky. He carried them and the portable recorder in a nylon carry bag. He’d bring his guitar home, too. So I’m sure he made more than one trip to his car, or had one of the studio guys help him.”

“Did he usually lock his car?” I asked.

“If he was going in the studio for the day he did. But he wouldn’t lock up in between trips to the car, I’m sure,” he said.

“What about a quick stop at 7/Eleven?” I asked.

“Probably not,” he replied.

“How about at Denny’s?” I asked.

“Probably yes, but I’m not sure. There’s a view of the parking lot at that Denny’s. But, his guitar was in there, so, I’m guessing he locked,” Jack said with an uncertain look on his face.

“Was the rep from Cerise Records at the studio when you arrived?” I asked.

“If we were there, he was there,” he responded.

“What’s your take on that guy?” I inquired.

“He creeps me out. He acts like he suspects everybody of everything and it’s his job to control through intimidation,” he said. “Most record companies ply their talent with hookers, booze and dope as an incentive to put out a hit. Cerise has Vlad the Impaler acting like we better make a hit or else!”

“Did you see him touch the recording equipment at any time?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“Is it possible he helped Terry carry in his stuff?” I asked.

     “I don’t know. He certainly wouldn’t offer, but Terry liked to butt heads with him and would tell him to do manual labor tasks just to piss him off,” Jack said.

“Would he do what Terry told him?” I asked.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Terry would tell him to make himself useful and not be the only one in the studio not earning his keep. Terry was very good at getting his way.”

“Did you see anybody else around the headphones?” I asked.

“Just our roadie, GI Jo-Jo. Terry would put his stuff on a bench by the door and Jo-Jo would put it where it belonged,” Jack said.

“Could Jo-Jo have carried the headphones into the studio that morning?” I asked.

“I wasn’t really paying that close attention. But, I heard one of the cops ask Ian that question and Ian said Jo-Jo was helping him realign the glass partitions in front of his drum set when Terry walked in. I guess Ian was trying something different to get Terry off his ass.”

I said, “Jack, you’re a bright guy. Who do you think killed Terry?”

“I’ve given it a lot of thought and here’s all I’ve got. Our name is Doberman’s Stub. Terry was definitely the Doberman. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. When dealing with record companies and promoters, every band could use a Doberman Pincher. If somebody pushed Terry, he would push back twice as hard. I’m a Golden Retriever myself. I’m convinced Terry was killed by a Pit Bull or another Doberman.”

As I drove away from Jack’s house I was starved and not very focused. I couldn’t get the dog analogy out of my mind. If Dad’s a Police Dog and Mom’s an Irish Setter, what am I? Should I drive to the pre-scene of the crime and check out Denny’s “Moons Over My Hammy” or drive straight to PetCo. for some kibbles and bits? My cell phone interrupted my ramblings. “Hello,” I said.

“Time to pay the piper,” said Walter Shamansky.

“Kojak! I thought you forgot all about me. Then again it is almost lunchtime,” I said with much enthusiasm.

“Not today. I’ve already got a date,” he said.

“Then what can I do for you?” I asked.

“Your boss is still number one in the charts for the homicide. But, in the interest of being thorough, I thought I’d give you a chance to see if there’s anything to her theory about the record company,” Shamansky said.

“Have you actually talked with John Koflanovich at any time?” I asked.

“He’s out of the country a lot. But, I see where you’re going. The Cold War is still very much alive at Cerise Records. Do I think they killed their top moneymaker? Not a chance. Business is business. It would be moronic. But, getting stonewalled by the Ruskies is enough to make me want to punish them by putting you on their tail,” he said.

“How about this? There’s a park on the other side of their building. Cerise has two visitor parking spaces facing the park and it also faces the entrance to the underground employee parking lot. I can put one of my staff members in the park with a camera to track the comings and goings of the employees and visitors. How does that sound?” I asked without telling him the plan was already in action.

“Staff members?” he queried with much skepticism.

“What’s so…?” I started to say when Shamansky cut me off.

“No wait. Don’t tell me. I got it. It’s an out of work keyboard player or some nutcase from the Mental Health Clinic,” he said ebulliently.

“Does SDPD have a policy against hiring the handicapped?” I asked.

“Aha! Nutcase it is! Do you expect me to rely on the work of a mental defect if I have to go to court?” he asked.

“He does stakeouts for me all the time. He’s a top quality photographer whose photos were published in National Geographic and other major publications,” I said with some pride.

“Tell me those other publications weren’t Hustler and other porno rags,” he stated.

“Nothing like that,” I said authoritatively.

“Can this guy testify if I need him on the stand?” he asked.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I said.

“OK. What’s his major maladjustment?” Shamansky asked.

“He has Tourette's Syndrome,” I replied.

“Oh that’s just great. I can see it now. The prosecutor says, ‘Mr. Pottymouth, tell us in your own words what you saw outside Cerise Records,’ and he says what?” Shamansky asked sarcastically.

I replied, “You don’t need to use him on the stand. His photos have time and date stamps. Didn’t you ever hear the expression, one picture is worth a thousand words?”

“Why don’t you personally sit on the place?” he asked.

“My pictures are awful. When they aren’t blurry it looks like I’m stalking Marie Antoinette,” I said. “Cory can get recognizable faces through rolled up windows of moving cars going in and out of that garage. I’ve seen them. They’re great.”

“In other words, Cory’s already there. This is no skin off your nose. So, I didn’t actually use up that favor. You still owe me,” he said.

“Great minds think alike,” I said.

“Then tell me when and where I’m thinking about viewing those Rembrandts,” he said.

“My intuitive powers are revealing an expensive, hillside eating establishment, sometime around lunch hour tomorrow,” I said with mystical inflection.

“Bingo! Make it 12:45,” he said and hung up.

While Jack Pascal chooses to blend into a working class neighborhood, Nigel tries to stand out in an upper class section of Rancho Santa Fe. The entrance to his driveway features a wrought iron gate adorned by two, rhinestone encrusted ceramic guitars. I cruised up a fifty-yard driveway with perfectly maintained flowerbeds on either side.