The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (54 page)

Doherty chose to end the confrontation. He glared at Berenger and then turned to a whiteboard.

Bastard
, Berenger thought.
And I don’t need the damned Superintendent’s permission to carry my weapon. That’s bullshit and Doherty knows it.

He wanted it
now
, damn it. He felt incomplete.

“All right, everyone,” Doherty began. “Mister Berenger did provide us with a description of the woman, although he didn’t see her face. She’s a female white, slim, around five feet, seven inches tall. Blonde hair to her shoulders. Pale complexion. Athletic and in shape. Age undeterminable. Now, thanks to our friends in the Evanston police force, and thanks to our colleagues in Area Four, we’ve amassed a collection of case files on all of the shootings of these musicians. I know we were reluctant to admit that the crimes were related, but it looks now as if they are. The Garriott murder busted the case wide open and now the whole world is looking at us. I don’t like heater cases, but we’ve got one and we have to work with it.”

Doherty spent the next thirty minutes going over details from the four crime scenes that were similar—things Berenger already knew. Ballistics tests from the rounds recovered from the bodies of the Kriges, Monaco, Palmer, and Nance proved that they were fired from the same weapon. However, because they were nine millimeter bullets, they could have come from a variety of handguns. “I suspect that rounds recovered from Mister Garriott will be the same,” Doherty said.

Aren’t you smart?
Berenger thought to himself. He raised his hand.

Doherty shot eye-daggers at the PI for interrupting him. No one did that, especially civilians who had no right to be in a Chicago PD task force meeting. He finally acknowledged the upraised arm. “Yes, Mister Berenger?”

“What about the CDs found at the crime scenes?”

Doherty blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The compact disks. I know there were CDs with songs recorded on them found at each of the crime scenes. Except the one last night, of course. The shooter didn’t have time to leave one, unless it was already hidden before the shooting and no one has found it.”

“How do you know about the CDs, Berenger?”

The PI shrugged. “I just do.”

Doherty scanned the room for any sign that one of his team members was the guilty party who divulged classified information. Luckily, Case made an impenetrable poker face.

“Berenger, you are indeed well informed. Yes, there were CDs left at the crime scenes, and no, there was not one left at Reggie’s Music Joint.”

“I’d like to hear them, sir.”

“Why?”

“They could contain valuable clues as to who the killer is.”

“I’ve listened to them and some of our other detectives have listened to them. We don’t think there are any clues on the CDs.”

“With all due respect, sir, how much do you know about rock and roll?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m an expert on rock and roll. I might be able to hear something you didn’t.”

“Only select members of the Task Force will be allowed to listen to the CDs, Berenger. Last time I looked, you were not a member of the Chicago Police Department. You’re a guest in this meeting.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to share the disks with me?”

“That’s right, Berenger. I’m going to ask you to leave the crime-fighting to us. I can’t force you to leave our fair city and butt out of the investigation, but I do believe that the party who hired you to come to Chicago is now
dead
. The City of Chicago is certainly not going to pay Rockin’ Security for you to continue your investigation. So I suggest you and your pretty partner go home.”

Berenger felt Prescott bristle beside him.

Doherty didn’t wait for a response. He turned back to the group and continued. “You each have a folder containing some mug shots. We’ve put together a group of suspects. You’ll all be assigned to track these people down and bring them in for questioning. To be honest, I don’t put a lot of stock in most of them—they appear to be long shots. However, there is one suspect at the top of the list and I want us to take a good long look at him.”

Him?
Berenger wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

Doherty held up a mug shot of a man in his forties. He wore makeup—eyeliner, eyeshade, and lipstick—but it had smeared during his arrest process. “This is Felix Bushnell. He’s an ex-con and he has a history as a cross dresser. He was pinched in the eighties for peeping tom activity and indecent exposure. Got probation. He was arrested in nineteen-ninety-two and served six years in the state pen for armed robbery. His M.O. was dressing up as a woman and robbing people on the street. Very similar to what we have now—the only difference is that he didn’t kill anyone back then. It’s possible his crimes have escalated. Another consideration is that the robberies he committed were all after rock concerts. He targeted kids and young adults leaving various Chicago venues—you know, they were high or drunk after a show, making them easier victims. Currently lives in the Belmont and Clark area in an apartment above a sex shop.”

Berenger took Case’s copy of the mug shot and looked at it. Felix Bushnell was terribly ugly. The PI tried to imagine what the guy might look like wearing a blonde wig. He supposed it was possible Bushnell was the “woman” he had chased. The question was why would Bushnell want to start killing off rock musicians—and not rob them?

The meeting went on for another twenty minutes and Berenger tuned Doherty out. They had an appointment with Stuart Clayton sometime that day, and Berenger didn’t want to miss it. He needed to call the musician and set the time.

Finally, Doherty dismissed everyone and left the room. Mike Case rolled his eyes at Berenger and said, “Thanks for not giving me up on those CDs.”

“I’m not a rat, Mike. Your secret is safe with me. Just see if you can get copies so I can hear them. I’ve got to call Stuart Clayton. Suzanne and I are supposed to go see him.”

Prescott raised her eyebrows. “We’re staying?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re continuing with the case? Without Zach?”

“For now, yeah. Is that a problem?”

She shook her head. “No, boss.”

A young police officer approached Berenger and said, “Sergeant Doherty asked me to take you to fill out some paperwork on your handgun.”

Berenger looked at Case. “Do I really have to do this?”

Case sighed. “I’m afraid so. Sorry. It shouldn’t take more than an hour or two.”

Berenger groaned and went with the officer.

I
t was after sunset when Berenger and Prescott finally pulled up in front of Clayton’s house, which was located on Mango Avenue, just north of Irving Park Road. The paperwork Berenger had to fill out at the police station was ridiculous and time-consuming, and he knew Doherty had ordered it just to make the PI angry. There was an implication that if Berenger promised to get out of town, the return of his handgun could possibly be
expedited
. It was late afternoon by the time he finally phoned Clayton and made the appointment for that evening.

The neighborhood was middle-class but Clayton’s house might have belonged in the ghetto. Even in the dark it was an eyesore. The yard and flowerbeds were overgrown with weeds, the place was in serious need of a paint job, and most of the shingles had long disappeared from the roof. No outdoor lights were on but dim illumination could be seen through drapes behind a front window.

“Joe Nance was right about Clayton living in a dump,” Prescott said. “I bet his neighbors hate him.”

“The poor guy’s an invalid, you know.”

“What, he can’t hire a lawn service?”

“Maybe he doesn’t have a lot of money, Suzanne. What’s the guy live on? Surely not his record sales.”

“Sorry. You’re right.”

“Let’s go knock on the door.”

They got out of their rented Subaru and approached the door. Prescott found a bell and pushed the button. They didn’t hear anything, so Berenger knocked loudly. Nothing happened for thirty seconds, so he knocked again. Finally, there was the sound of shuffling feet behind the door.

“Who is it?” The voice was high, as if the speaker were frightened of whoever might be calling.

“Mister Clayton? It’s Spike Berenger and Suzanne Prescott from Rockin’ Security. We spoke on the phone earlier today, remember? We had an appointment?”

Nothing happened for a moment. Berenger looked at Prescott and made a face—
what do we do now?

But the lock rattled and the door creaked open.

The hallway was dark, so they saw only a silhouette of the man standing in front of them. He was of medium height and very thin. He supported himself on a cane, which he held in his left hand.

“Stuart Clayton?” Berenger asked.

“That’s me. Come inside.”

Distinct odors assaulted them as they stepped through the door. The stronger ones were of mildew and neglect, another being burned toast. Clayton closed and locked the door behind them, and then led them through the hallway and into a kitchen. The man walked slowly and with a limp, although not as pronounced as Berenger’s.

The kitchen was filthy. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink and appeared as if they’d been there for days, maybe weeks. Empty cans of food lay on their side and on the floor. A table that might have come from an abandoned diner was covered in stains. The refrigerator was old—probably from the sixties—and its motor made a gurgling, grinding noise.

“Sorry if the place is untidy,” Clayton said. “Have a seat.”

There were exactly three chairs around the table. They too appeared to be filched from a diner. The vinyl covering on all three was split in several places. Clayton lowered himself slowly into one of the chairs and hooked the handle of his cane on the edge of the table. Berenger and Prescott took the other seats.

Now that the man was in the light, Berenger thought that Stuart Clayton looked pretty much the same as he had when the PI first met him in 1979. Sure, he was older, gaunter, and most of his short, dirty brown hair had turned grey. The man’s skin was pasty white and creamy, as if he used moisturizer on a daily basis. Clayton’s sad, haunted eyes told the whole story—he was a man who was not well.

“Do you remember me now, Mister Clayton?” Berenger asked.

“You do look familiar, but I’m afraid I don’t. Sorry. My memory isn’t what it used to be. Please call me Stuart.” He turned to Prescott. “And if I’d known you’d have such a lovely sister, I would have told you to come sooner!”

Prescott smiled. “Thank you. I’m Spike’s partner, not his sister.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon. I must have misheard you. That happens a lot, too.”

Clayton had a voice high in timbre, but it was shaky and fragile—much the way he sounded on early Red Skyez records or his own solo albums. It was a singing voice that was an acquired taste for most listeners, but Berenger had always found it plaintive and poignant.

“Can I get you something to drink? I don’t have much to offer. Maybe some fruit juice?” He had addressed this to Prescott.

“No, thanks.”

“Thanks, Stuart, but we just had dinner,” Berenger said. “We’ll ask some quick questions and then get out of your hair.”

“All right.”

Berenger then noticed that the lower left quadrant of the man’s face was paralyzed. The left corner of his mouth refused to part when he spoke. A remnant of the man’s stroke, perhaps?

“I’m sure you’ve heard what has happened to your old musical colleagues?”

“Yes. It’s terrible. To tell you the truth, I’m afraid for my life. I told the police that when they came to see me but they don’t seem to want to protect me.”

“I understand they don’t have the budget to put extra men on protection duty, Stuart. I know it sucks, but there’s not a lot that can be done about it. Don’t you have someone to come to the house and help you out? You told me on the phone that you have a maid or nurse or someone?”

“I told you that? No, no. I
used
to have a nurse who’d look in on me twice a week. I think she got fed up with me. I can be a cranky old fart. She gave notice… let’s see… two weeks ago. I need to hire someone new.”

“Are you able to get the things you need? Food? Supplies? Medicine?” Prescott asked.