The Boy Who Cried Freebird (25 page)

Part One

Ross Melboro was a young detective down at the Third Precinct. He'd only been with the homicide division for six months and had yet to see any action out in the field.

The workday had just begun when the chief walked out of his office and hollered, “Melboro, I want you to get right over to a murder site uptown and give Detective Kowalt a hand!”

Jim Kowalt was a veteran homicide detective, known in the precinct as a real hardnose who preferred to work alone.

Ross jumped up from his desk and said, “Sure thing, Chief, what's the situation?”

“You'll find out when you get there!” barked the chief. “Now move it! It's 1859 W. Center Street, Apartment 3-A; the victim's name was Manning.”

Jim Kowalt barely looked up when Ross arrived at the crime scene. “It looks premeditated,” he said through clenched teeth. There, facedown in the front room of the spacious apartment was a middle-aged
man sprawled out just a few feet away from an expensive stereo system. He'd been stabbed to death.

“He's been dead for at least eight hours,” Kowalt continued. “The upstairs neighbor called it in around three this morning. And whoever the murderer is, he's pretty cute.”

“Cute? I don't understand,” said Ross.

Kowalt pointed beside the body, “See this? Whoever stabbed him used an icicle or something that melted away, eliminating the possibility of finding the murder weapon or fingerprints. It's the oldest trick in the book.”

“It must have been someone he knew,” Ross suggested. “I mean, the murderer had to get pretty close to stab him in the back like that.”

Jim Kowalt looked disdainfully at the young detective. “Come on, rookie,” he said. “Let's go have a chat with that upstairs neighbor.”

The two walked up a short flight of stairs. Ross examined the back of Jim Kowalt's crew cut as the elder detective knocked on the door. A small, frightened-looking man answered and let them in. He gave his story to the detectives in a faint, breathy voice.

“I kept calling downstairs because the music was so loud,” explained Thomas Wolley. “He's directly below me so I can hear right through the floor. Mr. Manning didn't answer his phone, so I finally went down there and knocked. Nobody answered, but the door was open a crack and I kept yelling, ‘Hello! Hello!' I thought he couldn't hear me because of the music being so loud, so I peeked inside. That's when I saw him in the front room. It was horrible.”

Since he considered himself part of the investigative team, Ross started in on the questioning, “So, did you know the victim well, Mr. Wolley?”

“Actually, I'd only spoken with him once before,” the neighbor replied. “That was about the loud music, too. He was always blasting
his stereo in the middle of the night. But Mr. Manning worked very strange hours and he usually left the house by four every morning, so I never actually saw him face-to-face.”

“Well, tell me, Mr. Wolley,” said Kowalt. “Did you hear anything else before you went downstairs, perhaps an argument or a struggle of some sort?”

“No, Detective,” Wolley replied.

Unsatisfied, Kowalt prodded further. “I thought you said that you could hear right through the floor.”

The upstairs neighbor was clearly upset. “I didn't hear anything like that,” he insisted. “The music was awfully loud, that's all—I couldn't hear myself think. The whole experience was a nightmare!”

Detective Kowalt stood up abruptly and handed the man his card. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Wolley. I'm sure this all was very traumatic for you. If anything else comes to mind please give us a call.”

As they walked back down the stairs Ross turned to Jim Kowalt and said, “Hey, why'd you cut it off up there? That guy knew more than he was saying.”

Kowalt sneered, “Listen, golden boy, you follow my lead. Understand? I got everything I need from our Mr. Wolley. Besides, the chief didn't send you down here to ask questions.”

Ross was already resenting his new partner. “So, why did he send me down here?” he asked.

“Well, you're still in your twenties,” Kowalt answered.

“So, what does that have to do with it?” Ross said defensively.

“Well,” said Kowalt. “The victim was a semifamous, financially successful, and not always well-loved radio personality—a shock-jock. Supposedly, he made guys like Howard Stern sound tame.”

The detectives reentered the victim's front room and sat down on the couch not far from the body.

“But why did I get assigned to this case?” Ross asked again, averting his eyes from the corpse.

Jim Kowalt seemed embarrassed as he answered, “Well, the victim was holding a CD box in his hand, and the corresponding CD was in his stereo system.”

“A jewel case,” Ross said quietly.

“What? No, nothing like that,” Kowalt snapped. “Nothing seems to be missing from the apartment and the guy didn't have any jewelry.”

“No,” Ross said with more authority. “A jewel case, that's what the plastic CD boxes are called.”

“Well, that's why you got assigned to this case,” Kowalt said. “I've already had the CD and the ‘jewel case' sent downtown for fingerprints and DNA samples.”

Ross was eager to hear more. “So, what CD was it?” he asked.

“Well, that's another thing,” Kowalt answered, “apparently it was a custom-made job comprised of different songs by different artists.”

“A mix-tape,” said Ross.

“A tape? No!” Kowalt growled, “I said it was a CD, not a tape.”

“No, that's what you call it,” Ross insisted. “A mix-tape. That's what people call custom-made collections. I guess you'll need to show me the track listing. Was it written by hand?”

Kowalt squinted at Ross and hissed, “The what listing?”

Ross blurted back, “The track listing—the song list, whatever! I just want to know if there were songs listed on the CD box and if so, were they written by hand?”

“I thought you said it was a jewel case,” said Kowalt.

Ross was frustrated with his senior partner. He tried again, “Okay, yes, the song list that came with the jewel case. Now, please tell me, was there a track listing and was it handwritten or not?”

Detective Kowalt looked out the window, sighed, and said, “Well,
yes and no. There was a ‘track listing' but it wasn't handwritten and it wasn't typewritten either. It looked more like a CD that you would buy in the store.”

“Probably computer generated,” Ross muttered.

“What? The music?” Kowalt asked.

“No, the graphics,” Ross said.

The two men sat in stony silence as Alex Manning's body was taken down to the police ambulance. After a few uncomfortable minutes, Ross tried to resume the discussion, “So, is there anything else on the CD box besides a list of the songs?”

The older detective smiled. “Jewel case,” he whispered. “It's a jewel case, right?”

Ross Melboro's neck flushed crimson as he spoke deferentially, “Right, a jewel case. But is there anything else printed on it or not?”

Detective Kowalt leaned back on the couch and stretched. He put his feet up on the coffee table and answered, “Well, yes. In two places—on the front and on the spine. It says, ‘4-AM.'”

“So,” asked Ross, “do you think this was a CD that the victim listened to early in the morning?”

“Well, maybe. But I wish it was that simple,” said Kowalt. “You see, the victim's name was Alex Manning. His initials are AM. This complicates matters and we have to eliminate several possibilities.”

“You don't think the murderer gave Manning the mix-tape as some kind of message or threat!” Ross exclaimed.

“Well, it's possible,” answered Kowalt. “But there are other considerations.”

Ross looked warily at the older detective and said, “Such as?”

Kowalt's sarcastic voice took on a singsong quality, “Such as, the victim's radio show was on the AM band during the morning drive time. So, besides representing Alex Manning's initials or a home listening
schedule, ‘4-AM.' could also mean ‘For AM,' or maybe ‘For
A.M
.,' as well as ‘Four
A.M
.,' get it?”

“Got it,” said Ross.

“Good,” said Kowalt. “Because there's also the possibility that the victim may have made the mix-tape for somebody else. And if that's true, then there's an entirely different set of clues in the ‘track listing' as to who the murderer might be. That's where you come in. But any way that you look at the mix-tape murder mystery, we already have several suspects.”

“Whom,” said Ross. “It's not who the murderer might be, it's whom.”

Jim Kowalt stared incredulously at his young partner. “I don't think so,” he replied. “Anyway, we have to talk to the victim's son this afternoon—he'd just started living with the victim before this happened. The son is twenty-two years old and the product of a marriage long lost to divorce. Of course, he claims that he slept at his girlfriend's house last night. And guess what his name is—Alex Manning Jr.—another AM! The kid had a stormy relationship with his old man, but he's the only heir and in line to inherit a small fortune.”

“So, that's a motive,” Ross said.

“Well, maybe, but it gets better,” replied Kowalt. “Manning had a sidekick on the radio, this ethnic chick that always laughed it up when he insulted his guests or came on to the bimbos. Her name is Alesha Martinez—AM again. Haven't you heard of these people? They were a radio team for nearly ten years. Interestingly, they had a fight about a month ago. It was their first on-air dispute and apparently it sounded real and quite bitter. The station got hundreds of calls and e-mails, mostly begging for them to kiss and make up. And get this, they didn't speak to each other on the air for almost three weeks.”

“So, what was the argument about?” Ross asked.

“Well,” said Kowalt, “our victim was sleeping with one of the girls at the station who worked in advertising or sales or something like that. Manning would call her up and talk to her as part of the show. Sometimes their conversations would get pretty suggestive. They were a big item around town for a few months.”

“And then?” Ross inquired.

“And then Manning dumped her,” said Kowalt. “He broke up with her right on the show and started putting her down pretty bad. This seemed to set off his co-host—Alesha Martinez literally raged at Manning, confronting him on the program for being a self-centered misogynist who didn't know how to treat a woman, et cetera. They eventually worked out their differences and everyone had supposedly moved on.”

Ross felt voyeuristic when he asked, “Did they have a relationship?”

Kowalt snorted, “You mean were they fucking? Well, there was always some speculation but they never acknowledged it one way or the other. Good for the ratings I suppose. They were tight though—that much is for sure.”

Ross Melboro began brainstorming with his new partner, “You know, Alesha Martinez could have been jealous of Manning's girlfriend, but maybe she was jealous of Manning. I mean—maybe this Martinez likes girls.”

Then Ross asked, “Hey, the ex-girlfriend in sales at the radio station, what's her name?”

Jim Kowalt smiled and said, “You won't believe it.”

“Try me,” Ross insisted.

“Her name is Angie Madison,” said Kowalt.

“Damn,” said Ross.

Jim Kowalt let a few moments pass and then muttered, “Well, there is one more thing.”

Ross looked wearily at the veteran detective and said, “So, what's that?”

Kowalt pulled his reading glasses down from the top of his head, examined a few pages in his small green notebook, and said, “Well, Manning had a rival at another radio station. They would harass each other with elaborate pranks on the air. Last month, they ran into each other, twice at public functions. Both times things got physical between them. Supposedly they really hated each other and had taken to calling it a blood feud.”

“Okay,” Ross sighed, “what's the rival's name?”

Kowalt closed the green notebook, pushed his glasses back onto the top of his head, massaged his crew cut, and said, “John MacKay, of ‘Mac in the Morning' fame.”

“Well, at least he's not another AM—that's something,” Ross laughed.

“Not exactly,” said Kowalt.

“What does that mean?” groaned Ross.

The older detective bolted to his feet and said, “His nickname is Ace, Ace MacKay. Now let's get something to eat before we talk to Manning's son, I'm starved.”

Part Two

The detectives visited Alex Manning Jr. at his girlfriend's apartment. It was only a short drive from the victim's neighborhood. The son answered the door unshaven with watery eyes and a sluggish manner. Ross thought that the guy looked like he was on drugs.

Jim Kowalt was already on the hunt and began, “We're sorry for
your loss, Mr. Manning. But you didn't really like your father very much, did you?”

Alex Jr. seemed unsettled by this comment as they sat down at the kitchen table. But he admitted that it was true, he hadn't gotten along with his father at all.

“I only moved in with him because my mom finally remarried and moved out to the suburbs,” he explained. “I wanted to be closer to my girlfriend here in the city and my dad said that he didn't care. So I gave it a shot.”

Kowalt continued to push the younger Manning, “The two of you argued quite a bit, didn't you?”

“Yes, but that's the way he was with everybody,” the son said sadly. “My father was always arguing. He loved to pick fights so I started staying over here and would only go by his place to get some money or raid the refrigerator.”

The young man became visibly angry as he spoke. “Besides, it was impossible to get any sleep over there because he would be up at night before going to work and played his music incredibly loud. I guess the neighbors complained because the police came several times when I was staying there. The only thing that we ever agreed on was that we both liked Frank Zappa.”