Dead Wood (13 page)

Twenty-nine

I
knew a guy in college who was planning on going into law enforcement, too. He was a beast of a guy, 6’ 6”, nearly 400 pounds. His name was Nick Henderson but his terribly original nickname was “House.” He ended up not being a cop, which had been his plan. In fact, he never finished college, never even got his degree because he beat the shit out of some frat boy. The Delta Chi ended up with a fractured skull and House ended up having all kinds of legal problems. Anyway, he’s now a guard at Jackson State Prison, located appropriately in Jackson, Michigan, an hour or so west of Detroit. Probably the better place for him than on the suburban streets of America. His brand of justice was perfect for a maximum security prison.

After a few minutes of searching for the number, calling the prison and getting transferred a couple times, I finally got a hold of him.

“House,” I said. “It’s John Rockne.”

There was a brief moment while I could practically hear him searching his mental Rolodex. It sounded a little rusty. Finally, he said, “Hey, man, how ya’ doin’?”

His tone was warm enough even though we’d never been really good friends. Still, a guy that size, you never want to make an enemy.

“Good, good. How are you?” I said.

“Drinkin’ beer and crackin’ skulls, my friend.”

“Good times,” I said. Good Lord.

He laughed and said, “What’s up? You need a job?”

He’d obviously heard about the end of my career a few years back. Apparently he thought my failures had continued. Maybe that was his impression of me from way back then.

“No, I actually wondered if you ever knew an inmate named Rufus Coltraine,” I said. “He just turned up dead and may have something to do with a case I’m working on.”

“What do you mean you’re working on it?” he said.

“I’m a P.I.”

“Oh.” In the background I could hear some shouting and the occasional slam of a metal door. It was beyond me how someone could choose to work at prison. It was a dirty job, but I guess someone had to do it. And I guess no one was better suited for it than House.

“I can’t say I know anything about him, John,” he said. “I think he was in Cell Block D and I spend most of my time down on A and B.”

“Do you know anyone who works on D?” I said. “Someone who might talk to me?”

“Hmm. You could try Joe Puhy. He’s the guy on D and could probably tell you all about Coltraine. I don’t know how much he’ll cooperate, but offer to buy him a couple beers. That might do the trick.”

“Okay,” I said. “How can I get a hold of him?”

“I can transfer you if you want.”

“All right,” I said. “Thanks a bunch, House.”

“Sure. Good luck, man. Keep in touch.”

“I will,” I said and then I heard a beeping and slight static. After twenty seconds or so a tired, slightly grizzled voice said, “Puhy.”

I introduced myself, told him that House had transferred me to him, told him about the premature ending to Rufus Coltraine’s life, and then asked if he knew anything about his former inmate.

“What do you want to know?” he said. With a voice that wasn’t exactly Welcome Wagon caliber.

“Did he seem like the kind of guy who would run out and OD as soon as he got out?” I said.

“Who fucking knows what they’ll do once they get out?” he said. “Some of the most normal, well-adjusted guys go out and commit a murder just to get back in. Quite a few even kill themselves.”

I could see Puhy was a real student of human behavior.

“If you had to guess, Mr. Puhy,” I said. “Would overdosing on heroin seem like behavior consistent with Coltraine?”

“Nah, I guess not,” Puhy said. “He was into music and that kind of shit. But you never know. They get a taste of freedom, they want to taste a few other things, too. I’ve seen so many guys who’d changed their lives inside and then a few months later, they’re back after going on some kind of drug or violence spree.”

“Did anyone ever come and visit him?” I said.

“Not that I know of. He didn’t have any pictures of family in his cell,” he said. “I think they were in Tennessee or something. I thought that he would go down there when he got out. But I don’t think he got any letters that I can recall.”

“Anything interesting about the people he hung around with?”

“No, but he was a pretty social guy.”

“What kind of music did he play?”

“A mixture. Blues. Rock. Some jazz. He was pretty good.”

“Did he play the guitar?”

“How’d you know that?”

“Just a hunch.” So Rufus Coltraine was a musician, gets out of prison, kills a woman who makes special guitars, maybe sells one, buys drugs and overdoses. On the surface, it made a certain kind of sense.

“Yeah, he was pretty serious about the music,” Puhy said, warming up slightly to the subject. “I think he had something going on. Like he could do something with it once he got out. But I don’t know if that was just a pipe dream or what.”

Maybe Rufus felt like he needed a special guitar or two to make his big break. What had Clarence said to me, about how well Jesse’s guitars recorded?

“Look, I gotta get back to work,” Puhy said.

“If I have any more questions can I call you back?” I said to Mr. Puhy.

Puhy hesitated.

“Maybe we could meet and I’ll buy you a few beers,” I said.

“No problem,” Puhy said. “I’ll be around.”

I started to say goodbye but all I heard was the sound of a metal door slamming and then a dial tone.

•  •  •

It’s rare that a case of mine will collide with a case of my sister’s. I’m usually involved before crimes happen. The husband’s cheating on the wife. The guy who’s getting disability pay is going for the bocce championship in Windsor. You get the idea. My sister, on the other hand, shows up after the cheating husband is run over by the cuckolded wife. Or after the guy on disability takes a potshot at the insurance investigator.

But when our cases do run together, there are a few benefits. I get to use Ellen’s resources, chief among them. Computer databases. Addresses. Phone numbers. Unofficial police approval to bend a few rules. I’ve gotten help with parking tickets as well. Free coffee and the occasional donut, too.

I parked the white Sunbird in the farthest corner of the police department’s parking lot and went inside. Ellen was in one of the briefing rooms so I waited in her office. She had told me that she missed being on patrol, that it was getting harder and harder to keep in shape considering how much time her ass was planted in the chair. The price of being in upper management, I guess.

There was a police magazine on her desk and I started reading about the latest weapons. By the time Ellen came in ten minutes later, I was ready to buy an automatic pistol that held seventeen rounds and came with a laser guide and a night scope.

“What do you want,” she said, with all the enthusiasm of a middle-aged man submitting to a prostate exam.

“Big meeting?”

“Big laughs,” she said, smirking.

I waited for the punchline.

“That conference room looks out on the parking lot. We saw this middle-aged loser pull up in a white Sunbird. Trying to park as far away as possible to avoid the humiliation. It didn’t work.”

“It’s a rental.”

“All this schmuck needed was a bald spot and a gold chain and we’ve got a mid-life crisis in full alert.”

“If that was a meeting about Rufus Coltraine I’m mad I wasn’t invited,” I said, ignoring her delight at my ride. Actually, the more she made fun of me, usually the better her mood. Sometimes, though, it was just the opposite. I wondered if she’d found something out, and more importantly, if she planned on sharing.

“It was and your invite must’ve gotten lost in the mail.” Her expression resembled newly dried concrete. Flat, emotionless and no sign of cracks.

“What’d you find out?” I said.

“None of your fucking business, Mr. Sunbird.”

I waited a moment then said in my most caring, parent voice possible, “Mom and Dad were very clear on the importance of sharing.”

She sat down and rubbed her hand over the top of her head. In Ellen’s repertoire of tells, this meant she was frustrated.

“All the music stores and pawn shops turned up squat,” she said. “No Rufus Coltraine. No Jesse Barre guitar. We even sent emissaries down to fucking Toledo. No dice. If he hawked a guitar, it most likely wasn’t around here.”

“And if he didn’t hawk it,” I said, “How’d he get the dope and why was a valuable guitar sitting in his apartment?”

“Twenty bucks buys enough dope for what he had in him,” she said. “You don’t need a guitar for that.”

I didn’t rise to the bait. Instead I said, “How’d you get the call on him?”

“Landlord. Neighbor said they saw someone in that apartment doing drugs.”

“Which neighbor?”

“Landlord didn’t know.”

I nodded. “Ever hear that one about the big pink elephant in the room?”

She crossed her eyes at me.

“They say it’s like living with an alcoholic who won’t admit the problem,” I said. “It’s like a big pink elephant sitting in the room but every one pretends it’s not there.”

When she saw where I was going, she flushed a little.

“Coltraine was set up,” I said. “No one wants to admit it, but he was.”

“Prove it,” she said.

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“No, you’re speculating.”

“Which is the first step in proving something,” I pointed out.

“I need evidence.”

Which meant that maybe Ellen felt something was wrong but didn’t want to come out and say it.

“Right now I’ve got evidence that links Rufus Coltraine to the murder of Jesse Barre,” she said. “Maybe he was walking by, saw her in the workshop alone, and did what he felt he had to do. Maybe he killed her and then got high right away, planning to sell the guitar later.”

“What about the Shannon Sparrow guitar?” I said. “Where’s that?”

She didn’t have an answer for that.

Her phone rang and she picked up the receiver, “Hold on just a second,” she said. She grabbed a few sheets of paper and shoved them at me then lifted her chin at the door.

“The Sunbird is calling,” she said.

Thirty

M
y mind was on Jesse Barre. Thoughts about the case were hopping and skittering across my brain like stones skipped across a lake. Rufus Coltraine, aspiring musician, dead from an overdose. The connections started to come fast and furiously. I had a sudden, urgent desire to learn more about Shannon Sparrow. After all, it was her guitar that was missing. She had a link to the deceased. By the nature of her occupation, she had a link to the dead ex-con. And there was something about her and her people that made me want to dig. I don’t know if it was the arrogance of her manager, or the seediness of the hangers-on, or maybe just Shannon herself.

I fired up the Internet and after less than an hour, I’d dragged about fifty articles onto my desktop. I tried to read them in a rough chronological order and by the time I’d gone through five or six, I started speed reading, passing over the expected redundancies. There were the obvious details: an early gift for music, a great ear, a few important teachers and breaks along the way.

And then there were a few surprises. Her parents had both died in a plane crash in Mexico a few years before their daughter broke through. There were unsubstantiated rumors of drug use that may or may not have had anything to do with the tragedy.

Shannon had apparently moved on. There had been an early marriage that according to what I could find, had lasted less than a year. She had been young, probably seventeen or so.

The next twenty articles or so all said the same thing, talking about what kind of makeup she wore, which boy toy she was currently seeing, her inspiration for her latest album. I noticed that not long after she really exploded – when her first hit began to climb the charts and she signed on with powerhouse manager Teddy Armbruster, all the articles started to sound the same. In fact, they’d changed from the more direct, more honest appraisals to a glossy version, highlighting all that was great and grand about Shannon Sparrow.

By the time I was three-quarters of the way through my cyber stack I realized I wasn’t going to find anything else. I started to drag the whole fucking mess into my trash can and then I stopped. Maybe if I went back through the articles and information before she signed on with slick Mr. Armbruster there would be something I could uncover. So I trashed the later articles and made a folder for the earlier stuff then dug in.

After another half hour of poring over most of the articles I’d already skimmed I came across a surprise. It was a reference in one article to a different interview Shannon had done. In the current article, Shannon wouldn’t talk about it. The reference was to a magazine called “Women on the Rock.”

I immediately searched and found that the magazine was defunct. Still, I wasn’t about to give up. I did a search for the individual Women on the Rock issue that featured Shannon’s controversial interview and found two links. One took me to one of those annoying ‘page not found 404’ messages.

The other one led me to pure gold.

A devoted fan of the magazine had put all the issues online and I found the one I was looking for. It had each page scanned like microfilm in the library.

Apparently the magazine was for women recovering from domestic violence or abuse of some kind. And the article was really small, just a sidebar interview of sorts, but in the interview Shannon was asked about her first marriage. She said the marriage was stormy, that there was abuse, and that she’d finally found the strength, mainly through her music, to get out of the situation. It was one of the last things she said in the interview that caught my eye. When asked about where her ex-husband was now, Shannon replied, “where he belongs.”

Alarm bells started going off and I immediately went back to the computer. I did a search under different headings for Shannon Sparrow’s ex-husband. Three search engines turned up nothing but then finally I hit paydirt.

The article was from the Free Press, nearly eight years ago, just before Shannon’s career took off. It was a short article, just a few paragraphs:

DETROIT MAN CONVICTED OF ATTEMPTED MURDER

AP-Laurence Grasso, 30, of Detroit was convicted in Wayne County Circuit Court of first-degree attempted murder, intent to commit bodily harm and violation of a restraining order. He has been sentenced to 35 years in prison. Grasso, married briefly to singer Shannon Sparrow, will be eligible for parole in 15 to 20 years.

I hit print and soon my printer was spitting out a copy of the article. I went back to the Internet and did a search for Laurence Grasso. I immediately got a hit.

It was again from the Free Press and it was a few weeks after the first article. It contained only one nugget of information, but it was big enough to make me sit back and take a deep breath. The article detailed where Mr. Grasso would be serving his fifteen years.

The same location Rufus Coltraine had called home.

A little place in the country called Jackson State Prison.