Dead_Wood

Twenty-seven

Molly instantly appeared and produced four backstage passes as if she’d been present during my conversation with Shannon. Maybe she had.

“She seems very normal and down-to-earth,” I said. I thought I saw a little smile creep onto Molly’s face. New in the self-help section of your local bookstore: “Building Better Relationships Through Sarcasm” by John Rockne.

She had walked me all the way to the front door without saying a word. Now, just as she was about to show me out, her pager went off.

“Hold on,” she said to me. She flipped open a cell phone and listened for a moment, then snapped it back closed.

“Teddy wants to see you,” she said.

“Who…” I started to ask, but she’d already turned on her heel and was headed back into the house. Thanks for asking, I thought. Why yes, I do have time to chat with someone else.

I caught up to her just as we entered what would normally be considered a library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, made of some dark wood like cherry or mahogany, surrounded the place and matched the dark wood trim throughout the room.

But under these circumstances, it wasn’t a study. It looked like some kind of slinky private room at a nightclub.

Chairs and sofas were scattered around, filled with what I assumed could euphemistically be described as “Shannon’s people.” There were probably about twenty of them all together. They were sort of an odd mixture. A few looked like New York runway models, some refugees from the 1970s, others prim and proper Wall Street types.

Now I knew where the term hangers-on came from. Maybe it should be changed to hang arounders. Because if there were ever a group of people who looked like they had no place to go, no job to do, not a care in the world, it was this group. Most of them were drinking. Beer, wine, cocktails. You name it. Same with the smoking. Cigarettes, cigars, joints, maybe even a crack pipe somewhere.

I wondered if they had business cards that simply said ‘Professional Leech.’

Music blared from some kind of sound system whose camouflage rendered it completely invisible. Not that it mattered, because guitars were being strummed, clashing with the music as well as with each other.

Of course, I shouldn’t have rushed to judgment. Maybe it was a high-powered business meeting. In fact, that thought led me to the man who appeared to be in charge.

He was seated in front of, rather than behind, a massive desk. He had a shaved head, a nice tan, and blue eyes. He reminded me of a college football coach. This, I assumed, was Teddy. And, listening to my private investigator’s hunch, I had a pretty good idea he would turn out to be Shannon’s agent or manager. P.I. talks to big star, manager wants to know why.

The suit he had on looked expensive. Fifteen percent of whatever Shannon Sparrow grossed was probably a pretty respectable annual take. Maybe, five or ten million?

He held a black cane over his knee. He smiled at me. His teeth were straight and a brilliant white. Behold the power of bleach.

I turned, expecting Molly to do the instructions, but she’d already gone. I admired her footwork. Doug Henning couldn’t have made her disappear any faster.

“The P.I.” he said. His voice was as smooth as his bald dome. If anyone noticed my arrival, they all hid it carefully. It seemed a safe bet that the stuff they were drinking and smoking held a lot more interest than I did.

“The manager,” I said.

He smiled. “Molly told you.”

“No.”

“Then…”

“Who else would you be? A roadie?”

Again, a lightly self-mocking laugh. He held out his hands and gave a little clap. Like I was a seal who’d just jumped through a hoop at Sea World. “Good point. I’m Teddy Armbruster.”

“John Rockne,” I said.

He folded his arms and watched me for a moment. I sensed it was going to be one of those little power struggle games. Make the uninitiated feel uncomfortable.

“Well, if that’s all you wanted,” I said and turned back toward the door.

“John,” he said.

I turned back. “Look, Teddy, I’ve really got to get going. Can you cut the dramatic power bullshit and tell me what you want?”

A few of the bloodsuckers lifted their heads up. It seems challenging Mr. Armbruster wasn’t the typical modus operandi.

“You’re direct,” he said. “I like that.”

He fixed those baby blues on me and said, “Did you get all of your questions answered? With Shannon?”

“For now,” I said.

“See, that’s why I wanted to talk to you,” he said. He set the cane on the desk behind him and folded his arms across his chest. It was quite a feat. Both his arms and his chest were pretty thick. I bet he had a Bowflex on his private plane.

Teddy said, “Shannon has to concentrate on the concert, which is only a week away. It’s a big deal, back home in front of all her friends. That’s a lot of pressure.”

“She’s used to it by now, isn’t she?” I said.

“As well as a million other things,” he continued, ignoring my question. “I thought it would be good for you to get these questions in, but from here on out, maybe you should run them by Molly who’ll run them by me first and then at the appropriate time, I’ll talk to Shannon.”

He was a college football coach, I thought. He just diagrammed a perfect case of running interference. Or the famous end-around.

“I know it’s your job to make your client’s life easier,” I said. “But I have a client, too. And it’s my job to find out who bashed his daughter’s head in. So I’ll take your request into consideration, but let’s not forget where it falls in terms of priority, okay?”

By now, all the hangers-on were looking at me. I looked over and watched them back. One in particular, a woman in a white silk blouse and red velvet pants, walked over to me.

“Why don’t you stay and have a drink,” she said.

“Memphis,” Teddy said, a stern warning. “I’m sure Mr. Rockne has better things to do.”

The woman held out her hand. “Memphis Bornais. I’m Shannon’s songwriter.”

I took her hand. “John Rockne, private investigator.”

“Come along, Mr. Rockne,” I heard a voice say behind me. Molly had reappeared.

“Thanks again, Mr. Rockne,” Teddy said. “I’ve enjoyed your directness.” Teddy smiled, nodded his head like he’d enjoyed the f*ck out of my company. “You don’t hesitate, either. I really like that.”

Without hesitation I said, “Plenty more where that came from.”

• • •



I went back to the office and worked the phones. Oddly enough, my mind wasn’t on the case, despite the unsettling meetings with Shannon Sparrow and her slimeball manager.

I decided to call Clarence Barre. He wasn’t home, but I left a message telling him I wanted to ask him a few questions about how well he knew, and how well Jesse knew, Shannon Sparrow.

My last call went to Nate. I wanted to ask him what he knew about Shannon Sparrow and her entourage. Nate had an encyclopedic knowledge of local history. He knew anyone and everyone that ever had a significant connection with Detroit.

And on the unlikely occasion in which he didn’t know the answer or answers, he could almost always point me in the direction of someone who did.

But I’d be goddamned if I was going to commit to another meal. At this point, I could be labeled an ‘enabler’ by a psychologist. I felt like Nate was a drunk and as long as he kept helping me, I kept buying him shopping carts full of Budweiser. I’d have to figure something else out.

I punched in his number on my phone.

“I was just about to call you,” he said. I could hear background voices, maybe even a siren.

“What, were you going to dicker with me over whether or not an aperitif could technically be considered dessert?”

“No,” he said. “And it obviously isn’t a dessert as it’s consumed before a meal. Jesus, haven’t you learned anything?”

“Yeah, I now know the difference between pâté and a patty melt.”

He ignored me and said, “Where the hell have you been?” This time, I definitely heard a siren.

“Data entry. It’s a part-time job I had to take in order to pay for your restaurant expenses,” I said. “I get three cents a word.”

“Good, don’t be afraid to work extra hours.”

“Thanks for the advice. Where are you, by the way?”

“Hey, have you talked to your sister lately?” he said.

“Define lately.”

“Like…today?”

“No,” I said, wishing he’d get to the point. “Nate, where are you? What’s going on?”

He laughed, a low, deep chuckle, obviously relishing the news. What reporter doesn’t love breaking a story?

“Once again she’s proven why she’s Chief of Police,” he said.

“How so?”

“She found him.”

“Who?”

“The guy.”

“What guy, Nate?” I was already on my feet, grabbing my car keys and heading for the door when he gave me the news.

“Ellen found the guy who killed Jesse Barre.”





Twenty-eight

It was about as bad as Grosse Pointe gets: a third floor walk-up facing Alter, the street that divides my fair city and the urban decay that is Detroit proper. I don’t say that with any degree of snobbishness, that’s just the way it is. In fact, the average Grosse Pointer would love nothing more than to have a thriving, vibrant city next to it. But it ain’t happening any time soon. For now, it’s duck pâté on one side, duck for cover on the other.

The building itself was an ugly structure that probably hadn’t met a housing code since Nixon took office. You certainly wouldn’t find it on any of the brochures at the Grosse Pointe hospitality center.

The coroner’s van was already outside.

I parked the lovely white Sunbird right out on the street. I sort of hoped someone would steal it, that way I could share the embarrassment a little bit.

I climbed the steps and walked inside where I saw my sister standing in the doorway. She had her hand on the butt of her gun, and was watching the coroner and crime scene technicians doing their thing. She turned to me as I got to the top of the rickety steps.

“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” she said. No place was sacred when it came to my sister giving me crap.

“Your buddy Nate call you?” she said. Ellen lifted her chin and I saw him outside, talking on a cell phone. He was eating what looked to be a corn dog. I looked around to identify the possible source of the corn dog, maybe a diner or something. Nothing. You had to admit, the guy was pretty impressive.

“My instincts brought me here,” I told her.

“Your instincts are about as sharp as the vic’s,” she said, and gestured toward the inside of the house. She walked off in that direction and I followed. She hadn’t invited me to tag along but she wasn’t telling me to take a hike, either. I wasn’t sure why she put up with me. On good days I believed she liked having me around to watch her back. On bad days I was certain she did it for me out of pity. The successful sister, Chief of Police, pitying her disgraced, deadbeat P.I. brother. The duty of the sister just as important as the duty of the law. Maybe there was a little bit of both in her reasoning to let me hang out. I doubted I would ever know. I sure as hell knew Ellen wouldn’t tell.

I followed her deeper into the apartment. I wouldn’t have imagined it possible for the inside of this place to look worse than the outside, but that was the case. The smell was bad, of course. My sense of smell, always reasonably astute, told me that the death hadn’t happened terribly recently. Maybe not long after Jesse Barre had been killed.

We got to the doorway to the living room and I said to Ellen, “Who is the vic, by the way?”

She stopped outside the room where crime scene technicians were finishing up. Flashbulbs were still popping, I saw fingerprint dust spread all around and the coroner was in the process of removing the body.

“His name was Rufus Coltraine,” she said.

“Never heard of him.”

“Released from Jackson a few months ago.” Jackson, that is, as in Jackson State Prison.

“What had he been in for?” I said.

“Armed robbery. Assault. Attempted murder.”

“Nice guy.”

“See what’s over in the corner?” she said. I stepped past her. There, propped up against the wall, was an astonishingly beautiful guitar.

A Jesse Barre special. I knew it instantly. The incredible grain of the wood. The styling of the frets, the craftsmanship that was so apparent in every wormholed inch of the thing.

“How’d he die?” I said.

“Nobody taught him portion control.”

Ellen didn’t have to give me her version of what had happened, it was obvious. The recently released Mr. Coltraine, like so many convicts unable to adjust to life outside, instantly reverts to his criminal past and goes on the prowl. He spots a lone woman working late at night and he breaks in and gives her a little bit of what he learned in prison. So he kills Jesse Barre. A crime of opportunity. Mr. Coltrane snatches a couple of guitars, buys some crack or heroin or whatever he was into to celebrate, and has just a little too much of a celebratory toot.

End of story.

I looked over the scene before me in the living room. It was a dump in every sense of the word. Stains on the floor, holes punched in the drywall.

Apparently Mr. Coltraine had fallen off the rickety, gutted couch onto the living room floor. Truly a party gone bad. Plastic baggies, spoons and other paraphernalia were carefully marked on the floor.

And a couple feet away was a guitar. My sister walked over to it, stepping carefully. I followed suit until we both stood over it, looking down.

It was a beauty, all right. The wood had a grain I’d never seen before. Almost like a sixties rock concert poster, full of weird vibes and deep patterns you could almost fall into. It was beautiful. A work of art.

“Can you say, ‘Case closed?’” Ellen said.

I looked at the guitar again, this time more closely. I had learned a little bit on my studies when I took the case. I recognized the incredible grain of the wood, naturally. I recognized the grain and styling of the neck as well. The bridge. The pick guard. And I knew what the fancy stuff was.

However, there was one giant flaw in the guitar.

I didn’t see Shannon Sparrow’s name on it.

I remembered what Clarence Barre had told me about the guitar Jesse was building for Shannon Sparrow. He had said that Jesse put a little brass piece of metal somewhere near the top that bore Shannon Sparrow’s name. Like the one on B.B. King’s guitar that says ‘Lucille.’ I saw no such mark.

I looked at my sister.

“Something’s not right,” I said.

The other people in the room, the crime scene technicians and a few fellow officers, didn’t really stop, but it seemed to me that things got a bit quieter.

“What did you say?” Ellen asked me.

“My client told me that Jesse had built a guitar for Shannon Sparrow,” I said. “It was her masterpiece. She was making it for Shannon to play at the free concert she’s putting on here in Grosse Pointe. With Clarence Barre’s help, I’ve looked for it everywhere. It’s gone. It had to have been stolen during the robbery. And this guitar isn’t it. Her father described it to me—”

“How did he know?” Ellen interrupted me. “Did he see it?”

“I don’t know. She might have told him about it.”

“So he didn’t actually see the guitar himself.”

I turned to her. “Look, Ellen. I don’t know what he saw or didn’t see. All I’m telling you—”

“You’re not telling me anything. And you know why? Because you don’t know anything. Come back and talk to me when you do.”

That’s thing about my sister. She’s as stubborn and pigheaded as anyone. She had put together what happened, she was going to clear the case, and wasn’t ready to look at a different viewpoint. Which was fine. It was that single-minded, tenacious approach to things that had made her a success. But maybe once she’d had a chance to settle down she’d be more receptive to alternate theories. Doubtful, but I am a highly positive man. The Norman Vincent F*cking Peale of Private Investigators. That would look great on my business card. Note to self.

She turned back to me. “Look, even if it isn’t the guitar, who cares? So Rufus here stole two guitars, sold one, took the money and got high. He kept the other one for a rainy day. Unfortunately, the drugs were too good and he never got around to selling his nest egg.”

I nodded. “Sure,” I said. Here was where I should tuck tail. Pick it up again later. Of course, I never follow my own good advice.

“You have to admit, though, ol’ Rufus might have had a little trouble selling a highly recognizable guitar like a Jesse Barre Special to anyone.”

“Yeah, fences are usually pretty picky,” she said.

“It was, after all, stolen,” I said. “If a fence got caught with it, he’d lose his investment. So not anyone would be willing to take it.”

“Yes, people dealing with stolen goods are highly risk-averse,” she said.

“But let’s say he found a fence.”

“Which he probably did, if in fact, he had this Shannon Sparrow guitar. Maybe he never took it. You can’t prove he did.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “If Rufus Coltraine had stolen two guitars that link him directly to a homicide, and he finds a fence who’ll buy them, would he really decide ‘oh, what the heck, I’ll keep one?’ Even if it means life in prison? For a rainy day?”

“Why are you so sure he sold anything?” she said.

“How the hell else did he get money for that much heroin? The guy was just out of prison.”

“Jesus Christ, John, who knows how much money Jesse Barre had on her when she died.”

“No way did she have enough to buy that much heroin.”

“That’s beside the point! You’re not making any sense.”

“The hell I’m not.”

“You’re telling me that criminals aren’t that stupid?” my sister said. “You’re saying that they’re too smart to leave evidence lying around? Who are you kidding? There are murderers in prison now because they left their driver’s license at the scene of the crime! Armed robbers who kept the video from the surveillance camera so they could watch themselves and show it off to their friends. Prisons are full of guilty criminals who are some of the stupidest f*cking people on Earth. Don’t build a case by turning Rufus goddamned Coltraine here into a Rhodes Scholar.”

Now, not only was it quiet in the room, it was pretty much empty. Nobody wanted to caught in the crossfire. Or catch my sister’s verbal shrapnel.

“Ellen—”

“I’ve got a dead ex-con with a history of breaking and entering as well as assault, with evidence that puts him at the Jesse Barre crime scene. If you want to make up some bullshit to keep the gravy train rolling with Mr. Barre, that’s up to you.”

It was a low blow, but I let it go. I was used to them from Ellen now. Besides, I knew how she worked. Right now, she was running the scenarios through her mind, trying to figure out any angle. She had to act like that, she had to show everyone that she was in charge and that she was doing her job. In her own way, she’d actually encouraged me to continue on.

I turned and went back down the stairs.





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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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

My 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 f*cking 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.