Free Vampire Slayer Murdered in Key West - Mick Murphy Short Stories by Michael Haskins Page B

leaving a puzzled expression frozen on his face.
    The Nashville songwriters downstairs were dressed in shorts, T-shirts and flip-flops to celebrate the tropics, but Dallas died wearing faded jeans, a western shirt, and boots. All that was lacking were his hat, chewing tobacco stains on his chin, and he would’ve been a cliché.
    “What the hell have you gone and done now, Dallas?” I stepped around a puddle of blood at the base of the stool and checked for a pulse that I knew wasn’t going to be there. It took someone with strength to drive a drummer’s stick into his throat.
    This was not the opening-night publicity Charlie Murdock, the event coordinator, wanted for his festival.
    I’m Liam Michael Murphy. Years ago, I picked up the moniker Mad Mick Murphy because of stunts I pulled in college and my Boston-Irish heritage, and it stuck. I’m a journalist living in Key West and a weekly newsmagazine hired me to do a feature on Dallas Lucas, a Nashville legend, and a recent winner of his fifth songwriter-of-the-year award.
    It was supposed to be an interview about his life, now it would be about his murder.
    I expected all hell to break lose before breakfast was digested, when word got out. Most of the people downstairs wouldn’t shed a tear for Dallas, so maybe that made them suspects.
    Habit had me shoot a few frames of the body, before I called my friend Key West Police Chief Richard Dowley. Another few minutes wasn’t going to matter to anyone, especially Dallas.
    “Jesus, Mick,” Chief moaned after I told him where I was and what I was looking at. “Can’t you go anywhere without bringing trouble?”
    “I’m supposed to interview the guy, Chief, not kill him. You want, I’ll walk away and let someone else find him.”
    “Lock the door.” I heard him sigh. “Wait there for Sherlock.”
    “What about the cops? Should I let them in?” I was being sarcastic.
    He disconnected our conversation without a reply. Chief’s call to Sherlock would put the EMTs and cops into the loop quicker than a 911 call.
    Sherlock Corcoran is the city’s crime scene investigator and the nickname came with the job. To show his sense of humor, he had a caricature of Sherlock Holmes’ profile painted on the crime scene van. He was not a big fan of journalists and seeing me at a crime scene never made him smile.
    Rows of chairs were lined up facing the stage and the well-stocked bar was prepared for the sold-out show that was supposed to feature Dallas this evening. I moved to the back of the room and sat in the corner for the window light. I didn’t bother to lock the door because I expected a cop and ambulance to show up quickly.
    I took the flash and lens off my camera and put them away. There was no reason for Chief to know I’d taken the photos. Sherlock would shoot more than enough.
    “Yeah,” I said to Dallas, “you didn’t commit suicide.”
    After scanning the room, I wrote what I had witnessed in my notebook, and when I looked down to check my observations, I saw a small pile of wood shavings on the carpet.
    I picked up a few of the slivers – light colored wood, thin, uneven like someone had whittled a piece of wood. I jumped up, letting the shavings fall. I was sitting where the killer had sat and whittled the drumstick to a sharp point. I knew it.
    I had used the remote and light panel, all things the killer must have used. Damn it, Sherlock would find my fingerprints on things the killer had touched.
    Wiping everything down was an idea, but I knew it would also remove the killer’s prints. My only defense was to tell Sherlock upfront what I touched and hope someone else’s prints were there too.
    I put the camera bag back on the bar and went outside to the steps. The morning held promise for the living, with its ocean-blue sky and jasmine-scented breeze, up away from Duval Street. I heard the siren over the partying downstairs and watched the police car turn into the parking lot. Officer Gene Bruehl got