Free Death Sung Softly by David Archer

it went to voicemail, right? Listen to this.”
    She hit a button on her phone, and it called into her voicemail. She chose “saved messages,” and Sam heard:
    “Sammie, you should know better than to get in the middle of stuff that isn't your business.  I promise you that you're gonna regret sticking your nose into this.”
    The voice sounded like Jimmy Smith's, and Sam could hear the menace in it.
    “Was that it? Has he called you again?” Sam asked.
    She shook her head. “No, but then yesterday I got this in the mail.” She pulled an envelope from her purse and handed it to him.
    The envelope had her address typed on it, with no return address, and it was one of those with the stamp already printed on it. Carefully, Sam used a pen to raise the flap and peer inside, and there was what appeared to be  a lock of hair in it, but when he looked again, he could see that the hair was still attached to a bit of skin, and there was a mild foul odor coming from it.
    Sam looked up at Samantha. “I'm gonna need to take this for the lab to check out,” he said, “and the police are gonna want to talk to you about it, I'm sure.”
    She shrugged her shoulders. “Yeah, I figured. I just don’t want Jimmy finding out about this, cause I know how mean he can be.”
    Sam looked at her for a moment. “He claims that it was you who threw a vase at him when he was charged with assaulting you, and that you and your friends lied about it.”
    She stared at him, then lifted her left hand to show the scar of a fairly large cut. “There was no vase thrown,” she said. “He grabbed one and smashed it down on my hand in a rage, and my friends and I went running out the door screaming! That lying son of a...”
    Sam reached out and touched her hand. “I know,” he said, “I know. I figured him out pretty quickly. Let me take this and have it checked out, and I'm sure the police will want to talk to you later today, so stay close, okay? Is the number you called me from your cell phone?”
    She nodded. “Yeah. You can reach me on it, or give it to the cops, whatever.”
    Sam took the envelope with the hair and skin and walked her out to her car, which happened to be in the same area as his bike. He thanked her again, and rode out of the lot, then turned toward the main police station downtown.
    Walking into the station felt odd, since he hadn't been there more than a half dozen times since he was shot a little over a year earlier. He went to the desk and asked for whoever was in charge of the Barry Wallace murder investigation. “I've got some possible evidence,” he added.
    The desk officer checked on a computer, and said, “That's Karen Parks. Hang on a sec, and she'll be right out.”
    Sam stood off to one side, and a moment later a heavy woman in a skirt and suit jacket appeared. “Sam?” she asked. “God, it really is you, isn't it? Come on back, and tell me what you've got.”
    He waited until they were in her cubicle and then handed her the envelope. “This was sent to a woman who contacted me this morning, Samantha Harris. She's also got a voicemail message saved on her phone that may implicate a possible suspect, name of Jimmy Smith.”
    Karen looked into the envelope and made a face at the odor, then looked back at Sam. “Jimmy Smith, the talent agent? We've had a dozen calls saying he had it in for Wallace, but there's nothing to tie him to anything. We haven't even gone out to talk to him, yet, just because most of the calls seem so hostile; sounds more like they want Smith in trouble than any concern for what really happened to Wallace. You got any reason to think he was involved?”
    “Some things seem to indicate it,” Sam said. “I know that Smith was trying to get Barry to sign a record deal that required him to leave his band behind, and apparently he didn't want to do that. According to Smith, the day he disappeared he agreed, and said he was going to tell the band that night, but they claim they never