The Murder of a Jazz Musicain
Chapter 3Holmes sat in a dreaded cell inside the police station. Damn, that smell, He thought to himself. It was the smell of blood and piss, the smell of death. Traces of marijuana were on the bench. The cemented floor was stained and sticky from Kool-Aid or something, and yet it could be worse. Instead Holmes only stared at the roll of film the vanishing victim gave him. He didn’t even bother telling any of the other officers about this. The metal chamber door opened, by a guard with the body of a weight lifter.
“Chief wants to talk to you,” he grunted.
“Is he mad?”
“Hell yeah,” a man of short stature and a thick southern accent, who is pugnacious as he is pudgy, stepped in front of Holmes.
“What do you need Chief?”
“Give me your badge son,” Holmes pulled out his badge and placed it inside Chief’s hand.
“Do you need my gun?”
“No, keep that, you own it anyways. Besides you’re going to be off the force for only a little bit.”
“How longs a little bit?”
“Until she says so,”
“You mean I’m going to see a shrink?”
“Yeah Detective, her name’s Dr. Arcane,” Chief gave Holmes a business card. “Heard she’s real good with this sort of thing, we even scheduled your first appointment, tomorrow at ten. When she signs off for your release, mentally, you’ll get your badge back. ”
“Will I still get paid?”
“Yeah but the psychiatrist is coming out of your salary so it’s not much but don’t be complainin’. Plus you’re off that murder case you’ve been workin’ on,”
“Thank you Chief, will I have to work on it again when I’m back, even if she considers the case part of the problem?”
“Nah, I let the others work on it. You just go get better.”
“Thanks again,” Holmes smiled and waved good bye. When his face was away from Chief’s eye sight his smile faded. In a way he was both frustrated and yet relieved. He knows he’s not crazy but he’s glad he doesn’t have to work on the Susie Johnson murder case. He pulls out the roll of film again, questioning how he got it.
“Hey Holmes,” Rick said.
“What do you need?” barked Holmes.
“Can’t a guy apologize?”
“You already did, now tell me, what do you need?”
“Nothing, but I got something for you,” two thick files were placed on Holmes hand.
“You still think you’re crazy?”
“The guy you saw said he was friends Chuck Luis, right?”
“That’s right; he said he was shot in the old jazz lounge near us.”
“Well Chuck really was murdered in his jazz lounge, and he had a friend named Jimmy Carabi who was found in the alley, shot and bruised the same way as the guy you saw in your report.” Holmes opened the file and pulled out a news paper article with the victim he saw.
“Is this Carabi?” Holmes asked.
“Yeah, is he the guy?’
“Yeah he’s the guy I saw. Did we ever find the killer?”
“Yes and no,”
“What do you mean?”
“Jimmy took the wrap,” Holmes reacted astonished, as if he found a skeleton in his closet, from the statement. How the hell can that be? The mere thought of Carabi ever killing such an innocent man bewildered him, yet he never met Chuck Luis, have I?
“How?” Holmes asked.
“Jimmy had the same type of gun used to kill Chuck, plus gun residue was found on his hands.” Holmes looked around; making sure no one was watching, and whispered.
“Don’t tell anyone but I found this at the scene.” He showed him the role of film.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone about this?” Rick whispered.
“Because what if I’m wrong?”
“Don’t give me that Holmes. Even if you did imagined it all this case is too strange to ignore, but you still get that film developed. Now is there anything else you need to tell me?”
“No, that’s about it.” Except that blind man I saw, I wonder if I imagined him too.
“Alright, tell me if you find anything else.”
“Alright Rick.” Alfred looked down, deep inside he knows there’s more to tell. That dream I had earlier, back in the bar, was about a jazz man getting shot, Chuck Luis no doubt. Now I have this role of film, from the kinda’ camera you’d expect to see ten years ago, but it looks too good of a shape to be found in an alleyway.