Orchestrated Murder

  Orchestrated Murder

  Rick Blechta

  Rick Blechta

  Orchestrated Murder

  CHAPTER ONE

  Pratt felt like pounding his head on his desk. Why couldn’t McDonnell just leave him alone today?

  He felt every one of his fifty-four years as he walked past all the empty desks to the office of the man who ran the Homicide Division. His desk was as far away from the office as he could get it.

  “What can I do for you?” Pratt asked.

  Captain McDonnell looked up from the papers on his desk. “There’s a problem at Symphony Hall. A big problem.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve just had a call from upstairs. Appears someone’s murdered the damn conductor.”

  “Luigi Spadafini?”

  “Yes-if he’s the conductor. I thought it would be right up your alley. You like this kind of music so much.”

  “Thanks,” Pratt answered glumly.

  What he wanted at the moment was a good nap, not another job. The previous night he’d been wrapping up a tricky case and got exactly three hours’ sleep on a sofa in an empty office he’d found. He had the stiff neck to prove it too.

  “The chief wants you to tread lightly. That’s the other reason I’m sending you. You know how to act around the symphony set.”

  “Anything else?”

  McDonnell shook his head. “Nope. Just hustle down there. Once the press gets hold of the news, all hell’s going to break loose.” As Pratt turned to go, his boss added, “Take Ellis with you. Show him the ropes. This promises to be a little out of the ordinary.”

  Just great. Saddled with the greenest member of the squad. Pratt didn’t even know the kid’s first name and didn’t care to. Hopefully the young pup wouldn’t screw anything up.

  As he went back to his desk, the captain called, “Good job last night, Pratt. You did us proud.”

  Pratt bit his tongue. Then why not let someone else handle this job and let him go home?

  Pratt let Ellis drive across town to the city’s latest municipal wonder. Built four years earlier to a lot of taxpayer squawking, Symphony Hall was beautiful outside but cold and sterile. Inside, though, it was all wood, and the sound quality was lovely. He’d heard Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony there the previous month, and it had been a concert he’d remember for a long time. Spadafini had been very impressive.

  Now Pratt’s head felt as if it was stuffed with sawdust. Great way to begin an investigation.

  Ellis was a good-looking lad. Tall and still lanky, a lot like Pratt when he’d been that age. Thirty years later, he’d lost most of his hair and put on a good fifty pounds. At least he didn’t need glasses-yet.

  Making conversation, he asked, “How long have you been in Homicide?

  “Two weeks, sir,” Ellis answered.

  “Seen any action yet?”

  “Only that domestic murder last Friday. Terrible situation. Mostly I’ve been pushing papers.”

  “So I heard.”

  “I wanted to say that it’s an honor to be working with you.”

  “I don’t need buttering up, Ellis. You’re here to make my life easier. Keep your eyes and ears open and try to stay out of my way.”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  “And another thing: stop calling me ‘sir.’ Pratt will do.”

  The coast was still clear as they pulled up at the backstage entrance. Surprisingly, the media hadn’t arrived yet. A beat cop Pratt recognized was standing next to the door, looking bored.

  “Glad to have you aboard, sir,” he said. “It’s a madhouse in there, I hear.”

  “It’s going to be a madhouse out here too. Don’t let anyone in, and don’t tell them anything.”

  “Right.”

  Later on Pratt was sorry that he had just rushed by. He might have retired on the spot if he’d known about the unholy mess he was walking into.

  At the vacant security desk just inside, a sergeant Pratt knew was waiting. Next to him stood a man wearing a suit and tie, even though it was Saturday morning. He looked to be in his late thirties, medium height, slightly overweight.

  “Glad they sent you, Pratt,” the sergeant said as they shook hands. “This is Michael Browne. He’s the symphony’s manager. He’s the one who called the murder in.”

  Pratt knew Browne had to be competent to have this sort of job. At the moment, he looked pretty rattled and on edge.

  More handshaking as Pratt introduced Ellis.

  “The situation is a real mess,” the sergeant added.

  “Blood?” the detective asked. He hated the bloody ones.

  “No, no. It’s the suspect list.”

  “What about it?”

  “The entire orchestra has confessed.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ellis’s jaw dropped.

  Pratt kept his face expressionless. “Tell me about it,” he sighed.

  The sergeant flipped open his notebook. “The call came in at ten seventeen, and the nearest squad car was sent over. At ten twenty-six, they called for backup and I was dispatched with two additional men.”

  “Let’s get another half-dozen down here. Make a perimeter at either end of the street outside to keep the media away. They’ll be all over this place like a bunch of cockroaches. I want this building wrapped in crime-scene tape.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “So when you got here, what did you find?”

  “The body of the conductor in his office, and the orchestra waiting impatiently in the rehearsal room in the basement.”

  “How did they find out what had happened?”

  Browne cleared his throat. “That was me, I’m afraid. I guess I was more shaken up than I thought. I just sort of blurted it out. Spadafini was our leader.”

  Pratt turned to him. “And their response?”

  “Why, complete shock, of course. Who wouldn’t have been shocked?”

  Now to the heart of the matter. “And this mass confession, how did that come about?”

  The sergeant took over again. “I told two of my officers to stay in the room with the orchestra and not let anyone leave. But there was no way to separate that many people to keep them from talking. I guess that’s when they cooked this up.”

  Both police veterans knew the ploy was a dodge to protect the real killer-and that was a strange thing to do. There was more to this than met the eye.

  Ellis looked as if he wanted to speak, so Pratt nodded to him.

  “How many people are we talking about?” the young detective asked.

  Browne cleared his throat. “Seventy-six.”

  Ellis whistled.

  Pratt’s frown deepened. “Who else is in the building today?”

  “Just me,” Browne said. When Pratt raised his eyebrows, the orchestra manager continued. “Four stagehands were here at the start of the rehearsal, but there was, um, a problem with Spadafini. They called what they refer to as a ‘study session.’”

  “Meaning they’re off somewhere having coffee while they wait for the union rep to appear.”

  “Yes.”

  Pratt noticed that Ellis had his book out, taking notes. Either someone had told him about Pratt, or he was smarter than he looked.

  “Cause of the friction?”

  It was Browne’s turn to sigh. “It’s no secret that Spadafini could be quite difficult.”

  “But you’re certain the stagehands were out of the building?”

  “Yes. Shortly after the rehearsal began. I let them out myself. I was hoping to calm them down.”

  Pratt needed time to think. He knew he didn’t have that time.

  “I’d better see the body.” He’d only taken two steps when he turned back to the sergeant. “I don’t
suppose there’s any security surveillance of the murder scene? No? Well, check whatever security footage there is for anything useful.”

  The conductor’s office was one floor above. The door was slightly open. Since the Scene of Crime team hadn’t yet arrived, Pratt took a package containing a pair of latex slip-ons from his coat pocket. He quickly snapped them over his shoes.

  “Wait out here,” he told Browne and Ellis.

  Spadafini’s body lay near the huge window behind his desk. Sadly, the building was covered in mirrored glass, so no one could have seen in. Pratt stood for nearly a minute, memorizing every detail in front of him. Then he moved toward the facedown body.

  Thick wire was wrapped around the conductor’s neck, which was heavily bruised. Fastened to each end of the wire were strange-looking drumsticks. “Do you know what this is around his neck?” Pratt yelled to Browne.

  “I, ah, didn’t take a close look. I just saw the maestro, ran to my office, picked up the phone and called the police.”

  “Sir, I mean, Pratt,” Ellis asked, “do you mind if I have a look?”

  “Do you have something for your feet?”

  “Of course.”

  The youngster was soon standing next to him. “That looks like a cello string, and those sticks are definitely timpani mallets.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I played trombone all through high school.”

  Pratt remained in the room for several more minutes, then went back out to the hall to wait for the arrival of the Scene of Crime team.

  Pulling out his notebook, he turned to Browne. “Could you tell me your whereabouts in the building this morning?”

  Browne’s eyes opened wide. “You suspect me?”

  “I suspect everyone and no one,” Pratt answered, quoting Sherlock Holmes. Browne didn’t seem to notice. “Just answer the question, please.”

  The other man looked up at the ceiling. “Well, I got here well before anyone arrived. I knew it was not going to be an ‘easy’ rehearsal. Everyone was pretty angry. I was present in the rehearsal room when the orchestra arrived. Of course, I had to deal with the stage-crew problem around that time.”

  “When was that?”

  “Shortly after the rehearsal began. I talked to them for about fifteen minutes before they stormed out. Then I went up to my office to do some work.”

  “Is that near this office?”

  Browne pointed. “Just down the hall, there.”

  “And you didn’t hear anything?”

  “I heard him storm down the hall at the beginning of the break. He was muttering to himself in Italian.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, I was on the phone to our secretary, looking for a package she was supposed to send out by courier yesterday. The person it was sent to hadn’t received it yet, so I called her to ask what had happened.”

  “And?”

  “She said she’d left it at the security desk. I went down to see if for some reason it was still there. When I came back up, I noticed Spadafini’s door was open. When I looked in, I could see him lying on the floor behind his desk. I called the police immediately.” He shivered. “I had to have just missed the murderer. I was gone barely five minutes.”

  Finally the elevator doors at the end of the hall opened, and the Scene of Crime team stepped out.

  “I want a complete workup on this as soon as you can,” Pratt told them. “I need to know what happened in a big hurry. They’re leaning on me downtown.” To Ellis he said, “Call the captain. Tell him I need every detective down here that he can spare-unless he wants us to bring an entire orchestra to him for questioning.” Then he turned to Browne. “Don’t leave the building. I will need to talk to you again later. Now could you show me where the orchestra is?”

  “We should take the elevator down. It’s faster.”

  As they descended to the basement and his first glimpse of the orchestra of self-confessed murderers, Pratt knew he was in for it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Pratt walked through a set of double doors and into a large room.

  Spread out in front of him should have been one of the country’s great orchestras. On the podium should have been one of the best young conductors in the world. Great music should have been filling the space.

  Instead people were spread about the room, talking in small groups. Seventy-six pairs of eyes looked up at the detective. He knew he needed to look deeply into all of them at the same time. That first glance often tells so much, and this time the opportunity was being wasted. Somewhere in this room was the person who knew exactly what had happened two floors above. Someone in this room had committed a cold-blooded murder.

  He needed to say something-but what?

  The two uniformed policemen stationed in the room, one male, one female, walked over to him.

  “What’s up?” the male asked in a low voice. “They’re getting antsy.”

  “Have you kept them from using their cell phones?” Pratt asked, ignoring the question.

  “Of course,” the female officer answered, “but it’s been hard.”

  “They don’t want to listen to what we’re telling them,” the other added.

  Pratt felt like telling them, “Of course! They’re musicians.” He refrained. At this point he needed all the help he could get. “Other than staging the largest mass confession ever, has anyone offered further information?”

  “No-except for permission to use the restroom.”

  “Has anything happened that I should know about?”

  “We were told to keep them here, accompany anyone who wanted to use the restroom, and keep our mouths shut. We’ve done that. As for anything suspicious, well, no.”

  Pratt nodded. “Fair enough. I’m going to talk to them, and there are too many for me to watch at once. While I speak, one of you watch the left-hand side of the group and the other the right. I want to know anything odd you see. Can I count on you? Good.”

  He walked over to the conductor’s podium and stepped up. It seemed like the best place to make a speech. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?”

  Being disciplined musicians, all chatter stopped immediately. Several moved to their regular seats and sat.

  “I am Detective Pratt and-”

  “When are we going to be able to leave?” someone called out. “I have students this afternoon.”

  “When is someone going to tell us what’s going on?” said a voice from the back.

  Pratt put his hands up. “I only just arrived. Surely you understand how serious this matter is.” Then he stopped and fixed them with a stare. “And just how seriously your behavior is being taken.”

  “What do you mean?” a younger man near the front asked.

  “I know you’re doing this to protect the murderer. It won’t work. We will find out who did this. My best suggestion is for that person to come forward now. Then the rest of you can go home.”

  Pratt really didn’t expect someone to just leap to their feet-but it would have been nice.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As he spoke and answered the few questions he could, Pratt’s eyes never stopped moving. The killer was somewhere in the room, and a telltale glance just might give him or her away. But there was nothing.

  Browne, who had accompanied him from upstairs, picked up the dead conductor’s overcoat, which had fallen off the back of his chair.

  Pratt was momentarily distracted. “Put that down, please.”

  “Detective?”

  His head turned right, where the cello section sat. An older woman had spoken. Rail thin with gray hair, she reminded Pratt of one of his grade-school teachers.

  “Yes?”

  She got to her feet. “I’d like to speak with you.”

  Pratt noticed that every eye in the room had turned to the woman. Not all were friendly.

  It was best to keep his response as short as possible. “Yes, certainly. Would you come with me, please?”

 
Leaving the rehearsal room, the detective realized he didn’t know where to take this woman. So he asked her to suggest someplace.

  “I suppose the Green Room or one of the artists’ dressing rooms.” She strode through a doorway and up the stairs, forcing Pratt to keep up. “You’ll need my name.”

  “Yes.”

  “Eliza Wanamaker.”

  Pratt realized this interview would be difficult. The woman was a “force of nature.” This is what he called people who were hard to control and direct when being questioned.

  Arriving at stage level, Eliza gestured left and right. “Green Room or dressing room?”

  “What’s a Green Room?”

  She looked at him with pity. “It’s the room where everyone waits before going on stage. And before you ask, it’s very seldom actually painted green.”

  It was just to the right, bright and airy with large windows overlooking the loading dock for the stage. Sofas and chairs dotted the room, but they took their seats near the door.

  The Wanamaker woman began speaking before Pratt could dig his notebook out of his inside jacket pocket.

  “The first thing you must understand is that Luigi Spadafini was a first-class shit.”

  Pratt couldn’t help blinking at the unexpected comment. “Pardon me?”

  “There’s no doubt about his musical gifts. The man was a bloody genius with a baton. But as a person, he deserved to die.”

  She sat back, crossing her arms. Her expression clearly dared Pratt to disagree.

  “You’re confessing?”

  Eliza Wanamaker’s guffaw filled the room. “Heavens no! I just thought you should know how the orchestra feels about our late conductor.” She leaned forward again. “For months we’ve entertained ourselves with increasingly ridiculous ways to do him in.”

  “Sort of as a way to break the tension?”

  She blinked in a surprised way. “Why, yes. I just never thought anyone would actually do it.”

  “But you do have some suspicions?”

  “No idea.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”