James Sutton

Unfinished Business

Episode 1 in Fly Like a Byrd series

Byrd carried the dead heckler’s backpack out behind the Galaxy theater. Hurrying down the steps. He stashed it in his car’s trunk.

Damn bastard killing himself in the middle of my act… I had them rolling on the floor. And then he jumps. Why? I expect the cops will be out here soon with all their usual dumb ass questions.

He lit a cigar and sat on the steps.

Twenty minutes ago I’m on stage doing my comedy routine. This guy heckles me from the balcony. The heckler from hell. I should have listened to T-Bone’s advice about never letting them see you sweat. I finally come back at him. A minute later he leaps from the balcony and lands on his head ten feet in front of me… Jesus…never saw that coming.

The door above swung open. Two uniformed cops flew out followed by Murphy, a detective with the New Orleans P.D.

“There you are Byrd! What the hell? Even a prick like you should know better than to leave the scene of a crime.”

Byrd stood and leaned against the brick wall.

“I’m just out here clearing my head. Pretty weird night ya’ know. Besides Murph, it looks like a suicide… which I don’t think is a crime.”

Murphy smirked.

“Yeah it seems like where ever you are Byrd, weird shit happens. A forensic shrink who screwed a suspect. You got canned, but should have done time. Then the suspect becomes a man. And now you want to be a comedian… on second thought no wonder that stiff in there killed himself.”

Byrd puffed on his cigar.

“Well we all need to find a way to eat.”

Murphy waved at the two uniform cops. They stepped back inside.

“So you went up there after he jumped?”

“Yeah. After I knew he was dead I ran up to see if anyone else was up there. Empty. There’s only forty seats in the balcony.”

Murphy looked at his cell phone.

“And you didn’t see anything that might belong to him or identify who he is?”

“Nope nothing…not even any popcorn.”

Murphy walked up the steps. He turned and looked down at Byrd.

“Okay the coroner is on his way. Right now the guy is a John Doe. Teeth or fingerprints will tell us who he is. Guess you can leave, but I might have more questions so stay where I can reach you.”

He stepped back from the door.

“Oh yeah Doc, how does it feel to know the real Bayou Butcher got out a couple of months ago after two years in the pen? And now she’s a he at the taxpayer’s expense.”

Byrd winked at Murphy.

“Isn’t it time for your nightly doughnut feeding?”

Murphy. If ever there had been a lazier cop no one knew him…or her. The dead guy? What the hell is that about. Guess I’ll take that backpack home and see what’s in it. Bastard ruined my debut. He owes me…so shouldn’t I see what’s in there first?

Byrd drove towards his condo. Once inside he set the backpack on the dresser in his walk-in closet. He looked in the mirror.

Okay I ‘m a callous bastard. I’ve felt no compassion for the dead heckler. After fifteen years of profiling and seeing dozens of dead bodies I’m numb. Five years in the FBI…Fucking Bunch of Idiots. What a waste… stabbed in the back there like a pin cushion. Then the NOPD. Nearly ten years of service. Cracked a few high profile cases.

But then I got in too far with Stella. She wiggled out of life in prison by throwing Dempsey under the bus. Only charge that stuck was being an accomplice after the fact…set up Dempsey to take the fall for all three murders. He’s on death row up at Angola. Coats, the D. A., didn’t care if Dempsey did it as long as he got a conviction.

To hell with whether there’s a serial killer still out there. And Stella… now Steve… is out.

A soft voice spilled from the shadows of the closet.

Jameson Byrd Glover! That man who died tonight could have a family, kids, a spouse, or a mother. He must have been a miserable soul.

Shit! Should have known she would pop in.

He spoke towards the shadows.

“Why does my favorite comedian always show up in character from the same movie?”

Silence.

“Well I guess it could be worse. You could come on like Mork!”

A titter echoed from behind his suits.

Oh dear. I was young then. Finding my way out of doing stand up. The money was good, but my co-star…well she was a bitch.

Byrd grinned. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and unzipped the backpack. A dozen pair of reading glasses in leather cases sat inside. A small box with tools for frame repair, a lens cleaning cloth, and nothing else. He picked up a pair and studied them. Sliding them on he looked at himself in the mirror.

Warby Parker… Hmm. Not just any drugstore readers. Why would this guy pack around a dozen pair of reading glasses?

He took the bag into his bathroom for better light. Black frames with a chrome colored plate near the left hinge. Two tiny screws on opposite ends of the plate kept it attached. Another in the same place near the right hinge. Byrd pulled out a pair of the reading glasses again. A strand of hair hung on the frame. In his dresser he rummaged for a moment and pulled out a box of evidence bags. He placed the glasses with the hair into a bag.

The pair he had on vibrated.

“What the hell?”

Taking them off Byrd grabbed a screwdriver from the repair kit. He unscrewed both screws on the left. Then turned the frame towards his palm. The plate fell off and a nano SIM card sat in the frame. Tweezers in hand he picked up the card and held it it up to the light.

He unscrewed the remaining frames. They all had the same type of SIM card. From the closet shadows a raspy voice slithered into the bathroom.

Byrd my boy. These must contain private and valuable information. Some patient bastard took a lot of time to hide them.

“Maybe. You’re the conspiracy theorist Hannibal.”

Byrd removed the plate on the right side of a pair. A tiny lithium battery was in the cavity.

Well the plot certainly thickens now doesn’t it, Hannibal hissed from the closet.

Byrd’s phone vibrated. Seeing a text from a private number he picked it up.

Have you found them yet? You know the glasses…

Byrd leaned against the counter.

“Who is this.”

A new message popped onto his screen.

You know me…in the biblical sense. A smiley face followed.

Byrd swallowed.

Shit! It’s Stella… or rather now Steve.

Hannibal chuckled.

I told you Byrd. Deviant knows deviant. That psycho Steve has been stalking you. Go find him and bring him back here. You can kill him. And pick up a good Italian Merlot before you return. We can have it with slivers of his buttocks… ah ambrosia.

Byrd shook his head.

“I need a drink.”

Well my boy you’re the one who banged her when she was Stella…even though you sensed she was a murderous wench. Must have been exciting. Myself I never ate serial killers, much less screwed one.

“Stella wasn’t on my radar as a serial killer. It was Dempsey. Thought she was his accomplice. She got a good deal for testifying against him.”

Whatever you want to believe. I always thought you were smarter than those political pricks you worked for. Dempsey is a Cajun hack incapable of an original thought.

Byrd’s phone vibrated again.

Sorry I ruined your big night… well not really. You’re not that funny. Great in bed though.

Byrd typed on the screen.

“What do you want Steve?”

Meet me at the entrance to the Saint Louis Mausoleum at 6 in the morning.

Byrd put the backpack under his bed. He sat on his back porch and drank a stout.

Why the hell does she…he… want to mess with me. He used me. He should be getting gang banged at Angola. He must have thrown the heckler from the balcony. But why leave the glasses unless he wanted me to find them.

Lighting a cigar he watched the smoke waft towards the ceiling.

His phone vibrating in his lap woke him at 4:30. A moment later a notification popped up. A voicemail from Murphy. Byrd listened as he changed clothes.

“This is Murphy. Listen that guy at the Galaxy didn’t kill himself. The M.E. just notified me he was strangled. His prints came back and he’s done time for armed robbery and larceny. Stan Dempsey. Ronald Dempsey’s brother. He was a known accomplice of Stella Duvall several years ago. We need to ask you some more questions. Call me as soon as you get this.”

This is a sticky situation. So I removed evidence from a murder scene. Steve pretty much told me he did it and the cops are still drooling for a chance to send me to prison. If I turn the glasses in they’ll crucify me.

He grabbed the heckler’s back pack and hurried to his car.

The train station is on the way. I’ll rent a locker and stash the glasses there before I meet Steve. Up shit creek without a paddle…again.

At 6:05 Byrd walked to the steps leading into the St. Louis Mausoleum. Early rays of light drifted through the wrought iron gate. His phone vibrated.

I wasn’t sure you’d show up. Walk towards the center and stop at Marie Laveau’s grave.

Byrd stepped past the gate.

The grave site of the voodoo queen of New Orleans. He’s always got to keep the drama going.

Steve stood next to Madam Laveau’s grave marking an “X” with a sharpie next to numerous others. Byrd stopped some ten feet away and their eyes met.

“ Making a wish I hope comes true. It’s good to see you. So what do you think of me as a man?”

Byrd crossed his arms and sighed.

“Well man or woman you’re a sociopath with a sick agenda. So what the hell is this?”

Steve stepped closer.

“Really! No hugs or kisses. You used to have a hard on every time you saw me. You know you were the last person I fucked before I went through the change. I was hoping you’d be the first for me now that I’m a man.”

“Not interested. I would like to know why you killed Dempsey’s brother, and what is on those SIM cards hidden in the reading glasses?”

Steve chuckled.

“Dempsey’s brother was a loose end. The SIM cards have contact info for numerous off shore bank accounts held by nefarious characters who’ve made lots of money doing… well things law enforcement peeps would love to know.”

Byrd sighed.

“So why let them get into my hands?”

“You must have lost your skills…cause you sound like an idiot who can’t think his way out of a wet paper bag. The people whose info is on those SIM cards don’t want that shit to get out. They’ll whack whoever has them. Anyone who has them stashed in a locker at the train station. That’s where I come in.”

Steve paced.

“So you’re going to whack me here in the graveyard? That’s too messy for you. Besides, I know you still have a soft spot in your sick heart for me.”

Steve pulled a Taser from his jacket.

“Damn! Maybe you haven’t lost your touch.”

The taser cartridge hit Byrd in the chest. Falling to his knees he tried to scream, but he gasped as Steve kept the trigger pulled.

“Sorry about that lover.”

Byrd passed out. He came to bound and gagged in the dark. Every muscle in his body ached. The sound of a train nearby pounded his ears.

I’m in the trunk of a car. Probably in the parking lot of the train station. Steve must be in there getting the glasses… and then what?

© 2019 Paul S. Markle All Rights Reserved.