The Chilling Spree Read Online Free Page A

phones and badges as
security escorted us past the barricade in the front of the
amphitheater to the exit back stage.  I wasn’t sure what to
expect, perhaps sexual assault, given some of the wilder stories
about bands in this genre of music.
    What we found was unexpected.  Devlin’s
old compadre from the Marines was standing over a large black box
with a screwdriver in one hand while five men – four of whom
sported some seriously wild hair – yelled obscenities and
accusations at him and each other.
    “All I’m saying is that he couldn’t have
done the goddamned sound check, Drake.  If he had, he’d have
figured out that the son of a bitch wasn’t working.”  This
from Ginger-hair who urged the crowd to imbibe in heavier drinking
as a pastime before the main event.  “Now we gotta have
fuckin’ cops out here because douchebag is too stupid to keep the
groupies from dumping shit into my stack?  Please!”
    I pushed forward, a little surprised at how
Devlin suddenly seemed to hang back.  I whipped out my
badge.  “Detective Helen Eriksson, Darkwater Bay Police. 
What’s the issue, gentlemen?”
    All eyes crawled over my skin.  I was
certain I displayed the paragon of police professionalism – beer on
my breath, no bra, sweaty tank clinging to every protruding
bone.  Nice.  The specific order of ogling was chest,
legs, chest, face, badge.  I rolled my eyes. 
    “We were at the show.  This is my
partner, Detective Devlin Mackenzie.”
    “Son of a bitch,” Fulk muttered.
    Devlin found his voice – and his
spine.  He stepped forward to my side.  “Underwood,”
followed by a curt nod.  “What seems to be the problem,
guys?  You can’t tell me that the police are required to deal
with a problem with your gear.”
    Ginger-hair stepped forward.  “You know
this asshole?”
    I wasn’t sure which person he was
addressing, the unfortunately named Fulk or Devlin.  Ergo, I
had no idea who the asshole in question was.  “Sir, if I could
get your name –”
    He cut me off with a leering gaze. 
“Absolutely, cupcake.  I’m Scott Madden, and Pan Demon is my
band.  I’m not the one who called the cops, but I sure as hell
wasn’t as pissed off when you showed up with your pretty little…
badge.”
    I glanced at Dev.  Is this jerk
serious etched into my brow.  He shrugged.
    “Who’s actually in charge here and capable
of explaining why our lieutenant asked us to come back stage?” I
didn’t pretend patience any longer.
    The shaggy representative stepped forward
and extended his hand.  “Drake Swanson, tour manager,
detective.  I called the police.”
    The others followed suit – drummer Burke
Baxter, bassist Lenny Rawlins, guitarist Cliff Hartman.
    “Nice to meet all of you,” I dipped to the
knee in the sarcasm pool, “but none of this tells me why the police
are required.  Are we talking about a crime here, or is
someone irritated that an expensive piece of equipment was
damaged?  If that’s the case, I’d suggest you file an
insurance claim, have your internal security tighten up so fans
aren’t around anything of real value and stop wasting the police’s
time.”
    Madden grinned unabashedly.  “Oh
damn.  I like her.  I like her a lot.”
    “Something got spilled into this stack,”
Swanson said.  “I called the cops because it looks like blood
to me.”
    “Blood,” Dev echoed.
    “A whole shit load of it,” Burke said. 
“We’re talking somebody gutted a damn pig into Scott’s set.”
    “Vandalism?”  I was utterly unconvinced
of the urgency.
    “Nobody is allowed back stage around the
equipment outside the presence of tour staff,” Swanson said. 
“And Fulk says nobody was near Scott’s equipment since he did the
sound check this afternoon.”
    I reached behind my head and pulled my hair
into a handheld pony tail.  “All right, so we’re probably
talking about vandalism.”
    “Aren’t you gonna call some CSI dudes to
have them investigate