WLSC Murder

Crime Fiction by Keith A. Mosley

“My name is Reggie Knox,” I said introducing myself to the class. It was my first night in a Chicago Style Steppin’ dance class in the ballroom of the Fuller Park fieldhouse on the Southside of Chicago. The Beaux-Arts style fieldhouse, built in 1914, had dual staircases leading up to the ballroom. A trophy case filled with plaques, trophies, and aged photos dating back to the 1920’s occupied one wall of the hall leading to the rear door of the building.

“What line of work are you in, Mister Knox?” Malinda Sweet, the instructor, asked.

“I’m a Chicago Police Department homicide detective,” I said, wondering why the class needed to know that bit of information. It’s not like I can fix a speeding ticket.

“Mister Knox said he’s taking up Steppin’ so he can step with his mother at family reunions,” she added.

She could have kept that to herself. That’s why men are reluctant to open up to women. They can be like a broken refrigerator, they can’t keep nothing.

Malinda’s broad smile let me know she wasn’t done putting me on blast. “Some of you remember Miss Elizabeth, the eighty years young lady who was a student here, this is her number four son.”

***

I first laid eyes on Malinda when she was judging a stepping contest. It had been awhile since I had a drink in the ‘Fifty Yard Line’ nightclub, so I was perched at the bar where I could see the dance floor and the ladies’ restroom. Through years of observations I’ve surmised most women visit the restroom at least once while in a nightclub. I either saw them on the dance floor or refreshed exiting the loo.

Malinda was five eleven, dark brown, slender waistline with hips in proportion with her dancer’s statue. Her flat midsection meant she either didn’t have children or she did a masterful job of abdominal toning. The Bobby Taylor and The Vancouvers’ lyrics “Malinda the girl who came to my world, and made my interest in all other girls stop…” rushed into my head. I was smitten at first sight. She was still sitting at the judges’ table when I left the club that night.

The next time I saw Malinda she was on the dance floor in a birthday-dance line awaiting her turn to dance with the birthday honoree. The birthday-dance line is a longstanding tradition in the Steppin’ community. The birthday celebrant stands on the dance floor, a line of well-wishers forms in front of them, music is played, and everyone in the line gets to dance up to a minute, or so, until there’s no one left in the line. My eyes stayed trained on Malinda in her lemon-yellow capri pants and matching kitten heel shoes.

The Steppin’ Gods smiled down upon me that night. As soon as Malinda finished her dance she made a beeline towards the bar where it just so happened I was sitting next to an empty bar stool.

Malinda smiled at me. “Is this seat taken?”

“It’s yours for the taking. Help yo’ self.”

I assisted her ascent into the bar stool by pulling it out a few inches. Fate put us side-by-side, and I tried to make the most of the moment. Malinda was prettier up close. Her lips matched the periwinkle eyeshadow washed across the eyelids of her round eyes. From a distance I thought her thick eyebrows were created by a pencil, but they were natural and no sign of overdo arching eyebrow stubble.  

“I’m Reggie,” I said, staring into her hazel eyes. Was she wearing contacts?

“I’m Malinda,” she said without batting her curly lashes.

“Whatcha drinking?” I asked, signaling for the bartender to approach.

“Bailey’s Irish Crème with one ice cube.”

I repeated her request to the bartender. He raised an eyebrow upon hearing one ice cube. A man tapped Malinda on the shoulder to ask for a dance, she turned him down.

“You’re looking fabulous, as usual,” I said.

“Thank you. That’s kind of you to say. As usual? Have we danced together before?”

“Nah… This is my second time seeing you. The first time you were judging a Steppin’ contest. Besides, I don’t know how to Step.”

“That was last week… People are trying to qualify for this year’s ‘World’s Largest Steppers’ Contest’ sponsored by the Gents. They like to have Steppin’ instructors serve as judges… You don’t know how to Step?”

“I used to Bop, nothing to brag about though. I took a six-count Steppin’ class and quit after the first lesson. I didn’t quite get the step 1 thru step 6 count pattern. It felt like I was taking two uncounted steps before repeating the count sequence again.”

The bartender returned with her Bailey’s and one ice cube. She swirled the cube around in the glass before taking a sip through the short straw. Another man approached and requested a dance just as she sat her glass down, she politely turned him down. Apparently I wasn’t the only one that noticed what Malinda was working with in those capri pants, and they had observed she wasn’t my date. She was versed in the free drink at the bar etiquette. If you sit next to a man at the bar and he buys you a drink, the least you can do is socialize until you’ve downed the last drop.

Malinda raised her chin. “You should try eight-count Steppin’. It’s 1, 2, 3, pause, 4, 5, 6, pause, 7, 8. The pattern is smoother. The odd numbers are on the left foot, and the even numbers are on the right. The men aren’t just putting the women in turns all willy-nilly. They turn ‘em on 3, 8, and sometimes 6. It may not look like it, but the men are keeping the count, or beat, in their heads.”

 “I never thought about the technical aspect of Steppin’. I’ve been thinking about giving Steppin’ lessons another shot so I can Step with my mother at family reunions. I enjoy watching the guy’s footwork and the ladies turning and prancing on the dance floor. I’ve been thinking about taking lessons from one of the master steppers like Dre, L.C., or Drew, but I can’t decide on which one. I sometimes get dizzy watching Dre spin like an ice skater on the dance floor.”

Malinda’s brow furrowed. “I noticed yo’ list didn’t include a female instructor.”

I leaned back. “I thought female instructors just worked with women.”

“That couldn’t be further from the truth. Any female instructors worth their salt know both the women’s and the men’s parts of the dance.”

“I didn’t mean to slight female instructors… Are you a Steppin’ instructor?”

“Yes I am, and a damn good one, if I must say so.”

“Where do you teach your classes?”

“Over at Fuller Park located on 45^th Street. I conduct classes in the ballroom located on the second floor of the fieldhouse.”

“My mother used to take Steppin’ classes at Fuller Park. She said one of the benefits of taking classes, especially if there are men in the class, is that the guys learning how to Step feel more comfortable asking a fellow classmate to dance. She jokes that some of the young women at a Steppers’ set cut their eyes at her when the men come ask an eighty-something years old woman to dance instead of them.”

Malinda’s eyes widened. “What’s yo’ last name? Is your mother ‘Miss Elizabeth’?”

“Knox… I’m Elizabeth Knox’s number four son.”

“Number four? How many sons did she have?”

“Six.”

“Six? She never mentioned she raised six boys… Wait until I see her again. Since you’re Miss Elizabeth number four son, yo’ first lesson is on me.”

***

There were twenty students in the class; fifteen women and five men, I was the twenty-first. Malinda had us stand in formation side-by-side after my introduction and a call-and-response routine occurred.

“What’s Steppin’ considered?” Malinda asked aloud.

The class, except for me, responded in unison. “Steppin’ is a man’s dance!”

“Ladies, that’s one of the facts of life we have to deal with. What’s the first rule of Steppin’?” Malinda asked aloud.

 “Stay on the beat!”

“That’s right. Stay on the beat, or count. Fellow steppers and observers can see that you’re off beat. What’s the second rule?”

“Stay in your lane,” they responded.

“You don’t want to be bumping into folks or stepping on their feet. What’s the third rule?”

“Walkers on the outside,” was the response.

“Walkers should stay on the perimeter of the dance floor, and going in the same direction. Pay attention to whether the flow is clockwise or counter-clockwise before you and your partner start.”

The class began dancing in place to the music, it reminded me of mark-time marching, and then she had us go up the lane and back, as she called out the count. Each man teamed up with three women and practiced some of the basic turns I would be taught if I signed up for more lessons. I watched until Malinda grabbed my arm and led me away.

Malinda worked with me one-on-one for the remainder of the class. I went from staring from a distance to embracing her feminine curves as she taught me how to start the dance; you don’t just walk on the floor and begin dancing.  I was in hog heaven. Malinda the girl who came to my world, and made my interest in all other girls stop… looped in my head.

Malinda closed the class out by lining us up again and asking the same questions she opened the class with earlier. This time I knew the answers, and joined the chorus. She signaled for the class to give the new guy a standing ovation.

Malinda approached me as people disbursed to retrieve their belongings. “Well, did you enjoy the class?”

“Yes I did,” I replied with a big grin on my face.

A woman, who hadn’t participated in the class, entered the ballroom and headed towards us. I noticed she was sauntering instead of sashaying. If I had to guess her body measurements they would be 38-38-40. Her royal blue pleated pants and matching vest contrasted with a pair of spit-shined women’s Stacy Adams snake skin loafers, size ten wide.

The stranger looked at me as though she knew me—or  what I was up to. I’m accustomed to people doing a double take when they see me because of my bushy mustache that stretches from one ear to the other. Her hardened expression indicated she didn’t give a dam about my mustache. I racked my brain trying to recall when and where I may have met the approaching damsel. If she were a man I’d be prepared for a round of fisticuffs. Her physique and mannerism were memorable. Her kiss left moisture on Malinda’s lips. She sent a message, without saying a word, that I understood. Malinda belongs to me! I thought palming Malinda’s butt cheek was a little over the top, but a person does what they have to do to serve notice.

“Hey Babe, do you remember Miss Elizabeth who use to take classes with me?” Malinda said recovering from the possession is nine-tenths of the law kiss.

“Was that the elderly lady with the pretty white hair?”

“Yes… This is her number four son. Reggie, this is my partner, Carlette. Babe, this is Reggie Knox.”

I knew a kiss on the cheek wasn’t happening, so I waited to see if she wanted to shake hands. We didn’t. I nodded. Judging from the kiss, it was safe to presume partner didn’t mean business partner.

I can hear The Temptations singing, It was just my imagination, once again, running away with me…

***

The night of the 2010 World’s Largest Steppin’ Contest had arrived. There were contestants from Chicago, Detroit, Atlanta, New York, and St. Louis to name a few. The general seating section of the hotel’s ballroom began to fill up quickly. The dance floor was raised four feet off the ballroom floor so that the judges and spectators could see the contestants’ dance routines, footwork, and outfits.

I caught a glimpse of Malinda making her way to the judges’ dais. The hem of her layered pastel blue satin dress stopped just above her knees. Her closed-toe silver shoes were in keeping with her clutch-purse, silver bracelets, necklace and matching earrings. Carlette positioned herself at a table off to the left of the judges.

Although there were seven categories, I was only interested in the ‘Beginners Category’ because they would set the bar for where I want to get to someday. Fourteen couples were competing in the ‘Beginners Category’. Contestants could receive points for their outfits so they came dressed to impress. Several of the men wore three-quarter length style suit jackets, born out of the Steppin’ community, pointed toe shoes that curled upwards, and hats. The colors of the men and women’s outfits ranged from pastels to muted.  One couple’s matching outfit included a scarecrow style hat which the man sported. The zebra patterned suit jacket trimmed in blue was the most colorful attire on the floor.

“Let’s go to work,” the master of ceremonies said, and the music began to play. Two couples danced to three minutes of music at the same time until all beginners had competed.

The evening culminated with the naming of the winners and the presentation of cash prizes. The MC was handed a list of names. “The first place winner of the Beginners Category is Bobby Blakely and Tia Matteson.” A minute had elapsed before Tia walked sheepishly towards the MC. “Where is Bobby?” the MC asked.

A murmur rippled through the audience when Tia replied, “I don’t know.”

Tia walked away holding an envelope and the 1^st place trophy. A small group of supporters surrounded her when she descended the stairs. She was bombarded with questions she couldn’t answer as the MC continued awarding prizes for the remaining categories. All of the winning contestants gathered to take a group picture. The photo shoot was interrupted by two uniformed policemen. One of the officers whispered in the ear of the MC, and he signaled for the music to stop. “We need everyone to take a seat, and don’t leave the room,” the MC spoke into the microphone.

I walked over to one of the officers and identified myself. “What’s up?”

The officer spoke in a hushed tone. “We have a deceased Black male in a car parked in the parking lot. It looks like he’d been stabbed multiple times with an icepick.”

I followed the officer to the parking lot. A half smoked joint resting in his lap had burned a hole in his trousers. “I don’t know him, but I know who he is,” I said to the officer.

“Who is he?”

“He was one of the contestants in the dance contest. His name is Bobby Blakely. They were looking for him earlier. He and his dance partner won 1^st place.”

“Too bad he won’t get a chance to celebrate the win.”

I was awakened by my landline telephone around 2:00 AM. The person on the end of the line was crying profusely. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. “Who is this?” They hung up.

I stared at the ceiling trying to discern who had called. The telephone rang just as I had dozed off. “Hello, who is this?” I could hear sniffling.

“It’s Malinda,” she murmured.

I must be dreaming, or losing my hearing.

“Malinda Sweet?”

“Yeah…”

“Why are you crying? Has something happened to Carlette?”

“No… They found Bobby Blakely dead in his car. He’d been stabbed to death.”

“I know. I saw the body before they removed it from the car. Apparently Bobby went to his car to smoke a joint and was attacked.”

Malinda began crying and hung up. Why is she calling me crying about a dead Stepper? The telephone rang just as I was about to go pee. I didn’t have to guess who it was. “Hello, Malinda. Are you able to talk now?”

“Yeah…”

“Why are you crying over Bobby?”

Silence.

“Are you still there?” I asked.

“Yeah…”

“Why are you so torn up about Bobby’s death?”

“Bobby and his girlfriend at the time, Florence, were former students of mine. When they joined my class Florence said their goal was to compete in the World’s Largest. I heard they had a falling out over Tia. Dancing with Bobby in the contest meant the world to Florence.”

“Any chance Florence may be involved with his murder?”

“No… Florence wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Was Florence at the set last night?”

“I’m not sure? I never saw her.”

“Hell knows no fury as a woman scorned… She’s going to need a good alibi.”

“I’d really appreciate it if you would find out who killed Bobby.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I’m asking… Good night.”

I stared at the ceiling thinking, Malinda called me. I was vain, for a fleeting moment, to think Malinda called crying because she and Carlette had an argument over me. I can be irresistible at times. It’s a curse.

***

Even though the murder occurred outside my precinct’s jurisdiction, I met with the lead homicide detective and made my interest in the case known, and how I saw Bobby compete before his death. Florence topped the list of suspects, as I had expected. She had motive; spent a few hundred dollars to have a dress made, and was jilted shortly before her dream event was to take place. She had been interviewed, photographed, but not arrested or fingerprinted. She claimed to have gone bowling instead of suffering the heartache of watching Bobby and Tia dance together. She doesn’t have anyone to corroborate her story because she went bowling alone.

***

I paid a visit to D T’s Gutterball Bowling Alley & Bar. Although I hadn’t been bowling in years the layout of the Gutterball made me want to rent a pair of shoes and roll a game, or two. Different sized mirror covered disco balls were suspended from the ceiling throughout the sixteen lanes bowling alley. The walls were covered with abstract patterns painted on with fluorescent based paint that glowed under black lights. The royal purple carpet had a series of gold dollars signs arranged in circles woven into it.

“Can I help you?” someone standing behind the shoe rental counter asked. The inquirer was a bald, somewhat muscular black man in his early fifties. He was an inch shorter than my six foot frame.

“Is the owner around,” I asked flashing my badge.

He pointed to the gold embroidered initials on his purple bowling shirt that read D.T. “You’re looking at him,” he said, deadpan.

I showed him a picture of Florence. “Do you recall seeing her here last Saturday?”

“No, I don’t recall seeing her in the lounge area. I was working behind the bar Saturday night.”

“Who was working the shoe rental counter?”

“That would have been Reese Parker.”

“What time is he expected in today?”

I placed the photo back in my coat pocket.

His mouth curled in the corners. “I would say about 14 weeks from now, if he comes in here.”

That’s a peculiar answer. “Why 14 weeks?”

“Reese enlisted in the Marines and started boot camp this week.”

“Would you give me his contact information?”

“Sure… I doubt if he’ll be receiving calls while in basic training.”

“I wonder if he’s at Parris Island or in San Diego?

“The recruitment center should be able to tell you.”

“Good point.”

The owner returned from his office and handed me a sheet of paper with Reese’s information written legibly.

***

I had a few hours to kill before Malinda’s Steppin’ class started so I stopped by a Marines’ recruitment office. I explained the need for me to get in contact with Reece. The recruiter made a copy of Florence’s photograph, wrote down my name and cellphone number, and said he would forward it on to the commander at the Parris Island training facility in South Carolina.

***

I returned to the parking deck where Bobby was killed and walked the ramps up to the top level where his car had been parked, looking for security cameras. I wondered if he parked on the uncovered level so that the marijuana smoke would escape into the night sky, or he knew there were no cameras on the top level, or both. Was this a case of in the wrong place at the wrong time scenario, or was Bobby stalked? There was a camera with low grade lighting at the entrance and exit gate.

***

Thoughts of the late night call with Malinda rushed into my head as I climbed the staircase to Fuller Park’s ballroom. A note announcing the cancellation of tonight’s class was taped to the door. I was looking forward to updating her on my progress, it would have to wait.

A tap on my passenger side window came while I was fastening my seatbelt. It was Malinda. I disengaged the lock, she took a seat beside me, and gently closed the car door. I recounted my efforts at the bowling alley, Marine recruiting office, and parking deck.

Malinda’s eyes were puffy as though she had been crying again. “I’ve been a hot mess ever since the police interviewed me, so I cancelled class.”

“The police questioned you?”

“Yeah… Someone told them that Bobby and Florence were students of mine. They wanted to know how Florence reacted when Bobby danced with other female students in class. Apparently the police were told I separate couples and have them dance with other students, because they can practice together at home. But Florence wasn’t bothered by Bobby dancing with other women.”

“Hopefully the bowling alley employee can vouch for her whereabouts. When will you resume classes?”

Malinda fingered a ring on her hand I hadn’t seen before. “I don’t know… Maybe next week.”  

Malinda exited my car, climbed into a car occupied by Carlette, and they drove away.

***

The next morning I sat beside the CPD videographer reviewing security film footage from the parking garage. Once we saw Bobby’s car appear, we took note of the make, model, and color of the cars that entered immediately afterwards. 

“Let’s fast-forward to around 10:00 PM,” I said. “That’s the estimated time of death.”

There was no exiting traffic on the screen until 10:27 PM when a red Toyota Camry departed the garage. The next exiting car didn’t appear on the screen until 11:45 PM. The tracking sheet indicated the second car trailing Bobby into the garage was a red Toyota Camry. We couldn’t tell if the driver was a male or female, nor could we make out the tag number. The 11:45 PM exiting car was not on the tracking sheet, so we surmised it had entered before Bobby arrived.

My abdominal rumblings meant it was time for me to pay a visit to Harold’s Chicken restaurant. I might order some fried chicken feet today, or maybe fried gizzards.

***

I was surprised to find Harold’s Chicken not overflowing with hungry diners so close to lunch time. It made it easier for me to find a table against the window so I can watch life play itself out, and keep an eye on my car. During a previous visit I made the mistake of leaving an empty box of DeMet’s chocolate turtles on the front seat, and someone craving the luscious chocolate, creamy caramel and crunchy pecans candy couldn’t resist smashing my passenger side window. I was fortunate their disappointment didn’t rile them up enough to key my car.

The facts of the case came to mind as I waited for my chicken to be cooked. Since its beginning, Harold’s Chicken would not drop meat in the grease until it was paid for, which resulted in customers getting fresh fried chicken, not pre-fried and lingering under heat-lamps. We have a murdered Stepper, a jilted lover with an unsubstantiated alibi, and a red Toyota of interest so far. Malinda is convinced that Florence couldn’t be the killer so I’m locked in on her alibi. I hope it doesn’t take forever to hear from the Marine recruit, or my order number  38 is called.

As luck would have it, my cellphone rang at the moment the cashier hollered “order # 38, order # 38”. The call was coming from area code 843, which I guessed was the Marine base in South Carolina since I was not expecting any other long distance call.

“This is Detective Knox,” I said, holding my church finger in the air to let the cashier know I heard her call, whereby she placed my tray on the counter for me to fetch. “Hold on a second,” I said to the caller as I retrieved my food and set it on my table before stepping outside for privacy and a better reception.

“Who’s calling?” I asked.

“This is private Reese Parker. I was told you needed to talk to me about a woman named Florence Green.”

“Thank you for calling, private. How’s training going so far?” I knew the answer, being a former Marine myself, I wanted to hear his take.

“After the first day I began to second guess my decision to enlist. But, they say what don’t kill you makes you stronger. I woke up the next day, so I must be stronger… What’s up with  Florence Green?”

“Did you see her at the bowling alley your last Saturday at work?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Was she alone?”

“Yeah, which I thought was odd. She’d never come by herself before. She’d either be with an attractive dark skin woman or that rowdy pick carrying sister of hers.”

“Do you remember when she arrived  and how long she stayed?”

“I’d say she arrived around 9:00 that evening. I don’t think she bowled a complete game, She rolled her share of gutterballs although she’s a pretty good bowler. A lady patron told me Florence had been crying in the restroom. I saw her sitting in the scorer’s seat staring off into space. Just as I was about to go check on her, she came over and turned in her bowling shoes. I asked if she’d been crying and she said her allergies were acting up.”

I glanced back at my food through the window periodically in anticipation of the call ending and me getting my grub on. The table was empty the last time I looked. The homeless guy I bumped into coming out the restaurant absconded with my food. I returned my focus on the call. “What time did she leave?”

“Some time after 10:00, maybe closer to 10:30. My C.O. didn’t tell me much, he said I needed to call you. Is Florence in trouble?”

“Her boyfriend was killed Saturday night during a Steppers contest around 10:00. She told the police she was bowling. You just corroborated her story.”

“I’m glad I could help. Florence was always lady-like and soft-spoken.”

“Switching subjects, or persons, what’s up with her rowdy sister?”

“If there such a thing as a Napoleon-Anna complex, her sister Vashti is afflicted. She threatened to pick an intoxicated guy that kept bothering her while she was bowling.”

“Pick?”

“She flashed an ice pick, and he didn’t say another word to her. He got the flock out of Dodge.”

I laughed. “Again, thanks for calling me. You’ve been a big help.”

I observed my personal food-taster sitting on a stoop enjoying thy bounty as I drove away, my stomach complaining loudly.  There’s a White Castle on the way to the precinct.

***

I shared my latest findings with the lead detective. We agreed Private Parker wouldn’t need to return to Chicago before completing his boot camp training. Arrangements were being made to question Florence’s sister, Vashti Green and to confiscate her ice pick for lab testing.

***

It was 2:00 AM when my landline telephone rang. This time I had a notion of who might be calling. “Hello,” I said.

“Hey Mister Knox,” the caller said.

“Hello, Malinda,” I greeted her, “Can’t sleep again?”

“You guessed it… Any progress?”

“Yeah, in fact there is.”

“Oh, Great!”

I could feel her demeanor change through the telephone receiver. Although I’m weaning myself from my Malinda-infatuation, it felt good to know I’m providing cheer in her life.    

“The bowling alley employee confirmed that Florence was there from 9:00 PM to about 10:30 PM that Saturday night, so she has been removed from the suspect list for now.”

“For now? Why would she be placed back on the list?”

“There’s a remote chance she could have hired a hitman.”

“How could you say such a thing? Florence is not a vindictive person.”

“I’m not saying she is… Question, do you know her sister, Vashti?”

“No not really… I can’t say if I’ve ever met her. I got a glimpse of her once when she dropped Florence off at class. I felt she was driving too fast to be in a parking lot.”

“What kind of car was she driving?”

“I can’t say. I don’t pay too much attention to cars. I couldn’t tell the difference between a Cadillac and a Ford. All I know is she was driving a red car.”

“We’re making progress, although it’s slow.”

“Thanks for the update… Good night.”

***

I stood on the other side of the interrogation room’s one-way mirror while they interviewed Vashti. Her red jacket and pants stood out against the drab green walls of the room. Napoleon-Anna came to mind as I watched her body language and listened to her respond to questions. The height strip on the door jamb marked her at five feet two and a half. She could almost be heard without the aid of the room’s intercom. A preliminary test found blood on her ice pick. The lab is running tests to compare the victim’s blood with the blood on the ice pick. She claimed she was roller skating Saturday night. A detective has been dispatched to the skating rink.  The lab was backed up so Vashti was allowed to leave the precinct.

***

The ringing telephone in the dead of night had become the conditional stimulus for my inner Pavlov’s dog, minus me salivating.  I had no idea why she doesn’t call me during normal business hours. Are these clandestine calls her only opportunity to talk freely, or is her relationship with Florence more than teacher and student? Private Parker’s comment about Florence being accompanied by a dark skin woman came to mind. The telephone rang as anticipated. It was a little past 2:00 AM.

“Hello,” I said.

“It’s me,” she said. “Any progress?”

“Florence’s sister, Vashti, was interviewed today because we discovered she carried an ice pick. She was released before the lab results were received. There was blood on the ice pick but it wasn’t Bobby’s blood. It was the blood of a dog, a big one. We can eliminate her as a suspect. Are you planning on attending the funeral?”

“Yes…”

“I’ll be there too. Maybe I’ll see you…”

“Thanks for the update… Good night.”

***

Acklin Funeral Home was filled with family, friends and members from the Steppin’ community. The line of people wishing to make remarks snaked along the wall and out of the sanctuary. Malinda was the fourth person in the line. I scanned the room to determine if she came solo, and saw Carlette holding Malinda’s seat near the front.

Tia sat with a slender bearded gentleman near the back of the sanctuary. He clutched her arm when she attempted to join the people lining up to make remarks. I could sense some tension between the two. The area around Tia’s left eye was puffy.

 Half the people wishing to make remarks didn’t get a chance to speak because the funeral director intervened and drew the remarks portion to a close. I watched Tia and her escort leave the sanctuary together when the program concluded. He waved off receiving a funeral procession window sticker on their way outside. I followed.

They walked two blocks before stopping at a parked car, a red Toyota Camry. He didn’t make an effort to open the door for her. They appeared to be arguing when they drove pass. I made note of the license tag number and called it into the precinct. I chose not to attend the internment and the repast, and drove to the precinct.

***

I was handed a rap-sheet for Donald King. The black and white photograph resembled the man escorting Tia. He had a domestic abuse charge, which was dropped. A warrant was issued for Donald’s arrest and the questioning of Tia.

***

The police arrested Donald when he returned to his apartment without Tia in the car. He wouldn’t answer questions until he’d spoken to a public defender. Meanwhile, the hunt was on to locate Tia. Her home address was pulled from the motor vehicle database and officers were dispatched. She wasn’t at home. The decision was made to hold off from issuing an APB on Tia until Donald could be questioned.

***

Donald and the public defender sat on the same side of the table during questioning. He said he was in the audience when Bobby and Tia competed although they had argued over Tia spending so much time practicing with Bobby. He congratulated them shortly after they came off the dance floor, and he left around 10:00. He said he dropped Tia off at her mother’s house after the funeral service. Tia’s mother likes to play the slot machines, if they’re not at her mother’s house they’re on The Boat.

The police also had a copy of the security footage inside the hotel. I watched over the videographer’s shoulder as she studied the screen. The timestamp on the screen indicated Donald exited the ballroom and walked towards the parking garage elevators at 9:48 PM.

The videographer looked up at me. “He was telling the truth about being there and leaving around ten.”

 Something caught my attention and I asked the videographer to roll the film back to where Donald walked through the swinging doors leading to the garage elevators. “Slow it down,” I said.

Minutes later, Bobby exited the ballroom and walked the same path Donald did to reach the garage elevators. A few minutes after Bobby’s departure, Carlette could be seen heading towards the garage elevators.

“Let it keep rolling,” I said.

At 10:05 Carlette came back through the swinging doors and entered the ladies’ restroom before going back into the ballroom.

“Roll it back to when Carlette pushed the swinging door open and freeze it… Now roll forward to when Carlette came back through the doors and stop it before she goes into the ladies room… Enlarge the picture and hone in on her right sleeve. Do you see it?”

“The stain on her sleeve?” the videographer asked.

“Yep… Could be blood. Roll forward to when she exits the restroom and hone in on the sleeve again… Now you see it, now you don’t… She was able to get the stain out.”

***

Donald was released, and Carlette was arrested and the clothes she wore that night were sent to the lab. When she and her lawyer were told smatterings of Bobby’s blood were found on her black trousers Carlette decided to confess. I listened intently from the other side of the interrogation room’s one-way window.

***

My landline telephone rang a little past 2:00 AM, it had to be Malinda.

“Hello, Malinda,” I said.

“Hello, Mr. Knox…They arrested Carlette and confiscated the outfit she wore to the Steppers’ contest. I haven’t heard from her since they took her away.”

“It’s obvious you haven’t been straight with me, no pun intended.”

“How’s that?”

“You fed me that story about Bobby and Florence being lovers when actually it was you and Florence. But Bobby had to pay for breaking Florence’s heart. With Carlette on her way to prison, now you have Florence all to yourself.”

Silence.

“Malinda?”

Click… Dial tone.

---

Bio: Keith A. Mosley was born in Chicago where he grew up on the Southside, and moved to Atlanta after receiving a B.S. degree from the University of Illinois. He and his wife, Katheryne J. Mosley—a retired school teacher—have been married over 45 years and have two adult children. Keith is a member of Crime Writers of Color, the Atlanta Writers Club and a Life-Member of Omega Psi Phi Fraternity, Inc. He is an avid distance-walker and has a black belt in martial arts.
Keith’s professional career was centered in the Telecommunications industry where his job titles ranged from Marketing Communication Consultant to Information Technology Project Manager (PMP). Entrepreneurial pursuits were Keith’s hobbies during his 30+ years in Corporate America where some of his responsibilities involved software development and technical writing. His natural creative spirit formed him into an accomplished inventor, with several patents and the creation of a board game, to his credit.
Keith has been a big fan of the Twilight Zone television series since the late fifties. His interest in the paranormal and the “good guy” or “avenging spirit” triumphing over evil and lawlessness are common themes in his writings. WLSC Murder is influenced by Keith’s enjoyment of Chicago Style Steppin’ dancing.

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