Rick Blechta - Orchestrated Murder

“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.”

“Well, obviously, it had to be one of us.”

“All of you felt that way?”

Disgust crossed Eliza’s face. “There are always a few ass-kissers.”

Pratt decided to switch channels. “You’ve made a pretty damning statement about Spadafini. Care to say more?”

Her face went hard. “Got a few hours?”

“Frankly, no. But I need some idea of what you mean.”

“Tell me, Detective, have you ever even heard an orchestra play?”

Wanamaker’s tone of voice made it clear she thought cops weren’t capable of understanding classical music.

“I get to a half dozen of your concerts a year-when work doesn’t get in the way. And I also enjoy opera. You really need to widen your views about the police.”

She smiled for the first time. “Touche!”

“Now tell me what you know-or guess.”

“Many of us hold Spadafini responsible for two deaths that have occurred in the orchestra since he took over.”

“Two deaths?” Pratt got his pen busy in the notebook.

“Yes, last year, in a vendetta none of us understood, Spadafini rode our timpanist, Mort Schulman, until he had a heart attack from the stress.”

“And you blame your conductor for this?”

“You weren’t there! Everything Morty did was wrong. Spadafini took every opportunity to belittle him, to question his musical ability. Morty was only two years away from retiring. If it was so damned important, why didn’t they just give him some money and let him go early?”

“And the other death?”

“Annabelle Lee, one of our cellists. She jumped in front of a subway train four months ago.”

“Just how was Spadafini connected with this?”

“Everyone knew he was screwing her.”

Pratt had heard of the unfortunate death. Every witness, and there were many, stated she had been alone at the end of the platform and clearly jumped. There had been no suicide note that he’d heard about.

“Really. You have proof of this?”

“It stands to reason. Within a week of a new piccolo player joining the orchestra, Annabelle was dropped, humiliated in front of the orchestra, and Spadafini was off pursuing his next conquest.”

“Was he successful?”

Eliza Wanamaker glared at Pratt. “Why don’t you ask the little fool yourself?”

Pratt was interrupted by a knock on the door behind him. It was the sergeant from upstairs.

“Sorry to bother you. Five more detectives have arrived. You’re also to call the captain right away. And the media have shown up-in force.”

Pratt’s sigh was heavy. “Where’s young Ellis?”

“No idea.”

“Find him. Send the detectives along to the rehearsal room. And get me Browne.”

The sergeant started to turn away, then stopped. “Almost forgot. Someone sent these over. The captain wants everyone to carry one.” He handed Pratt a walkie-talkie. “They’re digital and encoded so the press can’t listen in.”

By the time Pratt got back to the rehearsal room himself, the detectives were coming down the hall. He outlined the situation as quickly as he could. The looks they passed among themselves told the story. They could see the mess they’d been dragged into.

Browne arrived, and Pratt asked him to arrange for each detective to have his own room to work in. By the time that was sorted out, they were down to storage rooms and even a broom closet.

Pratt addressed the newcomers. “This is all preliminary questioning. Just ask general questions. I want to know where everyone says they were during the break when Spadafini was murdered. Then we can cross-check that. I want your impressions of how truthful they’re being. Make note of anything interesting. And above all, be quick. The press hounds are baying outside, and the whole city is watching.”

“More like the whole world,” one detective muttered.

Several of the detectives were shaking their heads as they went into the rehearsal room to get the first group of musicians for questioning.

Pratt pulled out his cell phone. He hated the damned things. But they were a fact of life for detectives these days, same as computers-which Pratt also hated.

Surprisingly, the captain picked up on the first ring. “What’s the story, Pratt?”

“It’s a total mess down here.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Any progress?”

“Some,” Pratt answered and gave his boss a quick update.

“I just got off the phone with the chief. The mayor’s in his office, along with one of the symphony board’s big shots. The chief stressed how they all wanted this situation resolved quickly.”

Pratt rolled his eyes and felt a headache coming on. “The men just arrived, and I’ve given them their marching orders. The Scene of Crime team is also at work. We’re moving as fast as we can.”

“I’m counting on you, Pratt. Keep me in the loop. Understand?”

Captain McDonnell hung up before Pratt could even answer.

Ellis came hurrying down the hall. “I hear you wanted to speak to me.”

“What have you been up to?”

“I was just talking to one of the Scene of Crime guys.”

“And?”

“They’re not coming up with much. There are no fingerprints on the murder weapon. They doubt if they’re going to get any dna evidence, since the murderer was likely wearing gloves.” Ellis took out his notebook and read. “Preliminary findings are that Luigi Spadafini was knocked to the ground and strangled from behind. The murderer had his-”

“Or her,” Pratt interrupted. “Don’t forget that an active woman could have done it. Spadafini was not a big man.”

“Right. The murderer had his or her knee in the center of the conductor’s back and pulled upward.

“Was the murderer left- or right-handed?”

“What?”

“A joke, Ellis. I was making a joke.”

“Oh.”

“Now I have a question for you. You said that string used to strangle Spadafini was from a cello. Are you sure?”

“It’s too long for a violin or viola string and too short to come from a bass.”