Rick Blechta - Orchestrated Murder

Pratt pulled up another chair. “Your name, dear?”

“Sofia. Sofia Barna.”

“That’s Polish, isn’t it?”

“My parents are from Poland. I was born in Toronto.”

“And you’ve been in the orchestra how long?”

“Nearly six months.”

“How do you like it here?”

“It’s okay. I’m lucky to have landed the job.”

“How are you f inding life in our city?”

“All right, I guess.”

Pratt circled a bit closer with the next question. “And when was the last time you saw Luigi Spadafini?”

Her eyes opened wide. “Why are you asking that?”

“Please answer the question.”

Sofia looked around as if she wanted to run away.

“Take your time,” Pratt said kindly.

“This morning just before he…just before he…”

Pratt studied her closely. Obviously she’d been crying, and right now her face looked like she just might do it again. She also had all the signs of someone with something to hide.

“I meant before that.”

“The concert last night. He was so angry afterward. That’s why we had the emergency rehearsal this morning.”

“But you also saw him after the concert, didn’t you?”

The young woman wilted, put her head in her hands and began sobbing. Pratt let her go on for a while.

“Miss Barna,” he eventually asked, but kept his voice gentle, “would you please answer my question?”

She snuffled a moment longer, then raised her head and wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeves.

“You were seeing him, weren’t you?”

She suddenly looked defiant. “Who told you? That Wanamaker woman, the orchestra’s busybody?”

“So you’re not denying it?”

“No. I suppose I can’t. I know people in the orchestra guessed. I was careful. Luigi wasn’t quite as careful. It wasn’t his nature.”

Pratt decided to take out his notebook. “Did you spend the night together?” At first he thought she wouldn’t answer, but eventually he got a nod. “All night?”

“Do you also want a detailed description of what we did?” Sofia asked harshly.

“What was Spadafini’s mood like?”

“He was very angry at the orchestra. He went on and on about it. Then just before midnight, his phone rang.”

“His cell phone?”

“No. His home phone. I think he’d left his cell in the car. He got out of bed and took the call in his study. I heard a lot of shouting through the door.”

“Do you know what the argument was about?”

“No. I think it was about money or something. The only clear thing I heard was about Luigi not owing anything.”

“He used those exact words?”

She nodded.

“And did he say anything to you about it later?”

“Not a word. Actually, he was in a very good mood when he got back in bed. A very good mood…”

Sofia looked as if she was going to cry again. Pratt gave her some time to regain control.

“Did you come to this morning’s rehearsal together?”

“Of course not! I took a cab from his place around nine o’clock and went home to change clothes.”

“Then you came here.”

She just kept from rolling her eyes. “We had a rehearsal.”

“Did you speak to him at all after you left his apartment?”

“No.”

“You had no communication whatsoever? You didn’t, for instance, go up to his office during the break?”

She looked really horrified. “Are you suggesting I murdered him?”

“I’m only trying to find out what happened. You were intimate with the man. It’s a logical question.”

“No! I didn’t go to his office. Luigi was in a very bad mood. I stayed in the rehearsal room to practice. Ask anyone in the orchestra. I was there for the entire break.”

“We will be asking.”

“Everyone stayed either in the rehearsal room or the corridor outside. Some would have used the restrooms, I suppose. The break was only supposed to be a short one. We all stuck close by.”

“No. One of you was up in Spadafini’s office, strangling him.”

Sofia Barna put her hand to her mouth and bolted from the stage.

Pratt stood in the doorway to the dead conductor’s office again. In the hall behind him, the ambulance crew was waiting impatiently. It was nearly time to remove the body.

The Scene of Crime team had marked a number of things too small to see on the floor. With numbers beside each one, a team member was busy snapping photos. Two more were dusting the window frames for prints. The gray powder they used completely covered the desk. The team leader was crouched over the body watching the medical examiner do his thing.

Pratt called to the team leader, a man he knew well. “Frank, can you spare a minute?”

Frank Johnson walked to the doorway. “What can I do for you, Pratt?”

“How far have you gotten?”

Pratt braced himself. Johnson, known as a bit of a wiseass, liked to answer questions with song titles. He didn’t disappoint.

“Well, I’ll tell ya, it seems to be a case of ‘Nothing from Nothing Leaves Nothing.’ Whoever did the deed didn’t leave much behind as far as we can see.”

“No fingerprints?”

“Not many. Mr. Conductor Man over there seems to have been a bit of a neatnik. According to that guy Browne, the office would be cleaned at least once a day.”

“Not many? I suppose you’re going to have to fingerprint that whole crew in the basement, aren’t you?”

Pratt sighed. “I suppose it will come to that. How about the body and the murder weapon?”

“We’re not going to get anything out of the murder weapon, if I know my job. I found a few smudges consistent with gloves. Hard to tell what kind. We’ll check for residue, but it will take time.”

“And the body?”

“There’s a bruise in the center of the guy’s back consistent with somebody leaning on him with one knee and pulling back. That metal cable-”

“Cello string,” Pratt added absently.

“Right. Your young assistant told us that’s what it was. Anyway, the cello string dug into the guy’s throat pretty deeply. A lot of bruising there.”

Pratt and Johnson were joined by the medical examiner. “Death would have been pretty quick with that type of ligature,” he told them as he peeled off his latex gloves. “Just the amount of time it took the victim’s lungs to run out of oxygen.”

“And those drum mallets used to secure the ends of the cello string?” Pratt asked both of them.

The medico answered. “It would have been hard to hold a small cable like that really tight with bare or even gloved hands. Quite ingenious to use those sticks, actually. The murderer could make the length of the loop smaller so he could apply more pressure. If your arms are extended out like this”-the doctor held his arms far apart-“you can’t put as much oomph behind it.”

“Are you sure it was a male that did this?”

Both men looked doubtful to Pratt. Great. If they’d both come out strongly that they thought the murderer was male, it might have made things simpler.

“Hard to say,” Johnson finally answered. “The stiff wasn’t a very big guy. Good strong woman might have been able to do the deed.”

“Doc?” Pratt asked, turning to him.

“I’ll know more after the autopsy.”

The usual answer from a medical examiner.

“Can you give me anything to work with?”

Both men looked at Pratt and then at each other.

Johnson said, “Well, there is one thing.”

“What?”

“We found an open fountain pen on the desk. The nib was still wet, so it can’t have been open that long.”

“Can you give me a time.”

“An hour only.”