Dead Wood - By Dani Amore Page 0,13
what appeared to be Jesse’s main work center. There was a vast array of lights, and a more sophisticated table with an impressive collection of measuring equipment. There was also the only real chair in the place.
Next to the table was the chalk outline of Jesse’s final resting place. I imagined her body on the floor, surrounded by the tools of her craft. The fragments of guitar pieces looking down at her. Even though I’m not terribly religious, something like a short prayer vocalized itself in my mind.
Clarence came and stood next to me. I could hear his breathing, labored and rapid. He looked down at the other end of the studio and after a moment said with a voice that had lost all of its timbre and conviction, “Maybe I will wait in the car.” I said okay and waited for him to leave. Once the door was shut, I walked ahead and tried not to dwell on the giant blood stain still visible on the concrete floor.
I made my way around the workshop. I studied the blood spot on the floor then looked at the ceiling. There were blood splatters that had been noted by the crime scene technician. Despite the fact that there was probably no way he could have missed them, I hoped to God Clarence hadn’t seen them. The brutality of the crime shook me. A blood splatter on the ceiling meant that after this woman had had her head cracked open and the blunt instrument was covered in blood, the perp had kept beating. Nothing drives home the violence of a crime like blood splatters on the ceiling.
There were a lot of fragmentary pieces – shapes and contours of wood that would eventually be used in a guitar. I recognized a kind of rib framing and several guitar necks. There were even boxes of the knobs guitarists use to tune the strings. Off in one corner was a small sink and an old, battered coffeemaker with a hodgepodge of cups surrounding it. A small refrigerator was tucked beneath a makeshift countertop. On a shelf above the coffeemaker was an old, dusty stereo with stacks of CDs and audio cassettes. Mostly classical music. The majority of them played on guitar.
It was all mundane and not glamorous in the least bit. But most importantly of all to my way of thinking, it was pretty much useless to a petty thief.
I just stood for a moment in the studio. Outside, I could hear the occasional hum of traffic, maybe a voice here or there. The pipes in the building occasionally creaked and popped. Ordinarily you would probably never hear them. But now in the stillness of the aftermath, they seemed like loud intrusions.
I tried to glean any other pieces of information from the room that I could. I re-examined the point of entry for the killer. Took particular time studying the door and the actual spot of the crime.
I took one final look around the workshop, then, satisfied, contemplated what to do next.
Clarence had mentioned to me that Jesse lived above the studio in a simple apartment. As he put it, it hadn’t been much, but she hadn’t wanted much. I thought of going up to her living quarters, but hesitated. Although entering the workshop was technically illegal, it seemed sneaking into Jesse’s living quarters was an even bigger violation, although more of a moral infraction.
The guitar pieces hanging from various hooks and clamps seemed to be watching me wrestle with indecision. In the end, I knew I had to do it. If Clarence really wanted me to find out whether or not his daughter was truly the victim of a premeditated crime, it had to be done.
After all, I’d promised Clarence I would find out the truth.
• • •
True to Clarence’s word, the apartment wasn’t much. A living room with simple furnishings; a comfortable but well-worn leather couch. An old Adirondack style rocking chair. A wall of bookshelves filled with tomes on art and music.
There was an old guitar resting in a stand next to the rocker. It definitely wasn’t one Jesse had made. It reminded me of those old jazz numbers from the 1920s. At the top, the name ‘Gibson’ was emblazoned across the wood.
I walked through the living room and into the kitchen. It too was simple with a small pine table and two old, wooden chairs. A stove from the 50s was next to a fridge most likely from the same decade. To