Room
203, A Marice Houston Mystery is a sequel to Room 103. Marice is a
Deputy Federal Marshal stationed in Kansas City, Missouri. However,
since a major shakeup in the Florida FBI, she and several of her
co-workers have been sent to Florida to help with prisoner transport.
Briefly back in KC, she receives a strange phone call, only a series
of clicks and buzzes, with a distinctive beat. The sound technician,
Cruz, has been tasked with figuring it out.
“I
got something,” Cruz announced over the phone.
“What?”
I sent back, perplexed.
“See
me in my cubbie,” he said.
Sighing
heavily, I wandered to his cubbie, which is what he calls his work
space. It's small and cramped, but well lit and he has every
electronic tool and gadget known to mankind. His diagnostic equipment
set the budget back a very pretty penny, but considering he's an
asset to the department, and one of the best in the nation, Alvin
didn't mind finding the funds for him. Cruz met me at the door.
“I
knew I recognized it.”
“What
is it? Morse code?”
“No,
not even. It was a drum beat.”
“A—hm—what?”
I tilted my head, not sure I understood what he meant.
“Drum
beat.”
“A
for real beat? Not just something that sounds like something?”
“No,
it's an actual beat from an actual song.”
“And
did you figure out which song?”
“Yeah—kinda.
Working on that. But it's very familiar, which means it's something
I've heard fairly often.”
“Doesn't
narrow it down much. You listen to music all the time.”
“I
know, but instead of all the drum beats it could be, it's isolated to
something I regularly hear. So, instead of billions of possibilities,
it's hundreds.”
“Good
point. Ideas?”
“I
looped it. Listen.”
He
played the beat. Though it was done with clicks and buzzes instead of
sticks and drums, I felt recognition. It was that strange, questing
feeling you get when you know you know it, but it's not quite there.
Like it's on the edge of your consciousness, but you can't touch it.
It felt like something was tapping on my forehead, above my left eye.
The
door popped open and Butch walked in, opening his mouth to speak.
Instead, his head turned to Cruz and started to bob. “Jingo,”
he said—pertinent of nothing, I thought.
“Jin-what?”
I asked.
“Jingo,
by Carlos Santana. That's the opening bongo solo, but I don't think I
ever heard it like that.”
“You
know it. Just like that?” I was slightly incredulous.
“Yeah?
I'm a drummer. I know my beats. I'm also a huge Santana fan and it's
one of my favorite songs.”
“Okay,
we've identified it,” I said, raising a shoulder and eyebrow in
Cruz's general direction. “Now, why? Is there something significant
about the song, title, artist or beat?”
“No
clue,” Cruz said, fiddling some more. He set the recording clicking
and buzzing, adding Jingo in an overlay. It fit perfectly. “By
damn.”
“Told
ya. Do I know my beats, or what?”
“My
man!” Cruz tapped his knuckles.
“But—the
question remains—why? If it's supposed to convey a message, it
isn't telling me anything.”
“You
have to look beyond the music,” Cruz began.
“Really?
You're going to chance walking there?” I turned to Butch. “Does
he have a death wish?”
“Oh,
Jeesh, Houston! I'm not being philosophical, I'm being honest.
Listen. There's the Jingo beat. There's a factory whistle.”
“But
what do they mean?”
“No
clue. I can't solve all your problems for you.”
“In
about ten seconds, you're going to die,” I cautioned him. “And
you won't be able to stop me. And neither will Butch, guaranteed. So,
quit pissing me off and spill.”
"I
do think it's sending a message, but I couldn't tell you what. But if
you listen, there is a pause before we very distinctly hear the
whistle. That sort of whistle is rare. Some factories still use them,
you might find them in small cities, a noon whistle, but it's not
noon...."
"Do
they sound them at end of shift?" Butch asked.
"Yeah,
I suppose."Cruz checked his watch and the time stamp on the
recording. "Not local time for end of shift, unless it's some
place that changes shift at four o'clock instead of three. Most
places go seven to three, three to eleven and eleven to seven. But
some factories go from eight until four, four to twelve and twelve to
eight."
"Do
any of the local factories use a steam whistle at change of shift?"
I asked him.
He
was already sitting down to the keyboard. His face fell when he read
the screen. "Aw shit."
"There's
one near the prison where we just put China Finetti," I stated
without even looking.
“Yeah.
Shit. F**k.”
I
couldn't state it more succinctly if I tried.
©
2017 Dellani Oakes
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