"You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows."
                                             Bob Dylan

I couldn’t see him, but I knew John Sparkes was lying peacefully in bed with a bullet in his brain.

The bedroom door was open and I slowly walked in.  My hand instinctively touched the Smith and Wesson strapped under my sport jacket.  A basket of freshly washed laundry was on the rug.  A slow tingle spread through my body, the same one I got when I knew something was wrong with what I was seeing.  I don’t get it often and a few times I’ve been wrong, but after twenty four years in homicide I’ve got a pretty good nose for a set-up.

Blood had spilled down the side of Sparkes’ face and drenched the white sheet that still covered him to his neck.  His right arm was stretched off the bed as if he had just dropped something and beneath that was a .32, complete with a "silencer".  The blood, sour smell of urine, flashing bulbs and feeling of sadness were familiar to me as I took it all in.

"You through with him, Jim?" I said to the Medical Examiner.

He didn’t respond.

"Got a call from his ex-wife," Officer Ralph Clayton said breaking the uneasy silence.  "He didn’t show up at his daughter’s twelfth birthday party last night.  Wife tried to reach him and couldn’t.  He didn’t report to work today and she got worried something might have happened.  What do you think, Lieutenant?  Suicide?"

I looked at Morrow for an instant, but knew from years of experience that he’d volunteer little information until all of his tests were finished.  It was one of the reasons we didn’t get along.

 I walked out of the room and left the body to Morrow for the moment.   My eyes skimmed the fifteen-foot square living room.  Floor to ceiling built-in shelves overflowed with record albums.  Two oversized Bose speakers sat on each end of a long table.  In the middle was an old fashioned turntable, the kind you'd have to special order a needle for if it wore down.  The air conditioner was cranked up all the way so that Boston's August humidity couldn't penetrate the walls.

     John Sparkes owned a condo in one of those old fashioned brownstones on Commonwealth Avenue.  The view from the third floor window was of a bar and pizza joint across the street.  Three college students sat on a stairway laughing loudly the way people do when they feel they should be enjoying themselves more than they really are.  If I opened the window and stretched my neck I'd be able to see the light towers over Fenway Park.

     I glanced at the albums.  Elvis, Chuck Berry and Little Richard were scattered in the collection, but the main focus was Bob Dylan.  I pulled a disc out and stared at the cover.  A young Dylan shivered with a woman on a slushy street in New York.

     As an avid record collector I understood Sparkes’ obsession.  Mine was the early British invasion.  The Beatles, Dave Clark Five, Gerry and the Pacemakers.  But, I didn't go overboard like this guy.  He had two or three copies of many albums.  Man, I'd do just about anything to get my hands on a collection like this.

     Clayton walked next to me.  "Open and shut, I’d say."

     I studied him for a few seconds.  He always looked for the easy way out.  "Someone would like us to think that.  How many suicides do we find in bed?"

     "A few," Clayton said.

     I jabbed my finger toward the kitchen.  "So this guy comes home, maybe eats dinner, washes the dishes, tidies up the apartment, gets into bed and blows his brains out. Plus, he puts a ‘silencer’ on the gun so not to disturb the neighbors."

     "Stranger things have happened, sir."

     "Guy has an ex-wife and a kid.  How come he didn't leave a note?"  I ran my hand through my thinning gray hair.  "He'd have to be pretty angry to kill himself on his daughter's birthday.  Oh, no.  I'm not buying suicide at all."

     "Nothing appears to be missing," Clayton said.  "So burglary wasn't the motive and the techs haven't found any unusual fingerprints." 

     I took a long, slow breath.  "Did anyone talk to the neighbors?"

     He nodded.  "No one saw anything unusual.  The landlord said he's a quiet guy.  Always pays his rent on time.  No wild parties.  Said the last time he talked to him, Sparkes seemed depressed."  Clayton shrugged as if his words proved the guy took his own life.

     I pointed to my nose.  "This tells me that John Sparkes death was no suicide."

     Jim Morrow laughed derisively in the bedroom.

"How does it feel to be on your own, no direction home?"
                                             Bob Dylan

     A warm wind blew off the Charles River as I sped down Storrow Drive.  I exited by the Public Gardens and headed toward the South End, a yuppified section of Boston tucked in between downtown and Roxbury.  When I was married to Linda we'd eaten in some of the neighborhood’s overpriced bistros, but since the divorce, money's been a little tight and I hadn't been in the area for a while.

     Sarah Sparkes’ apartment was located in a transition zone.  Not upscale enough for the South End and not downtrodden enough for the ghetto.  My guess was in a year or so this neighborhood would be gentrified, the rents would soar and Sarah and her kid would be forced to move.

     I squeezed my car between a Taurus and a Chevy truck.  Truth was, there was no evidence to show that John Sparkes hadn't committed suicide, but as I'd done so many times in the past I'd shot my mouth off, not willing to appear uncertain in front of my colleagues.  Now I had to find the facts to fit my theory.

      The warm breeze gently slapped my face as I waited for someone to answer my ring. It was after ten, but from the lights blazing in the windows I figured she was still up.  Off in the distance music thumped and the smells of cooking meats gave me a warm feeling.

     "Yes, can I help you?"  The woman who opened the door was chunky and tired looking.  She wore no make-up and her graying hair was tied back in a bun making her look older then the forty plus years I estimated.  Her eyes were dry and bright.  A TV murmured low in the background.

     "Mrs. Sparkes.  I'm Lieutenant Ted Hanlon."  I held up my shield.  "I'm sorry to bother you at a time like this."  I shut my eyes for an instant.  How many times had I recited the same lines?

     She motioned me inside and then closed the door.  The cool air-conditioned feel of the living room replaced the warm breeze.  A door at the end of the hallway was closed.  The neatness of the place reminded me of her ex-husband’s.  A perfect match.  I wondered what had gone wrong in their marriage.

     She offered me the sofa, then sat in a chair opposite. My eyes scanned the coffee table in front of me.  Copies of Time, Newsweek, Goldmine and Boston covered the surface.  Not an album or record player in sight.  Unlike her ex-husband she wasn’t addicted to music.

     "How is your daughter?"  I said.

     "Lieutenant.  John and I have been divorced for ten years.  Suze only saw him on Christmas and her birthday.  He wasn't much of a presence in her life.  She will survive and so will I."

     "Did your husband own a gun, Mrs. Sparkes?"

     The question seemed to catch her off guard.  She slowly nodded.  "Is that how he was killed?  Shot with his own gun?  The officer on the phone didn't say much.  Wants me to identify John's body in the morning.  Just a formality, she said."

     "Tell me about Mr. Sparkes.  What kind of guy was he?"

     She forced a smile.  " It depends on who you talk to.  He didn't have an enemy in the world if that's what you mean.  John was a calm, peaceful, self-assured man.  People liked him.  If you mean what kind of a husband and father was he, well, that's a different story.  Always behind in his child support.  Twice a year visits.  That was it.  When he didn't show up the night of Suze's birthday I tried to reach him.  To blast him, you know?  But . . ." Her voice trailed off.

     I remained quiet knowing from my years of experience that some people had to fill up the silences.

     She looked down at her hands that were resting on her knees.  "I'd hate to think he suffered.  He didn't deserve to suffer."  She looked up at me.  "As much as I wouldn't admit it to myself I still loved him after the divorce.  Can you understand that?"

     I nodded slowly.  The turmoil surrounding divorce was one thing I understood perfectly.   "Was he despondent about anything?"

     "I wouldn't know.  I hadn't talked to him in over six months.  He's got a new girlfriend.  Sherry Gildea.  You should talk to her." 

     My eyes flickered to a cardboard box, brown wrapping paper and a pair of scissors lying in the corner.  A yellow balloon with "Happy Birthday" stenciled on it hovered near the ceiling. 

     "Who gets his record collection, Mrs. Sparkes?"

     " I don't know.  It'll probably go to his partner at the store.  Kevin Corcoran and John owned The Golden Grooves, a record shop on Mass Avenue.  I imagine he'll want the stuff."

     I felt the old familiar tingle as I left her apartment.

 "A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall."
                  Bob Dylan

     Saturday morning and the streets of Boston were free for human beings to move at the speeds they might have attained at the turn of the century.  Bicycles, roller blades and the almost forgotten pleasure of walking were the major modes of transportation.  It took only a few minutes to cross over the Mass Avenue Bridge into Cambridge.

     Sherry Gildea, John Sparkes last girlfriend, worked in a flower shop on Brattle Street.  As I walked in chimes tinkled in that irritating way they do in all yuppie shops.  Every inch of space in the store was filled with plants.  They sat on chairs, windowsills, ladders and hung from the ceiling.  They lined stairs leading up to the second floor.  Ceramic pots, clay vases, glass containers.  The interior of the place sparkled and smelled sticky sweet.

     Sherry was in her mid-forties.  With her bleached blonde hair, tight black jeans and sweater she struggled to look younger, but the lines on her face and loose crinkly neck skin indicated she was losing the battle.  After a preliminary introduction she agreed to meet me out on Brattle Street where we could talk more freely.

     She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and watched the smoke swirl in the air.  "Last thing I expected was a cop comin' around asking about John."

     "Why's that?"

     "Isn't it obvious he committed suicide?"

     "Not to me."

     "Sounds like it from the morning paper.  John was alone.  It was his gun.  You've got no suspects.  Nothing was taken.  What else could it be?"

     "Why would John commit suicide?"

     She took a long drag on her cigarette and slowly exhaled.  Then she leaned close to my ear.  "He was HIV positive.  Found out a few months ago.  He was really depressed.  Said he felt helpless.  Told me he didn’t want to die a lingering death."

     I digested this for an instant.  "Did he tell anyone else about his illness?"

     "Not as far as I know.  Most people are so ignorant about it.  He didn't want his friends to avoid him so he kept it quiet."

     "Any idea how he contracted it?"

     Her face reddened and she shook her head.  "Who knows these days?  When I heard about his death I figured it was just as well.  At least he won't suffer, right?"

     We talked for a while longer, but she didn't add anything to the picture I already had of John Sparkes.  As I drove out of the square I had another piece for my puzzle and I wasn't happy about it.  Maybe Sparkes did commit suicide because of his fear that he would die a slow death.  Or maybe someone helped him end his life.

 "I've walked and I've crawled down six crooked highways."
                                             Bob Dylan

      The Golden Grooves was located in a basement just outside of Central Square.  Kevin Corcoran looked like an aging hippy what with his gray streaked hair tied back in a ponytail and a gold earring dangling from his left ear.  His Jim Morrison tee shirt did little to hide his paunch.

     The store specialized in vintage vinyl and the cases were stuffed with jazz, blues, folk and rock.  I browsed the stacks for about thirty minutes before approaching Corcoran.  I could have spent the rest of my life here.

     He frowned as I walked up to the counter, probably upset that I didn't have an armload full of discs. 

     I held up my shield.

     He squinted and nodded like he'd been expecting me.

     "I'm trying to figure out why John died," I said.

     "Me, too.  I'm gonna miss the son of a bitch.  No one had an eye for a vinyl bargain like him.  He was the guru behind this store."

     "He had quite a collection."

     " Yeah.  A ton of stuff, but a lot of what he had were reissues.  Not worth much.  But his Dylan records were another story.  He was onto him right from the start.  Far as I know he had everything he ever cut."

     "And now that collection is yours."

     His ponytail swished as he looked down at me.  "Don't I wish.  The collection's going for Suze's education.  His daughter’s the only one he'd sell it for.  Sure, he wasn’t the best father, but he still loved his daughter and felt an obligation to pay for her college.  He even named her after Dylan’s girlfriend from his early days in New York."

    I remembered the album I’d seen in Sparkes’ apartment.   "The girl on the 'Freewheeling' cover?"

     "That's her.  The album was John's pride and joy.  So was Suze."

     "Did Mrs. Sparkes know about this?"

     "No.  John was a secretive guy.  When Suze turned eighteen he was going to sell the collection to help pay her tuition."

     "But, the collection is probably only worth a few thousand."

     Corcoran smiled.  "You don't know your collectibles, Lieutenant."

     But, I did.  And everything snapped into place.

 "Come in, she said, I'll give you shelter from the storm."
                                                Bob Dylan

     "Lieutenant," Sarah Sparkes said.  "I didn't expect to see you again so soon."

     She motioned me into the living room.  A young girl sat on the sofa watching television.  She was petite with long brown hair and oval eyes.

     "Suze," Sarah said.  "Why don't you finish watching that in your bedroom?"

     The girl pushed herself off the pillows and looked me over with the dispassionate curiosity of children.  Then she walked to her room and quietly closed the door.

     "Nice looking, girl," I said.

     "She's wonderful.  I'd do anything for her.  Now what is it you want?"

     "I figured out what happened to your husband."

     She closed her eyes for an instant.  "Do I want to hear this?"

     "John Birch Society Blues."

     "Excuse me?"

     "It's a Dylan song."

     "Oh yeah.  John liked him."

     I nodded.  "Back in '63 Dylan wanted to sing it on the Ed Sullivan show.  Sullivan thought it too controversial because Dylan compared John Birchers to Hitler.  The song was on Dylan's new album and Columbia, Dylan's record company, panicked and feared if they released the song there would be lawsuits."

     "That's an interesting story, but what does it have to do with John's death?"

     "Columbia pulled the album, deleted four songs and added four new ones, but not before about three hundred copies had been shipped."

     "So."

     "A copy of that album is probably worth between ten and fifteen thousand bucks."

     Sarah's eyes never left my face.

     "I noticed a copy of Goldmine Magazine the last time I was here.  That's a record collectors magazine.  I thought it was strange for someone who didn't have a single disc to have one.  Then I spotted a shipping carton about the right size to slip an album into."

     "Is there a point to this story?"

     "I bought a copy of that Goldmine and found an ad from a Dylan collector.  I called and inquired about the rare "Freewheelin" album.  It seems he had just acquired one from a woman in Boston.  He wouldn't give me her name, but a court order would force him to."

     She glanced toward Suze's bedroom door.

     "Dylan was afraid of decaying -- of dying a slow death," I said.  "He once said, ‘Hey, death is nothing as long as I die fast.’  You live with a man long enough and you know how he feels.  Maybe you start thinking like him.  You do know that John had AIDS?"

     She took a long breath and I could tell by her eyes she wasn't about to deny it.  I’d seen that look in a lot of criminal’s eyes when they realized they were slowly being trapped.

     "It’s just a matter of time before someone remembers seeing you around John’s apartment or our crime scene people pick up a stray fingerprint.  If you tell me the story, Mrs. Sparkes, it’ll go easier on you.

     She didn’t answer for several seconds

     I pointed a finger at her.  "I’m not going to let this case go.  I’m going to dig and I’m going to prove you killed John.  That proof may come today or maybe next week.  Then I’m going to come for you and I’ll take you out in handcuffs right in front of Suze.  Is that the image you want your twelve year old daughter to remember of her mother?"

     I didn’t kill John."

     Yes, you did.  But, maybe you can convince me it had to be done.  If I believe you, I’ll fight for you as hard as I can."  I narrowed my eyes.  It was a line I’d used many times before.  Its hollowness echoed off the living room walls.

     Her expression changed, her eyes glazed and I knew she realized there was no way out.  "Will you really help me?"

     I nodded, struggling to keep the smile off my face.       

     "He was getting weaker, Lieutenant.  I didn't want Suze to watch him wither away and I didn't want John to suffer.  I did it for both of them."

     "A person has a right to pick their own time of death."

     "Not John.  When he called and said he was too weak to come to Suze's party I went over.  He was in bed.  I knew where he kept his gun.  It was the hardest thing I've ever done.  But, it was best for everyone."

     "Don’t try to be sanctimonious," I said, my voice rising higher than I intended.  "You shot him and then took the Dylan album figuring we wouldn’t notice.  You knew what the album was worth.  The money's why you did it."

     She closed her eyes for an instant.  "My daughter has gone without long enough.  I sold that album so she could be like the other kids she goes to school with.  He owed us at least that much."

     "You killed her father."

     "Twice a year he was her father.  The rest of the time he was too obsessed with his music to care about us.  Do you have children, Lieutenant?"

     "No."

     "Then you'll never understand what it's like to watch your child go without while your ex-husband holds onto a record collection worth thousands."

     "You’re right, Mrs. Sparkes.  And I’ll never understand how one person can make the decision to take another person’s life."  I hesitated.  "Thing is, if you waited until after John died the entire collection would have been yours.  He left it to you.  You won't have much use for the money in prison."

     Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.  Tears streamed down her cheeks.  "Who'll take care of Suze if I go to jail?"  Her shoulders slumped.  "Don't do this, please.  Isn't there anything I can do?"

     I thought for a few seconds.  "Yes," I said.  "Maybe there is."

"If you can deal with the enemy within, then no enemy without can stand a chance."
                                            Bob Dylan

     I put down the phone, tucked my credit card back into my wallet and scanned the living room. Sarah Sparkes sat on my couch and Dylan albums were spread across the rug. She’d received the ten thousand dollar check from the guy she’d sold the album to and was a happy woman.  Suze wouldn’t have to go without.  At least for a while.

     The guy had upped the price two thousand when I contacted him, but hey, twelve thousand dollars and a little integrity weren’t too much to spend for a complete collection of Bob Dylan.

"Take care of your memories for you cannot relive them."
                 Bob Dylan

Contact the Author -asher13@gateway.net

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