Post in the feedback thread! This whole story is supposed to have a swing to it, much like the blues Charlie plays. I therefore highly recommend listening to a bluesy or light rock tracklist while reading. The following case takes place in 1988. A Case Of The Blues Chapter 1 As Charlie Calloway slammed his fingers down on the final chord, a roar rose up from the crowd. He took a deep breath, stood up from the piano and took a long, deep bow. The crowd went into hysterics. He moved towards the back of the stage and exited through the curtain. The rest of the group were still up there, bowing and playing a few chords. Behind the curtain, people close to Charlie were waiting, as usual, to congratulate "his genius" and how he was "the blues prodigy of a generation". "Splendid!" Came one voice, "What rhythm!" Came another. Charlie thanked them all half-hartedly and disappeared into his dressing room. He sunk into his chair and held his face in his hands. He was tired. He need a break from the spotlight, and that was exactly what he was going to do. Someone knocked on the door. "Hey Charlie, I know this doesn't mean much to you no more, but that was a great performance." The musician muttered a "Thanks" and the door opened. In the doorway stood a large, well-dressed man. He was Charlie's manager, and his best friend. His name was Scott to his associates. It was 'Sir' to everyone else. Seeing his friend's face, he told him to "Buck up" and then left quietly, closing the door behind him.
Another knock. "What?!" Charlie shouted at the unwanted visitor. a face appeared in the crack of the door, beaming. "Hey, Charlie!" It said. Charlie's eyes narrowed. "Hi, Samuel." Charlie replied, his voice lined with ice. "Great performance out there by the way," Samuel said, his cheap suit was covered in dirt, and as he approached Charlie recoiled slightly. "What do you want, Sam?" Charlie asked, in an accusing voice. "This is the first time you've shown up in four years. What d'you want? Money?" Sam had his mouth open ready to reply, but shut it again as soon as Charlie guessed why he was here. Charlie leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. "God damn, Sam. Even if you are my little brother, that gives you no excuse to--" Charlie stopped himself, let out an "Ugh!" of disgust and stormed out of the room. Samuel cringed as the door slammed. He sighed, and collapsed into Charlie's chair, deep in thought. Charlie sat on a bench, outside the theatre. A few fans stopped to get autographs, but he was otherwise left alone. After about 45 minutes of this, he turned to see two policemen approaching him rapidly. "Problem, officers?" Charlie asked. "Charlie Calloway? Please follow us to your dressing room." Charlie obliged, and soon found his room surrounded by photographers. This in itself was not strange, but was gave Charlie the bad feeling in his gut was the fact that the cameras were not pointed at him. One of the policemen opened the door. "Do you recognize the body?" he asked. Charlie's eyes widened. "Sam! Oh God! SAM!"
A while later, Scott was sitting down in the dressing room opposite the crime scene, when the door swung open. Charlie and a policeman burst into the room. They were having a heated argument. "Listen, sir, please sit down!" Shouted the policeman, all the while trying to subdue the musician. "For God's sake! He's my brother! I need to at least know how he--" Charlie stopped struggling. His face darkened with the thought of his brother's lifeless body lying on the floor of his dressing room. The cop, moved by this sudden sadness, helped him sit down. "Well, if it's information you want, I don't see any harm in giving it to you," The policeman started, softly, "The body was found by an overzealous fan who walked right into your dressing room. Her scream was heard by your friend here," The cop pointed to Scott, who lifted his gaze to meet the policeman's, "He then called the pol-- Well, us." "We found your brother on the floor. He had taken a 'speedball'. A mixed injection of cocaine and heroin. We therefore deduced that he had died of a heart attack following the administration of the drug. Lastly, we found a syringe hidden in his pocket. Fingerprints and all." The policeman stopped. Charlie had started to cry, softly. Scott stood up and told him in a dark voice: "You can leave now." Once the door had closed behind the cop, Scott turned to the musician. "I'm... Really sorry." Charlie just remained still, with his head in his hands. "I find one thing fishy in the cop's 'deduction'. Didn't you tell me, a long time ago, that your brother... Had a phobia--" The musician jerked his head up. "Of needles! Of course!" He sounded almost gleeful, but he soon realized what that meant. He had a foreboding feeling in his gut once more. "This was no mere overdose." Scott frowned, "Charles Calloway, don't jump to conclusions." "I'm not jumping to anything, Scott. You have no idea to what extent my brother was scared of needles. He had to have an anesthetic to be vaccinated. This wasn't because he was a druggie." Charlie met Scott's bewildered eyes. "This was murder."