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lot mellower when it came to playing Nigel’s compositions. If it wasn’t his baby he didn’t feel the need to be the parent,” Jack said.
    “Were the headphones in Terry’s car while you were at Denny’s?” I asked.
    “I guess so. He usually brought his recorder and headphones into the studio when he got there,” Jack said.
    “Did you go straight from Denny’s to the studio?” I asked.
    “I did. But I think Terry stopped at 7/Eleven for a gigantic iced tea. He’d work on it all day,” Jack said.
    “Did he carry everything in one trip from the car?” I asked.
    Jack replied, “I don’t think so. It was too much stuff. He also had a briefcase for his sheet music and notes.”
    I asked, “Did he keep the headphones in the briefcase.”
    “No,” he replied. “It was one of those thin, Italian leather cases. The headphones were big and bulky. He carried them and the portable recorder in a nylon carry bag. He’d bring his guitar home, too. So I’m sure he made more than one trip to his car, or had one of the studio guys help him.”
    “Did he usually lock his car?” I asked.
    “If he was going in the studio for the day he did. But he wouldn’t lock up in between trips to the car, I’m sure,” he said.
    “What about a quick stop at 7/Eleven?” I asked.
    “Probably not,” he replied.
    “How about at Denny’s?” I asked.
    “Probably yes, but I’m not sure. There’s a view of the parking lot at that Denny’s. But, his guitar was in there, so, I’m guessing he locked,” Jack said with an uncertain look on his face.
    “Was the rep from Cerise Records at the studio when you arrived?” I asked.
    “If we were there, he was there,” he responded.
    “What’s your take on that guy?” I inquired.
    “He creeps me out. He acts like he suspects everybody of everything and it’s his job to control through intimidation,” he said. “Most record companies ply their talent with hookers, booze and dope as an incentive to put out a hit. Cerise has Vlad the Impaler acting like we better make a hit or else!”
    “Did you see him touch the recording equipment at any time?” I asked.
    “No,” he said.
    “Is it possible he helped Terry carry in his stuff?” I asked.
         “I don’t know. He certainly wouldn’t offer, but Terry liked to butt heads with him and would tell him to do manual labor tasks just to piss him off,” Jack said.
    “Would he do what Terry told him?” I asked.
    “Sometimes,” he said. “Terry would tell him to make himself useful and not be the only one in the studio not earning his keep. Terry was very good at getting his way.”
    “Did you see anybody else around the headphones?” I asked.
    “Just our roadie, GI Jo-Jo. Terry would put his stuff on a bench by the door and Jo-Jo would put it where it belonged,” Jack said.
    “Could Jo-Jo have carried the headphones into the studio that morning?” I asked.
    “I wasn’t really paying that close attention. But, I heard one of the cops ask Ian that question and Ian said Jo-Jo was helping him realign the glass partitions in front of his drum set when Terry walked in. I guess Ian was trying something different to get Terry off his ass.”
    I said, “Jack, you’re a bright guy. Who do you think killed Terry?”
    “I’ve given it a lot of thought and here’s all I’ve got. Our name is Doberman’s Stub. Terry was definitely the Doberman. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. When dealing with record companies and promoters, every band could use a Doberman Pincher. If somebody pushed Terry, he would push back twice as hard. I’m a Golden Retriever myself. I’m convinced Terry was killed by a Pit Bull or another Doberman.”

    As I drove away from Jack’s house I was starved and not very focused. I couldn’t get the dog analogy out of my mind. If Dad’s a Police Dog and Mom’s an Irish Setter, what am I? Should I drive to the pre-scene of the crime and check out Denny’s “Moons Over My Hammy” or drive