Lance
Wagner refers to August 17, 2000 as "That Day." For him, I am
sure it was just a day.
There
were too many enemies. Too many images. Just too much,
too wrong. If Hell is where your worst dreams come true, then
for me August 17, 2000 was a day in Hell.
It
didn't seem like it when we woke up. There was nothing out of
the ordinary for the morning. I guess that's the secret in
Hell, to lull the damned into thinking they aren't there.
A few
minutes after noon, Raychel, Sharon and I parked a block away from
Terror Trax, and walked the rest of the way. Instead of
walking through the front door, we came in via the back door by the
dumpster. Sergei (the janitor) let us in. The coast was
clear of Geoffrey MacIntyre. Thankfully, Geoffrey is a
creature of habit. One of those habits is leaving for lunch at
exactly noon. This afforded us reliable and unobserved access
into the studio level of Terror Trax.
Since
near the end of July, Ken Kincaid had arranged our access and studio
as a favor to Raychel and I. He made the arrangements with
Sergei to let us in only after Geoffrey MacIntyre had left for
lunch. The studio was chalked up to equipment repairs that
were expected to take months. Maybe longer. To this day
I don't know why he helped us. I can guess, though.
Regardless, Raychel and I headed to our studio where everything was
already set up. Not that we required much more than the space
itself. We had a couple of my guitars, a bass, and a small
drum kit.
Contrary to Geoffrey's lumbering and lackadaisical recording style,
I prefer a more organic approach. If you have ever heard
The Trinity Session by the Cowboy Junkies or Bruce Springsteen's
Nebraska, you immediately understand what I was going for
during my recording sessions with Raychel. Focus on the
principles of music and voice and discard the noise. Very
minimal. Very not Geoffrey MacIntyre.
We
worked on two songs that day. They were "Baby's Breath" and
"Endless and Less." Since the sessions were recorded by us and
performed by us, we would record a vocal with guitar or whatever
instrument we agreed was best for her to work with, then I filled in
the other parts after we had a satisfactory track. All of the
instruments were done on single takes.
|
"I
understand why he likes to believe everyone is out to get him.
Geoffrey loves conspiracies. What Geoffrey doesn't love are
surprises." |
It
was a very different approach than the one forced on us by Geoffrey.
He would record one instrument at a time, get it absolutely perfect,
and then move on to the next instrument. If I came up with
something better to do that changed the song for another instrument.
He would demand to go back to the beginning of the recording process
and blame me for not giving him a better finished product. I
know he thinks I was intentionally trying to obstruct the recording
process but I wasn't. I am just a less structured talent than
he is. Rather than bend his rigid recording style to match our
strength, he forced Raychel and I into his cookie-cutter formula.
I understand why he likes to believe everyone is out to get him.
Geoffrey loves conspiracies.
What
Geoffrey doesn't love are surprises. Some time just before
6:30 PM that day he received one. Unknown to Raychel and I it
was the beginning of the real day in Hell. It officially began
for us with one door swing thud in the midst of a perfect harmonic
note. Somewhere in there we left the world and I've spent each
moment since trying to get back home.
The
thud was Geoffrey MacIntyre barging into our studio. He must have
expected to find us there, because he didn't even pause when he saw
us in the midst of recording in the studio. Raychel and I, on
the other hand, were less prepared. Geoffrey didn't give us a
chance to catch up, charging past a sitting Sharon in the control
room on his way into the recording booth. He screamed that
Raychel had betrayed his trust and how we were stabbing him in the
back.
I
stood up and took him head on. We had gone out of our way not
to draw attention to ourselves and he should have respected our
right to privacy. I didn't care if he was the great king of
creativity at Terror Trax. He was not involved in our project.
He had his chance to work with us and he screwed it up. I
wasn't going to take crap from him just because his ego was bruised.
I used louder and more colorful words to say this to him, but it was
the thrust of my argument against him. I stand a good head or
so over him, so it comes off much better in person. And more
threatening, which at this time was needed to get him out of the
room. He wasn't going, though. So I got louder, and
closer to him.
Past
Geoffrey, I could see Sergei Brosovsky standing awkwardly in the
studio doorway. I didn't know if he had finally broken down
and told Geoffrey, but he was looking like it. As soon as he
saw me looking at him, he disappeared.
Raychel, meanwhile had gotten off her stool and backed into a corner
of the studio away from Geoffrey and myself. That was fine, I
was handling him fine.
Sharon, having noticed Raychel's retreat, was standing behind
Geoffrey. She gave me a look which asked if I wanted her
assistance. I knew her heart wasn't in it. The two of
them had become close over the past month or so. I looked her off to let her know that I was in
control of him. So she backed off a few grateful steps.
|
"He [Geoffrey]
started screeching about how he wasn't going to be thrown out of his
own studio. Real power trip stuff. And he decided to get
closer to me. Unfortunately for him, he was now well within my
cheap shot punching range." |
He
must have noticed my look because he swung around to face Sharon and
whirled around to face me again. That was when he really got
mad. He started screeching about how he wasn't going to be
thrown out of his own studio. Real power trip stuff. And
he decided to get closer to me. Unfortunately for him, he was
now well within my cheap shot punching range.
Unfortunately for me, Ken Kincaid came into the studio before I
could punch Geoffrey. Sergei must have gotten Ken because Sergei was
back to standing in the doorway. Ken sensed the tension in the
room and tried to diffuse it by saying that everyone needed to take
a step back and calm down.
Geoffrey was doing neither. Instead, he chose to get further
out of control. He dragged Ken into the fray by accusing him
of sabotaging his project. Ken just laughed at him. I
guess he thought he was letting the air out of the situation.
The opposite was true, as Geoffrey screamed himself red. He
got so angry he tried to fire Ken. Ken laughed again, harder
this time. He calmly explained that, if Geoffrey would check
his contract, he would see that he was unable to fire him. Fit
to be tied, he then fired Sergei Brosovsky, who finally disappeared
from the doorway, as if not hearing it would make it less real.
There was no need, as Ken informed Geoffrey that again, he was
firing employees that he had no responsibility over. Ken
reminded Geoffrey that he was only the Chief Creative Officer, and
as such did not have the power to hire or fire anyone outside the
creative process. Not even the janitors.
I
smiled at this and said to Geoffrey, "Not your day today, is it?"
Geoffrey turned on me again and got back into my range. He
returned my smile and said, "You're not the janitor here yet.
I can still fire you."
I
spelled it out for him, "Fire me and you fire Raychel.
Terminate my contract and you've done the same to her." His
face fell, and I knew I had him beaten. Pressing the matter, I
got right down to his face and sneered, "Do it. Please."
If we
could have extended that moment another second, perhaps Raychel
would still be alive. Because Geoffrey would have taken a very
ill-advised swing at me. Then I would have wiped the floor
with him, and we all would have gone in different directions.
The police would have gotten involved earlier. Everything
would have changed.
Instead, Raychel took the floor with a flat and forceful, "Stop it!"
The
alarm cued Sharon and the two of them stepped right in the middle of
the beautiful moment between Geoffrey and I. We all stepped
back, Sharon covering Geoffrey while Raychel tugged at my arm.
We stepped back into her corner of the studio against my baser
instincts.
At
Raychel's instruction, everyone went their separate ways around 7:00
PM. A still-giggling Ken Kincaid went back up to the executive
level of Terror Trax (presumably to let Sergei know that he wasn't
fired). Sharon took Geoffrey out of the studio for another one
of their "non-dates." Meanwhile, Raychel and I broke down the
studio for the night and left to go back to the apartment.
I knew something was wrong the whole ride back home.
Raychel was quiet. Usually we will still discuss the day's
work or at least something of interest. But not tonight.
She waited until around 7:30 when we got
back to the apartment to unleash herself.
As
soon as we made it through the front door she started in on me, "You
were stupid! What the f**k were you thinking? Were you
thinking?"
"What
are you talking about?"
"You
dared him to fire us! You actually dared him. After you
went behind his back to record there, he finds out and you dared him
to f**king fire us!"
She
carried on like this for some time. All the while trying to
deny her own involvement in our plan. I reminded her that she
had agreed with me that we should keep Geoffrey away from us.
That he was a negative influence on us. That no amount of her
running away from that decision was going to please Geoffrey now
that he already knew. I also tried to tell her that if he
fired us we could get another contract in short order. But she
was not convinced. Worse, she was not convinced and loud.
We
have had the police remind us a number of times that we weren't the
only people in the apartment complex. Since the last time we
were given our "last warning", I had begun grabbing the car keys and
leaving to cool down the situation. After all, it takes two to
either tango or fight. I grabbed the keys, and got out of
there, with a far-too-flippant, "Later." I locked the door
behind me and flew down the stairs for the car. It was 8:15 PM
and that was the last time I saw her alive.
|
"I
think it was the first time she was afraid of Geoffrey MacIntyre.
The previous times she had met him, he had been working for us.
Now, after closing him out of our loop, we was an angry boss.
Worse, an angry boss with a fear of looking incompetent." |
Driving always gives me a sort of free-association meditation.
I just blank out while driving and hash things out. I
re-played the argument between us and tried to see things from her
perspective. I went back to the fight between me and Geoffrey
in the studio. More importantly, I remembered her retreat into
the corner. And saw it through her eyes.
I
think it was the first time she was afraid of Geoffrey MacIntyre.
The previous times she had met him, he had been working for us.
Now, after closing him out of our loop, we was an angry boss.
Worse, an angry boss with a fear of looking incompetent. The
only people he could punish were Raychel and myself. Tomorrow
was not going to be a good day. Unfortunately for me, I had
not realized that today was the worst day ever. Geoffrey had
opened the door and nothing would ever be the same. No going
back now.
My
only solace was that Raychel made the wise decision to pair Geoffrey
with Sharon for the night. When they first seemed to be
getting close, I wondered if he was the person who hired Raychel.
If he was, though, there was no way he would have waited weeks
before barging in on our clandestine recording sessions, and he
never would have looked as out of control as he did. Although
he was able to hide one secret from me for some time before I found
out about it. So maybe he is a better actor than I give him
credit.
I kept driving away and around until about 10:45 PM or so.
Then I turned around and headed straight home.
I got
back to the apartment at 12:20 AM, parked the car and headed
upstairs.
I put
my key in the lock. It didn't click open. It was already
open. I had locked it when I left. I entered the
apartment.
I
turned the corner and saw everything.
End
tables knocked over.
Bloody handprints smeared on the wall.
Guitar smashed on the floor.
A
streak of black-red across the floor.
Raychel lying face up and dead on the floor.
Flat
shock. I lost time. Dead time. How long? The
police said about ten minutes. Ten years. It felt the
same.
I
called the police, dropped the phone, turned around, locked the
door, went outside. Cried.
The police arrived, unsympathetic. Word must have gotten around about our
disturbances. The police detective took my statement, made me
punctuate the times. Asked me for an alibi. I didn't
have one. Raychel is dead. He asked several more times.
I still didn't have one. Raychel is dead. I was out
driving. That is not an alibi. Raychel is dead. I
didn't have an alibi. I don't need one. I didn't do
anything. But I didn't have an alibi. Raychel is dead.
The lights were flashing. Radios were blaring and cops were
all over the place with yellow tape. Coroner's truck came.
Flashes coming from my apartment as technicians comb through the
evidence. Raychel is dead. I was driving. No
alibi.
Sharon Wolfe grabs me by the shirt and picks me up off the ground. "You finally
did it, you bastard!" She jackhammers me with punches and
lets me fall to the ground again. For the first time in my
life, I don't hit back. Raychel is dead.
It
hits me. No
one stopped her. Everyone is looking at me. It's all
adding up for everyone. Neighbors complain. Sharon is
talking to police about the June fight and more. The last two
months of peace are thrown aside. A theory is reinforced.
The police have records of disturbances. Violence in the
apartment. A brutal boyfriend with a dead girlfriend. A
bodyguard who talks non-stop about what she's witnessed and hearsay
is good enough for the occasion. The theory is in place.
Find the evidence that fits the theory. Nothing more is
needed. The boyfriend did it.
Who
cares that there are no bloody clothes?
Miranda rights read and straight to the interrogation. I can't
confess. There is nothing to confess to. I'm crying.
What's the matter, son, guilty conscience? You're going to
spend the rest of your life in jail guaranteed if you don't talk
now. Jail first. Then there's Hell to look forward to.
I can smell you burning now. Just confess, son. Go with
a clean slate. You know we've got your fingerprints in there.
I see
myself, guiltless, drowning in an ocean of guilt. And I pull
myself out.
"Really? MY fingerprints? In my apartment? Nice
work, buddy. You planning to write a crime novel about this?"
|
"Every
once in a while I get pulled over by an officer. He mentions I
look familiar. It always comes out the same. Practically
on notecards." |
Not
my best work, but I'm starting to feel myself.
"I
want a lawyer. We're done. Get out."
No
charges came. Not enough evidence against me. No bloody
clothes. Whoever killed Raychel didn't get away as clean as he
or she might have hoped.
I
didn't do it and I still didn't get away clean.
There's been a target on my ass for almost a year now. Every
once in a while I get pulled over by an officer. He mentions I
look familiar. It always comes out the same. Practically
on notecards. "Now I know who you look like . . . that guy who
murdered his girlfriend. She was a singer. Real pretty,
too. Never could charge that bastard. But don't worry,
sir. We'll get him just for you."
If
that's not enough, I have been
warned not to leave the vicinity, so I cannot move and start a new
life (or go home to North Dakota). So I have tried to make the best of it by becoming a
session musician. I made some contacts at Terror Trax and have
filled in for some bands. It's not much but it keeps me
working.
I
know I am public enemy number one for the police, and (if you add
them all up) I am on this site, too.
That being said, I'm the first one to come forward with a detailed
description of what happened that night. I don't count Lance
because he wasn't there (or was he?). I challenge everyone else who
met with Raychel that day to do the same.
And
if you don't?
To
Hell with you!
