The story hit the evening news complete with bold commentary and flashing colors that swept the viewer into the strange saga that could easily be a t.v. movie of the week.
As the pictures flashed across the screen of Brian, Nick and Howie and even a few pictures from the police files of the alleged shooter Gus Monroe, the calls and eyewitness accounts began pouring into the police station.
There was the call from the salesman at a trendy Beverly Hills shoe store who remembered Brian and Nick in his store the afternoon before the murders purchasing two pairs of expensive boots. There was the cashier from a convenience store who had in-store surveillance tapes of Brian buying some items in the late afternoon, a few hours after the Beverly Hills shopping trip.
And there was the taxi cab driver that called to say that he remembered picking Brian up at the convenience store in the late afternoon/early evening before the murders. He said Brian was annoyed and had mentioned that “someone” had taken his car. The driver said he dropped Brian off at his home in Beverly Hills and that he was sure it was Brian because he could never forget a man who would leave him such a generous tip.
And last but not least, there was the foul mouthed motel clerk, who had called into the station to report that she had spoken to the “dead kid in all the news reports” in the early morning hours before the murder. She said he had come into the motel looking for directions but she thought he was some “wasted little son of a bitch looking to score some weed.” If she would have known the little “ass had some cash” she would have paid more attention to him.
Before she hung up she asked if she was going to get some money as a reward for her information.
* * *
Sergeant Cox worked late into the night with the officers and detectives detailing each eyewitness account, the most difficult being the interview with Brian’s wife, Leighanne Littrell.
“When was the last time you spoke to your husband?” Sergeant Cox sat beside Leighanne at a table in the interview room at the station house.
He had been the one to contact her after Kevin’s ID of her husband’s body. When he had finally gotten a hold of her on her cell phone with the news she was on a plane bound for Los Angeles. She was coming to console the family members of Howie and Nick, whom she believed to be dead, as well as to find out information on Brian’s whereabouts.
When Sergeant Cox told Leighanne that Brian had been shot and killed she paused for the longest time before tearfully replying
“Deep down in my heart……..I guess I knew he was dead.”
He told her he would have a police escort meet her at the airport to bring her to the station house where he had a few important questions he needed answered.
“Leighanne?”
“I hadn’t talked to Brian in awhile.” She said, kneading her hands in her lap as she slowly shook her head. “We were having some….problems.”
“What kinds of problems?” Sergeant Cox reached for a box of tissues on the other side of the table, pushing them towards her as she began to cry.
“We were going to get divorced.”
“When I spoke to you on your cell phone you told me that in your heart you knew he was dead.” She nodded, the visions of Brian telling her goodbye playing over and over in her head.
“I had to make a choice Leighanne.”
“If you hadn’t spoken to your husband in awhile then how did you know that he might have been in some sort of trouble Mrs. Littrell?” Sergeant Cox pressed on despite the tears pouring down her face, it was the part of the job he enjoyed the least but it had to be done.
“He called and left this message on my voice mail. He said that he and Nick were in trouble and he couldn’t call the police.” She slid her cell phone across the table rattling off the number to her voice messaging system along with her access code. “When I heard the message I didn’t know if it was joke?” Sergeant Cox wrote the info for her cell phone down on a notepad in front of him, his eyes never leaving her.
“But, I-I….I guess I knew that something wasn’t right though because I called Howie.”
“What did you and Howie talk about Leighanne?” Leighanne’s eyes were glazed over and unblinking as tears continued to spill down her cheeks. Cox knew the signs shock when he saw them, placing a hand on her arm he leaned down and spoke in almost a whisper.
“Leighanne, we need to know what you and Howie talked about. He’s missing and we need to find him. I’m not so sure that the dead man at the scene with your husband was the only man involved.”
“I gave Howie the address.” Her voice was flat like a robot. “He told me Nick was dying and needed help but he never said anything about Brian.” Grasping onto Sergeant Cox’s shirtsleeve she locked her eyes on his.
“Howie promised he would find them, he promised everything would be okay and now he’s probably dead too because I gave him the address.”
“Leighanne it’s not your fault, none of this is your fault.”
“But I gave him the address…..I gave him the address.” She just kept saying the words over and over until nothing made sense anymore.
* * *
The interview with Leighanne filled in many gaps from the story Collette Revi, Howie Dorough’s girlfriend, had given them.
Collette had come to the station house earlier in the afternoon; alone and afraid asking to speak to whomever was in charge of the case. She told them that Howie had stormed out of their hotel room in the early morning hours of the murders in search of Nick Carter. She wasn’t able to tell them much about what had prompted Howie to believe Nick was in need of help because she had been sleeping up until he entered the room in a panic asking her to help him find a slip of paper.
She admitted she had been drinking the night before but she clearly remembered Howie talking to someone on the phone and telling them that Nick was dying and he had to get him help. Then there was the heated argument with police dispatch, Howie telling her to not open the door to anybody……… And then he was gone.
* * *
Sergeant Cox sat alone in his office going over the details of the case and trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together and make them fit. So many things were still gnawing at him, like where was Howie Dorough? And why would Gus Monroe, a career criminal whose biggest claim to fame was a few carjackings, a couple of convenience store robberies in the early 90’s, shoot two kids in the middle of nowhere and then shoot himself? Carjack them maybe, steal their money probably, but drag two strong and healthy young men to that warehouse and kill them and then kill himself, never.
The detectives were speculating that Gus knew that Brian and Nick were famous and worth a lot of money, but Gus Monroe barely knew his alphabet let alone the members of some boy band singing group. There had to be more to the story then meets the eye.
* * *
Mo rolled over, squinting into a streak of sun that made its’ way through the parted blinds.
“What the fuck time is it.” He mumbled to himself as he rolled over to grab for Brian’s Rolex on the nightstand.
7:00 a.m.
Son of a bitch he had overslept. Pushing himself up he strapped the watch on his wrist and ran his hands through his hair.
The plan had been to drive for a few hours and then get a hotel room for a few hours to sleep and then hit the road again. Now he was behind schedule. Forced to drive in broad daylight, when any fool who had just killed three people, kidnapped one, and stolen money as well as property and cars knew that slipping in and out of the shadows of night was far more intelligent then doing it during the day. Walking to the bathroom he kicked open the door.
“Rise and shine sleepy head.” He barked making Howie jump. Before Mo had gone to sleep he had tied Howie to the pipes in the bathroom with rope, securing the knots so tight Howie’s hands had turned a faint shade of blue.
Mo had learned his lesson with Nick and Brian and knew not to trust a stupid face when he saw one, so this time he made sure there would be no clever escapes.
“Did you get a good night sleep Howard?”
“Go to hell psycho.” Howie shot back. Stooping down Mo pulled a straight razor from his back pocket to cut the ties, slicing Howie’s flesh in the process making drops of blood splatter onto the moldy tile.
“Sorry about that Howard.” Mo said “But my Dad always said you needed at least five good scars on you before you die, so I just gave you number one. That means we have to give you at least four more in the next day or so right?” He smiled.
“Fuck you.” Howie replied never breaking eye contact. “I already have three scars so you only need to take care of one more for me you son of a bitch.”
Mo gave Howie a towel to wipe off his arm and then led him outside into the bright morning sunlight. The two walked across the parking lot and into the piece of shit diner that was connected to the equally shitty motel.
Mo explained to Howie, in whispered tones before they entered the diner, that if he made any kind of scene Mo would shoot him in the head in front of everybody and never bat an eye so Howie had better not give him any trouble.
The two men walked down the aisle to a booth in the back, Mo grabbing a newspaper off of the front counter on the way as he motioned to a nasty looking waitress that he wanted a cup of coffee.
Howie slumped down the seat seat staring blankly out the window at nothing in particular. He wondered why he didn’t run or yell for help or just stand up and walk out of the place telling Mo to go ahead and shoot him since it looked like he was going to anyway.
But Howie knew that there was a part of him hoped that if he cooperated and did what he was told the sick son of a bitch would let him go, sparing his family the agony of burying another child.
The waitress walked up, slumped shouldered and bored with the world as she slapped down a mug of coffee, spilling it everywhere, and some dirty silverware before walking away. “Fucking bitch. See if she gets any fucking tip.” Mo growled wiping the coffee spill from the newspaper with his hand “She better not have fucked up the sports section.”
Unfolding the paper he planned to flip right to the sports section and skip all the boring news of the world shit when the headline in screaming bold black letters caught his eye…..
BACKSTREET BOY BRIAN LITTRELL DEAD - FELLOW BANDMATE NICK CARTER IN COMA – AND THRID BACKSTREET BOY HOWIE DOROUGH MISSING AFTER BIZARRE SHOOTINGS IN LOS ANGELES
His eyes widened as he shoved his coffee cup to the side and skimmed over the lengthy article complete with pictures of Brian, Nick and the man now sitting across from him referred to in the article as Howie.
Slamming his fist into the table the silverware jumped along with Howie who was still staring out the window. Howie looked at Mo and then down to the newspaper spread out before him just as Mo grabbed the paper folded it up and tucked it under his arm before standing up.
“Get up.” He said through clenched teeth. Howie just sat staring at him.
“I SAID GET UP!” He screamed grabbing at Howie’s flannel clad arm. Howie pulled away as Mo sunk his fingers into Howie’s flesh dragging him across the booth where he lost his balance as he tumbled to the floor.
Mo squatted beside him cupping his hand around Howie’s mouth as he whispered the words.
“I’m going to have to kill you Howie.”
* * *
Nobody in the diner batted an eye as Mo dragged Howie down the aisle and out the door; newspaper still tucked beneath his arm. Once at the car Mo led Howie roughly around to the passenger side opened the backdoor and shoved him in from behind. Howie’s head caught the top of the door as he wound up sprawled out face down on the leather seats the newspaper hitting him in the back of the head before Mo slammed the door shut and walked around to the driver’s side.
Climbing in he slammed the drivers side door shut and jammed the key in the ignition.
“I couldn’t have just stumbled on some boys stealing daddies fancy car for a joyride could I? Noooooo, I had to get involved with a couple of assholes that the world gives a shit about.” He pushed on the gas peeling out of the parking lot while Howie raised himself to a sitting position and glanced down at the newspaper headline.
“Your fucking friend Nick didn’t know when to die did he Howie? So I guess I’ll just have to make sure he learns his lesson the second time around.”