Cold Case

The following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event.

Brothers and sisters, look at the person sitting next to you.

Chances are, they have a loved one fighting in Southeast Asia.

Our boys are doing everything to keep their souls intact over there.

So ask yourself: what are you doing over here?

When you look in the mirror,

does the reflection seek material gain from the world?

Billy.

I wasn't finished.

Sorry, Dad. Sorry.

He ain't bad.

Kid can really play "Son of a Preacher Man."

What does it profit a man to gain the whole world...

...and lose his soul?

So, Archie, you said your pop was William Sanders, right?

William Jeremiah Sanders. What it says on my birth certificate.

And my mom Beatrice passed away six months ago.

Just always told me he was a drunken bum.

So, why the sudden interest?

My kid came home the other day

and asked me to help him with this.

Reminded me of when I had the same project back in school.

Now my son's asking about my dad.

And you couldn't tell him anything.

Just want to maybe find out something about him.

You know, fill in the blanks.

So your mom told you he was murdered?

No, no. Old Philly Tribune had a blurb

about a Billy Sanders

killed in 1970,

eight months before I was born.

Tracked this down from the Ident Unit.

Looks like you.

Mug shot, huh?

Guess Ma was right.

What was he arrested for?

Disorderly conduct

outside a bar. Just the one time.

Could happen to anybody.

Paper said he was killed down on Wharton Street,

1500 block.

Any idea what he was doing down there?

See the calluses?

Perfectly manicured nails.

Your pop a musician?

Don't know. Your mother ever mention anyone else,

Dad's side of the family? Nothing.

That's why I'm here, Detective.

When you find anything...

Sure. Um...

We'll let you know.

Well, the dad was a reverend.

Billy played the organ at his church.

Only people interviewed were, uh, friends, family

from the congregation.

What's a church boy doing

hanging down on Wharton Street

Friday night? Think I know.

Ain't seen one of these for 30 years.

You got to get out more, Will.

Check out the bee in the middle.

VIP pass to The Hive.

After-hours jazz spot

back in the day, just a block from where Billy was killed.

He would have been a regular.

Were you a card carrying member, too?

I wish.

You had a Jack of Clubs,

you weren't some drunken bum, like Mom said.

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Let you out of your cave, boss?

Anything to get out of these COMPSTAT reports.

What you got?

Jazz musician, 20 years old.

Blunt-force trauma.

No wallet on the body.

ID'd from a disorderly conduct pinch in '70.

Wharton section of South Philly. Heavy streetwalker traffic.

Well, assigned thought it could have been the old flimflam.

A trick gets lured in.

Pimp cracks his skull, takes his cash.

Murder weapon looks like a bottle.

Found dark glass shattered near the victim.

M.E. assessed it matched the wound to his skull.

There's a state liquor store

a block over from where he was killed.

So was The Hive, an underground club

where Billy played.

Will was the after-hours guru back in the day.

Could only go a couple times before I got drafted.

Ran every Friday, same night Billy was killed.

I heard of this place.

It was in the basement of some house, right?

Yeah. Joint was hot, smelly, crowded.

But the music... Man.

What I would have given to have a Jack of Clubs.

Long shot, but let's check out the bottle,

see if we can track where it might have come from.

What about next of kin? Reverend Thomas Sanders.

Never mentioned his son played the clubs back in the day.

You remember any of the musicians from that place, Will?

Not by name.

Owner was a tough broad, the Queen Bee.

She'd sit at the end of the bar, smoke like a chimney.

Maybe she's still buzzing around,

can tell us if Billy was there night he died.

Talk to Dad, too.

See if any of this new info sparks a memory.

Got a kid here, wants to see Detective Rush.

I'm her partner. I'll talk to him.

He asked for Detective Rush.

Scotty.

Ooh. Something I ate.

The chili fries?

Good, though.

Valens.

Hey, Ma.

Uh, just...

No reason. Just checking in.

What, I can't check on my mom?

Yeah, fine.

Okay, yeah.

Talk later. Bye.

Ran the title. Real estate files show

the Queen Bee was Geraldine Watkins back in '70.

Still around?

Yeah. Runs a soul food joint out of the same address today.

Somebody here to see me?

Oh, yeah. He's right over...

We played music for the Lord.

Billy played an organ the angels envied.

Is that Billy's brother?

Tom Jr. was going to be a preacher

in the Sanders tradition.

My eldest was taken by the jungle,

my youngest, by the streets.

Both jungles, just different terrain.

I served over there, as well.

You got something on my son's murder?

We're looking into it.

Was there anyone at church had a problem with Billy?

On the contrary.

When he died,

they buried him like a king.

His casket, his headstone,

the flowers-- all courtesy of the congregation.

Any chance we can get a list

of the congregation members back then?

I'll check and see.

But why?

Tom, you familiar with The Hive?

After-hours jazz club back in the day?

Why would I be?

I don't associate with those kinds of people.

Ever mention a girl named Beatrice Sloan?

What are you implying about my son, Detective?

Nothing.

Just trying to find out what happened.

Well, when his brother died, it was rough on everyone.

Me and Billy drifted apart a bit.

He in some kind of trouble? Drugs, money?

No, no. Not that I knew of.

I just think he may have started to question his faith.

Know anyone he was hanging with outside the church

before he died? I'm sorry. I don't.

But may the weight of the Lord

be on their soul.

Check out the "specials..."

Winning numbers on the track today.

Street lottery.

Little numbers running with your soul food?

Hey, sweeties.

Anywhere you'd like.

Creamed chicken

is to die for. Looks like a winner.

Got to say, Queen Bee, step up from The Hive.

Honey, I'm an honest businesswoman.

Call Vice over, they going to agree?

The Hive ain't been around since the '70s.

Well, there's no statute of limitation on homicide.

Homicide?

Billy Sanders.

Oh, Sanders. Yeah.

Sad, 'cause he was a nice kid.

Had this on him.

He here the night he died?

Not that I remember. We're going to

need the names of who might have been here that night.

If any of them are still alive.

All those musician cats wanted to be like Miles.

They came with a nasty habit.

Any of those cats have a beef with Billy?

No. Church boy? Not at all.

Seems like a tight fit for a jazz club.

They didn't mind.

I had to turn folks away.

Shucks.

Tons of musicians used to roll through here,

but even I was shocked