And you find that it’s just like the other ones, a nightmare in 3D. The furniture has been trashed and there’s blood everywhere, on the floor, ceiling and walls. Just like the other ones. And, just like the other ones, there’s no body, no sign of a victim and/or victims. You push that imaginary button in your mind that puts your revulsion on “pause” as Lt. Tragg walks across the room, sloshing through the random gore and fumbling for a match for his smoke. You flick your Bic under his chin and say, “What do you have for me, Artie?”

“Same as before,” says the homicide detective with the wrinkled, line-worn face that’s seen it all. “Neighbors didn’t hear anything. Didn’t see anything. But when the landlord came around to collect the rent, Whoa, Nelly!”

By now you know the M.O. The apartment looks like one of Dante’s rings of Hell, like a massacre took place in this very room. However, just like the other ones, no body, no victim, no stiff.

“Okay, Detective,” you say. “You’re holding out on me. Come on. Let’s have it.”

Lt. Tragg sighs and reaches deep inside his coat pocket. “We found these,” he says. “Tickets for Meat Loaf, JGB Feat. Melvin Seals and Citizen Cope.”

Ah, yes. The missing pieces to the puzzle. Concert tickets found at the scene of the crime. Just like the last one and the one before that. Blood, mayhem and tickets for Link Wray or Snoop Dogg. It just doesn’t figure. It doesn’t add up. Or does it?

For that’s when it happens. One of those flashes, one of those moments of genius that are so rare, like a light bulb shining over a character’s head in the funny papers. For a brief moment it all comes together. It does make sense.

And you can see it as clear as day. Concert tickets, the Lil’ Kim perjury conviction, the U2 tour, the giant robot clowns marching down Broadway spreading death and destruction. Michael Jackson’s pajamas and Robert Blake’s acquittal. Flying saucers in Idaho, the Canadian invasion rumors and Republicans in Florida. For one singular moment in time it all comes together. It all makes sense. But just for a moment. Then it’s gone.

No matter. Solving this case is Lt. Tragg’s job, not yours. Your job is to pick up the tickets when bad things happen to good concert fans. No matter if the tickets are for Donny Osmond, The Strawbs or Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers, your job is to pick them up and kick them back into the system so that the seats don’t go empty, so that the tickets don’t go to waste.

“Is that it, Artie?” you ask.

Lt. Tragg shrugs his shoulders. “Don’t know,” he answers. Tickets for both B.B. King and War are going on sale this week. That’s the problem with this city. Too many shows, too tickets, too many scenes like this one.”

You could add to those thoughts, but it’s time to leave. You count the tickets, and write out a receipt for Lt. Tragg. “See you next time,” you say right before you walk out the door.

“You can count on it,” answers the detective. “For in this town life is cheap and everybody wants tickets. Everybody wants to see Def Leppard, The Mars Volta or Santana. In this town, there’s always something, there’s always some sicko crashing the party on a good citizen’s concert dreams. In this town there’s always a next time.”