When I lived in San Diego County, a couple of buddies and I formed a band. Tom, the lead guitarist, grew up three doors down from my house, and we both got electric guitars the same Christmas when we were kids, so once we thought we were good enough, we recruited another buddy Justin to be bassist and singer since he’d been writing lyrics in a Mead spiral notebook since eighth grade and was the only one willing to sing. Drummers were tough to come by, so initially I played rhythm guitar and we played along to a Roland TR-505 drum machine. It sucked, so eventually I just bought a $299 drumkit from the last Sears catalog and taught myself how to play them. But we always missed having a rhythm guitarist who could play well with Tom.
Anyway, one day when we were planning to jam in my girlfriend’s mother’s garage, Justin calls all excited 'cause he met this drummer dude named Ramon who was supposed to be real good, and seemed like a cool guy. So he brings Ramon over and we jam for a couple hours and it’s a pretty good time. I’d never had occasion to play guitar along to real live drumming before, and it was great. I think we had Ramon come over one other time for a jam, then he kinda disappeared.
So then, maybe six months later, Justin calls up all excited for another reason. “Duuuude! Guess what! Remember that guy Ramon?”
“No. Who’s he?”
“That drummer guy who jammed with us in the garage that time!”
“Oh, yeah. What’s he up to?”
“He just got arrested for murdering his girlfriend and cutting her up into little bits and stashing the pieces in the carport of his apartment!”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah… I mean, can you believe it? He was a hell of a good drummer too.”
“I guess you never can tell.”
For a couple years I thought Justin was pulling my leg. But nope: that was Ramon all right.
I admit you reminded me of him because he was an apartment manager too.
You never can tell. 
