First Time Killer (10 page)

Rick picked one at random. “Okay. This one’s from a listener in Bethesda. ‘Kudos to the
Afternoon Circus
. Rick, I love you. I also love putting my hands around…’” Rick stopped reading aloud, read the next few sentences silently. “Okay, I think we’ll skip the rest of that one.”

Rick checked the phone queue. The first caller wanted to talk about some difficulty he was having with his daughter obeying her curfew. He expelled his breath, relieved not to be bombarded with calls about First Time from the outset. As the afternoon wore on, he knew he’d be getting his share, but it was nice not to be inundated from the start.

“You are live! Speak to me, John.”

“My name is John. I’m a first time caller.”

“Go ahead, John. You have a problem with your daughter?”

“My daughter? Oh, right. My daughter.” John’s voice sounded flat. Devoid of emotion. “Actually, Rick, I don’t have a daughter. And my name isn’t John. It’s First Time.”

“What? Come on, not you, too. Don’t you all get tired of—” Rick tried to mentally compare John’s voice and speech patterns with First Time’s. Similar. “How do I know you’re him?” Rick asked. In master control, he saw the police tech sit up straighter.

“I didn’t like what Tin Man and Tubby did this afternoon. They mocked me. Called me names. Don’t they know what I’m capable of?”

While First Time talked, Rick’s fingers found the keyboard and he IM’d J.T:
Cop getting this?

Yes boss.

“They know what you did. We all do. Why don’t we talk about it?” Rick tried to keep calm. If he could keep First Time on the phone, maybe the cops would trace the call and catch this guy, and they’ll be able to get back to business. Rick wasn’t a religious man, but he figured a prayer might not hurt.

“What’s to talk about?”

Rick swallowed. First Time seemed eerily calm, like he was recommending a dry cleaners. “Why? Why did you do it?”

There was a pause.

“First Time? Still there?” Sweat soaked the armpits of Rick’s shirt.

“I had to. Simple as that.”

“You had to kill him? Was it self-defense?” Rick whispered into the mic, like he and First Time were the only two people on the planet engaged in the conversation. Screw the other two million listeners.

First Time growled. “Maybe. Maybe not. End result’s the same. He’s dead.”

“So it was a mistake. An accident. Turn yourself in. Talk to the cops. They’ll understand. You can work it out. Really.” In master control, Celia and J.T. both stood.

“You want me to turn myself in? Let me think about that.” Two seconds passed. “No. Can’t do it.”

Rick persisted. “You should, you know. Turn yourself in. Get some help. It’s not right to hurt and kill other people.”

“It’s not nice to treat people like I was treated by Tin Man. I saw them. All the chickens. All those listeners dressed like chickens. And people think I’m unbalanced. You’d never catch me in one of those chicken suits.” First Time drew out the word
catch
.

“You were here?” Rick had been in his office for most of Tin Man’s show, but he’d seen some of the chickens leaving the building.

“Like I said, you never caught me in a chicken suit. Didn’t like the blond, though. Such harsh words coming from such a lovely creature.”

“What do you want?” Rick turned his head toward the booth, saw Celia give him a big thumbs-up. Was everyone around here crazy?

First Time spoke. “Here’s what I want. A little respect. And I only want to talk with you. I will be Cyrano, and you will be my mouthpiece. Sort of.” A strangled spurt of laughter followed, oddly modulated. “And I know you’re
trying
to trace this call, so…” Click.

Rick ran his hands through his hair. “Back after the break.” Shit.

E
ARLY THE NEXT
morning, Rick eased off the gas as he turned his Volvo down the winding entrance drive leading to Split Oak Memorial Gardens. Up ahead, the right half of an imposing twelve-foot-high black iron gate was pinned back, welcoming visitors. He wondered why the gate on the “exit” side was closed. A more superstitious man might have read something into it.

Keeping to the posted 10 mph speed limit, Rick traversed the one-way circuit around the cemetery. To his left, in the center of the grassy circle, grew the eponymous oak. Scores of spidery bare limbs spoked out in all directions from its towering twin trunks, beckoning mortal souls to join the eternal party taking place under the tree’s roots.

He pulled off to the side, killed the engine. Took a sip from the silver thermos Barb had thrust into his hand as he’d left the house. The hot coffee warmed his throat as he gulped it down. As far as he could see, he was the only living person in the place.

Rick got out, not bothering to lock the doors. Turned the collar of his black overcoat up to shelter himself from the harsh wind. Cold, even for the dead of winter. He stepped over the low curb and set out across the frost-covered lawn. Two large crows cawed and cavorted, swooping among the scattered trees bordering the burial ground itself. Rick walked slowly, taking little hops here and there, careful to avoid stepping directly on any grave, even though he was sure nobody would complain. He’d always been taught to respect the dead. Trampling all over them wasn’t right.

He crested a small hill and paused to get his bearings. If he squinted and ignored the headstones and memorial plaques, he could imagine a golf course, verdant and lush. Challenging. Inviting. Pristine in the early morning before the first golfers had teed off. That’s where he’d rather be. Golfing in Florida or Hawaii or Bermuda. Somewhere with emerald greens, cotton-white sand, and warm, sea-salt breezes.

Glancing behind him, he noticed his trail, dark footprints in the crystalline frost, weaving through the cemetery like a drunken ghoul returning home from a centuries-long bender. A gust of wind whipping across the wide lawn accosted Rick, bit into his face, brought false tears to the corners of his eyes. Reflexively, he ducked his head and plowed forward toward a distant grave tucked under a lone maple tree.

He stopped when he reached a small bronze plaque set into the grass, level with the surrounding ground. Plain printing.
Sarah Ossocuzzi. 1978-1995.
“
We love you, Sarah
,” the only inscription. The wind eased, but Rick shivered and dug his hands deeper into his pockets. One gloved hand closed around an old Starlight peppermint and he crinkled the cellophane wrapper absently, the noise drowned out by the wind in his ears.

Sarah had been seventeen when she died. Much too young. Had her whole life ahead of her. Love, marriage, kids. Career. Retirement. Travel. Grandkids. Laughter and sorrow. Her life had been cut short. Cruelly, perhaps. Mercifully, maybe. Only God knew for sure.

Rick hadn’t known Sarah. Didn’t know the Ossocuzzi family. He’d first come here when he moved to the area six years ago, right before Livvy was born. It took him about an hour to find her. He’d been looking for a grave of a Sarah. Any Sarah would have done. And every year since, on January 20, Rick had returned to grieve. Not for Sarah Ossocuzzi, but for Sarah Sue Jennings. Beloved daughter who’d died in 1989 at the age of five after losing a brave fight with leukemia.

Sarah Sue, EssEss as Rick often called her much to her giggling delight, was buried in Syracuse. After Rick had moved, he’d flown back the first couple of years to commemorate her January birthday at her gravesite. But it was expensive and inconvenient and, ultimately, much too painful a ritual to perpetuate. Instead, in whatever town the radio business had sent him to, he “adopted” an already-dead Sarah with whom to share his pain. He figured they wouldn’t mind.

Did Sarah Ossocuzzi have family? A father who still mourned her passing, ten years later? Probably, although Rick had never noticed any sign of visitors. The first year he found Sarah, he considered bringing flowers—EssEss liked daisies best—but he didn’t want to have to explain why he was leaving flowers on the grave of a dead girl he never knew, should a relative happen by.

Every time he thought about Sarah Sue he found himself comparing her to Livvy. Physically, they were similar. Cuter than buttons, chubby cheeks and curly hair—Sarah’s dark, Livvy’s blond. Both had Rick’s eyes and nose. Each girl was affectionate; hugfests with Daddy were an integral part of every day. But where Livvy was bubbly and inquisitive, Sarah Sue had been reserved and introspective. Subdued, almost. Livvy had no trouble marching right up to people she didn’t know well and grilling them about whatever struck her fancy—the weather, their jobs, their bad breath. Sarah Sue sometimes had trouble opening up to her grandmother.

Rick’s first wife, Shauna, didn’t quite know what to make of their daughter. She loved her—Rick truly believed a mother’s love was absolute—but she’d ask some bizarre questions of Rick. “Do you think Sarah is delayed? How come she doesn’t enjoy dancing like the other girls her age? Why won’t she talk more?” More than once, she suggested taking Sarah Sue to a psychologist to be evaluated. Rick attributed Sarah’s shyness to her personality, but Shauna always believed there must have been some underlying physical or psychological abnormality. In the end, maybe Shauna had been right; maybe on some deeply buried level, Sarah Sue knew her days were numbered.

A few tears—real ones, this time—welled in his eyes. His nose ran, partly from the cold, partly from the tears. He’d brought a little packet of tissues with him, as usual, but he didn’t want to take off his gloves to get one out. Instead, he wiped his nose with the back of his hand, leaving a faint smear of mucus on his black leather glove.

Toward the end of Sarah Sue’s battle, the stress had conquered Rick, and he lashed out at anyone—everyone—he encountered. He remembered one day at the hospital when he overheard two nurses talking about his frail daughter. He’d exploded at them, hissing that frail was a word you used to describe dying old men, not perfect porcelain dolls. His daughter was
delicate
, not frail. The nurses had simply given him that look reserved for a relative who couldn’t cope with the inevitable, which had simply made things worse.

After Sarah Sue’s death, his marriage imploded. Shauna couldn’t handle the loss, saying every time she looked at him she was reminded of her beautiful little Sarah Sue. Divorce came swiftly and Shauna moved west. Rick heard she married a dentist in Los Angeles, but he never really cared enough to keep tabs. He’d loved Shauna when they met and dated, and through their young marriage, but when it came down to it, Sarah was their glue. When she died, the marriage came apart. Everyone told him it wasn’t unusual. At the time, he didn’t care if it was typical or not, the pain cut through him just the same. He wondered if Shauna still thought about their valiant little EssEss.

R
ICK MET
B
ARB
and Livvy for lunch at Chili’s. Barb had insisted Rick drag Winn along. The four of them occupied a booth in the back, next to a table where a mom sat with three kids, all under the age of four. Three high chairs, piles of French fries stacked on each, surrounded her.

“Watcha drawing, Princess?” asked Winn. Livvy had flipped over a paper placemat and dumped out a box of crayons. She was hard at work, little fingers flying over the paper, tip of her pink tongue licking at the corner of her mouth.

“Rainbows. Lots of rainbows. We read a story about them in school today.” She didn’t look up, just kept scribbling. Every few seconds she put down the crayon she was coloring with and picked up another.

“They look great,” Winn said.

“Thanks, Uncle Winn. Daddy, when’s our food going to be here?”

“Soon, dear. Soon.” Livvy returned to her picture. Rick was amazed at how she was so talkative one minute, but clammed up when she colored or read her picture books. It was good how she could switch trains so easily.

“Hey, Uncle Winn, heard you got into it with Garth. What was that all about?” Rick asked. He noticed Barb’s eyebrows wiggle, but she didn’t comment.

“Got fed up. With him and his lackadaisical attitude. He didn’t want to give a news update. Said it would ‘destroy the fiber of his show.’ These young guys think the world owes them.” Winn took a sip from his glass of beer. “We had a few words. If I were a younger man, I’d have asked him to step outside and see my hydrangeas.”

“Be careful, buddy. Marty’s itching for an excuse to get rid of you.”

“You know where he can go,” Winn said, eyeing Livvy. “I don’t need to spell it out, do I?” His moustache hid a faint smile. “What’s the latest on our fruitcake friend?”

Barb took a break from munching on the chips and salsa. “Easy guys.” She tilted her head at Livvy. “Little pitchers have big ears.”

Rick said, “Don’t worry, we’ll be careful.” He turned his head toward Winn on his left, and covered the side of his mouth with his hand. “Fifteen minutes after he called, Adams showed up. Wanted to see the names of all the contestants in the contest. We showed him the log. One name stuck out. A Mr. Carnal Sanders.” Rick met blank stares from Barb and Winn. “
Colonel
Sanders. Our killer thinks he’s real clever.”

“And no one noticed when he signed in?” Barb asked.

“Nah. Some intern passes around a clipboard. People can write whatever they want. We double-check the winner’s information, but we don’t even look at the rest. Why should we? I’d say about fifty percent of the names are fictitious anyway.”

“Why give fake names?” Barb bit into another chip, laden with salsa. Some dribbled onto her chin. She swiped it off with her index finger and licked it clean.

“Some people are ditching work. Others are embarrassed. I mean, come on, dressing up like a giant chicken and reciting poetry?” Rick said. Livvy’s head lifted slightly, then she reached for another crayon and returned to her masterpiece.

“They’re all a bunch of weirdos, if you ask me,” Winn said.

To Barb, Rick said, “This guy’s no fool. Radio’s a perfect medium for someone who wants to remain anonymous. No one can see you. You can disguise your voice, make up an alias. First Time’s using it all to his advantage. A public forum with little chance of getting caught.”