First Time Killer (11 page)

“Did they trace the call?” Barb asked, sticking another salsa-laden chip into her mouth.

“Actually, they did. Tracked it back to Danzler’s cell phone. Found it in a rack of pre-paid phones at a 7-Eleven. Obviously, he wanted us to find it. But Adams is checking out surveillance cameras at the store, see if they can spot him dropping it off. Who knows, maybe he’ll get lucky,” Rick said. He took a drink of water. “Adams said this guy is clever. The second call—the one to Tin Man—was re-routed and bounced around so tracing it was impossible. Adams didn’t sound optimistic about nailing him that way.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that. The way Adams struts around, I’m sure he thinks it’s only a matter of a few days before he’s got First Time behind bars,” Winn said, reaching for his beer.

“Well, he doesn’t have much to go on. He dragged Tin Man back in last night, asked him about the chicken contestants. We counted six or seven—depending on who you ask—people who had their heads covered with chicken heads or masks. Probably one of them. One guy trash-mouthed Tin Man. Coulda been him. We’ll never know.”

“Maybe he wasn’t even there. Just said so to rattle us,” Winn said.

“The thought crossed our minds. But this morning Adams called Celia. Said he reviewed the tapes, and our friend referred to the blond girl with the tattoo.”

“So?” Winn said.

“First Time referred to Ashlee as ‘the blond.’ But Tin Man never said she was blond on air,” Rick said.

“You worry too much. They’ll catch him,” Winn said, going back to his beer.

“Yeah, sure.” Rick glanced at Barb. She’d pushed the bowl of chips into the middle of the table and was examining the plastic laminated dessert menu. Preparing.

Rick scanned the restaurant. Normal people having a normal lunch. During his discussion with Adams, the detective had told him he’d checked into the Nazi Hunter and didn’t find any dirt. Told him to dial down the imagination and relax, let the professionals catch the killer. Adams was right; he needed to chill.

“Daddy. Look, I’m finished.” Livvy held up her drawing.

“Beautiful. Just like the artist,” Rick said. “I love rainbows.”

Livvy pointed to a yellow blob under one of the many colorful arcs. “And that’s Big Bird. He’s a giant chicken, you know. Just like that friend you were talking about.”

Production meetings. Creative meetings. Ops meetings. All-hands meetings. Sales meetings. Meetings about meetings. Rick figured if they cut out ninety percent of the meetings around the station, productivity would double. He waited, along with the rest of the
Afternoon Circus
crew, for Celia to arrive to her own hastily-called meeting.

Celia breezed in carrying a leather portfolio pad in one hand. Smart blue business suit with a swirly-patterned silk scarf around her neck. Didn’t she know she worked in radio, not TV?

“Sorry about the short notice everyone.” She glanced around the room, taking a silent roll call. Her head stopped when she saw Tin Man playing with his phone. “Do you mind? I’m ready to begin.”

“Just a sec,” Tin Man said, without looking up. His thumbs tapped the little buttons as tiny boops and beeps serenaded the group. A little ditty played and Tin Man flicked off the handheld. “I won. Again.”

Celia glared at him, then broke off her stare and addressed those gathered. “As I was saying, sorry about the short notice. But I just got out of a meeting with Marty. We had a little discussion about the immediate future of the
Circus
.” Her eyes met Rick’s and his stomach tumbled a bit.

“Will this take long? I’ve got some prep work to do,” asked Tin Man.

“The less you interrupt, the quicker it will go,” Celia said, hands on hips.

Tin Man rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

Celia smiled, savoring her little victory for a moment. Then she turned to the group. “Okay. Earlier this morning, I spoke with Detective Adams. He wants us to pull the plug on the
Circus
, at least until First Time is apprehended.”

Everyone’s attention was focused on Celia. Next to Rick, Garth the Goth muttered something under his breath. From the back, Rick heard J.T. groan, probably worried his star was about to go dark. Celia didn’t speak, simply stood before them, eyes slightly narrowed. Not for the first time, Rick hoped he never found himself in a dark alley or deserted warehouse with her.

“When he told me, I thought he was kidding. I mean, why should we? He explained he thought it would be in the interest of public safety if we refrained from stirring things up. Adams suggested we might be inciting the killer to do something.”

One of the interns raised his hand, then started talking. “We could stay on, just not talk about the killer. That should satisfy him.”

“I mentioned that. He shook me off. I don’t think he trusts us.” Her gaze fell toward Tin Man, who slouched in his chair. He’d pulled out the sports section. Tubby sat on his right, back erect, paying attention like the teacher’s pet.

“So we’re off the air?” J.T. asked.

“Now, I didn’t say that. I said Adams
wants
us to pull the plug. I didn’t say we were going to.” With her hands, Celia gestured, like a preacher addressing the congregation.

The room’s temperature seemed to change. Rick felt a tingling, a bristling sensation dance along his spine. Something almost palpable had entered the room.

Celia waited for people to settle. “I’ve discussed matters with Marty, and he’s given me the green light. We’re staying on the air. Business as usual.”

“Can’t the police force us to shut down?” Damon Oh asked. With all the police contacts Damon was always bragging about, Rick thought he seemed surprised at the news.

“Not according to our lawyers. Right to free speech and all that. Plus, we’re not inciting him, despite what Adams thinks. On the contrary, we’re trying to help catch him. Adams should be thanking us, if you ask me.”

“Obstruction of justice?” an intern called out.

Celia’s face flushed. “Listen guys. We do a radio show. In no way is it our fault someone got killed. We’re entertainers and journalists.” She glanced back at Damon. “Newscasters. Remember: he killed Danzler before he called in. We haven’t said anything on the air that can be construed as encouraging murder. So stop being wimps!”

The room fell silent. Rick felt nauseated. He’d have to buy a new bottle of Pepto-Bismol, the way he was chugging through it. He was getting swept along by a giant wave, unable to change course.

A creepy grin appeared on Celia’s face. “This is how it’s going to be. Tin Man, you keep doing whatever you want. Within FCC guidelines, of course. Stunts, contests, interviews, insults, whatever. Play to your strengths. You’re radio’s bad boy.” Celia turned toward Rick. “And Rick. You do what you do best. Empathize with our concerned listeners. Give them a broad shoulder to cry on. You’re our good guy.” She stepped forward and spread out her arms again. “And me, well, I’ll do my utmost to help both of you get the best damn ratings possible. Three months from now, I plan to be on satellite.”

I
T HADN
’
T TAKEN
much effort for First Time to uncover details about Rick Jennings’s life. A few clicks on the Internet and a wealth of knowledge scrolled by. In minutes, he’d compiled a list of the cities and stations where Rick had worked, complete with formats and dayparts. Personal appearances, quotes, bios in radio mags. The information was there for anybody to see. He even dug up tax records and information about prior home sales. And along the way, he’d even discovered a little bit of family history. Spiced up a bit, First Time thought the
Rick Jennings Story
had all the necessary elements to produce a two-hour, three-star, made-for-TV flick.

As he bounced around cyberspace, First Time took notes. Names, addresses, any scrap of info that might conceivably come in handy. When he was through, he’d have quite a complete dossier on his friend. First Time didn’t have too many friends. He hoped his association with Rick would be a long and fruitful one.

On the other hand, he was done with Tin Man. He wouldn’t be talking to him again.

Still online, First Time cruised to the
Radio & Records
website. Read the daily updates about his exploits and wondered how much he’d increased their circulation. For kicks, he typed “First Time Killer” into the browser’s search box and hit the enter key. Thousands of entries appeared. Too many to read now. He’d come back later and savor each one. At the moment, he needed to stay on task.

He called up MapQuest and entered Rick’s home address. He already knew where Rick lived, but he wanted a map of the surrounding area. On his monitor, First Time lightly traced the route from Rick’s home to the radio station with his finger. Back and forth, until the twists and turns etched into his memory. Then he repositioned the map and memorized the way from Rick’s to the mall. When he had that one down cold, he jiggered the map again. One last route. With his pinky, he traced the route from Rick’s house to Livvy’s school.

But he was getting ahead of himself. Pursuing Rick was Plan B. If things worked out the way he expected, he’d never have to resort to it. He filed his notes away.

So many things on his to-do list, so little time. First things first. His next stunt would throw the
Circus
into a tizzy. At least that’s what WTLK management would say publicly. He knew better. He knew the truth. Privately, they’d be pleased. It was all about ratings, and he’d deliver all right. He’d give them ratings to die for.

J.T.
HAD SECURED
the sales conference room for what he called the “meeting of the misfits.” Rick lingered in the back, away from the conference table, watching the “regular” callers carry on like a bunch of seventh-graders on a field trip. Every time Rick glanced at the table, a set of crazy eyeballs stared back at him. These outcasts were anything but “regular.”

Rick surveyed the group. A half-dozen men—no women—gathered around the large table, sipping from mugs or water bottles. One, a large guy wearing a backwards baseball cap, chomped on a hoagie. Two other guys played paper football, sliding the folded paper triangle back and forth across the table’s glossy surface. Another had earbuds in his ear, but they weren’t attached to any electronic device; the jack end dangled down, resting on his chest. His head bopped to some imaginary tune.

At least the Nazi Hunter wasn’t there. As Rick waited for the meeting to start, the level of noise in the room steadily climbed.

J.T. entered the room and strode to the head of the table, stopping next to an empty chair. He raised his voice to be heard over the din. “Hey everybody. Quiet down. Detective Adams just called, said he’s on his way, but he’ll be a little late.” A few of the regulars groaned. One by one, they shifted their attention toward the back of the room where Rick leaned against the wall.

Rick glanced at J.T., found he was also staring at him. J.T. called across the room. “Hey, Rick. You want to lead things here for a while, until Adams gets here?” A look of exasperation flashed across J.T.’s face. Like the field trip chaperon who had lost control of his charges.

Rick nodded and joined J.T. at the front of the room. Time to use his status as a radio celebrity. He didn’t have to exert much influence; the room quieted by itself. “Uh, hello everyone. My name is Rick Jennings, and I—”

A collective shout rose up to greet him. “Hello, Ringmaster Rick!” To a man, their faces sported big grins.

“Okay, then. Um, why don’t we go around the table and you can each introduce yourself. I’ve spoken to most of you on-air at one time or another, but I don’t think I can match all of your names to your faces.” He nodded to the guy on his left.

“Sweet Pete here. Whassup, Rick?” He pointed back at Rick, with both hands. “Glad to be here, my man.”

“Well, thanks for coming,” Rick said. He addressed the whole group. “All of you. Thanks for coming in today to answer some questions for the police. If it helps catch First Time, then…” Rick held his hands out, palms up.

Heads nodded all around.

“Okay, who’s next?”

The beefy hoagie-eater spoke up. “My name’s Mack McCoombs. Everyone calls me Minnie Mac.” Rick recognized his high-pitched voice. He never would have matched the voice with this body, though. Minnie Mac took a bite of his sandwich, and with his mouth crammed full said, “Did you know I eat sandwiches every day? Sometimes twice a day?” Some shredded lettuce escaped his mouth, landing on the table in front of him.

Rick gestured to the guy on Minnie Mac’s left.

“I’m Whizzer. And this is my friend Lap Dog.” Whizzer reached over and patted the shoulder of the man sitting next to him. Lap Dog merely nodded at Rick.

Another big man, Harrison Johnson, aka Hard Core Harry, came next, followed by a lanky guy in a Grateful Dead t-shirt with a long white beard who called himself Godman. Godman had been playing paper football with Whizzer. Rick wondered who had won.

Dimitri Papadoukas was the last to introduce himself. When he did, all of the other regulars stopped their chatting and fidgeting and paid attention. Rick figured running a website must have elevated his stature among the regulars.

“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you all in person,” Rick said, propping up his smile. They gave him the willies. He turned to J.T. “This everyone?”

“Johnnie Ray and Wilma Flintstone couldn’t make it. I don’t know where Manchild is. He said he was going to be here, but he doesn’t have a car and I think the bus schedules confuse him.” J.T. shrugged. “There were a bunch of others I didn’t even call, too.” He shrugged again.

Rick thought it must be tough keeping track of the dozens of weirdos who clung to the show like remoras. He didn’t envy J.T’s task at all. “Okay, then. All of you guys follow the
Circus
. Who has any ideas why First Time seems to be targeting this particular show?”

Godman jumped up. “Because it’s the best damn show on the air, that’s why. I mean, if you’re going to zoom in on one show, you might as well go for the best.” His eyes darted around, looking for support. A few others nodded in agreement. He lowered himself into his chair, obviously proud of himself. Even Godman needed an ego boost now and then, Rick figured.