First Time Killer (17 page)

Rick hadn’t had much say in the planning. Although Brewster had promised him Celia would take a less active role in the day-to-day tasks, this was her event, start to finish. She’d even postponed his return a day so she could have the weekend to promote it. And promote it she did. WTLK ran spots touting the live remote ten times an hour. She’d even wrangled someone at the
Post
to run a little throwaway about it in the
Style
section.

On stage, Tin Man and Tubby were on fire. They were interviewing a “freelance” forensic evidence expert. Rick wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard Celia say she’d gotten his name from Marie, the psychic. The so-called expert, some guy in a purple velour warm-up suit named Dennis, claimed he could recreate certain incidents solely from a piece of evidence. And not just simple facts, either, like Mr. Mustard got bludgeoned with a lead pipe in the kitchen. Dennis said he could reconstruct entire scenes simply by touching an object. Or body part—he maintained organic evidence worked best.

Since no one had any spare body parts, Tin Man and Tubby decided to do some of their own freelancing. The call went out to the crowd for volunteers. A female was needed, one who wasn’t shy. Some liquid lubrication would help bolster her courage. Tin Man didn’t have much trouble enticing a couple of female volunteers from the crowd to come on stage. How this related to First Time wasn’t exactly clear, but Rick knew it didn’t really matter. Not as long as the crowd was entertained. Just being in the same time zone as the trashcan of record was good enough.

Rick glanced to the side of the stage where Celia stood. Dressed in a tight black skirt and boots, she looked like another one of the
Circus
groupies. Next to her, in a dark suit, pinched-face Stanton leaned against the side of the stage. Looked as if he’d eaten a couple of bad burritos. This time, though, he might have something to worry about. Things often got dicey—standards-wise—at a live show.

On-stage, one of the volunteers, a full-figured redhead, reached under her peasant dress and pulled off her panties. Pink with large, black polka dots.

“Fling ’em over here, lassie,” Tin Man said.

The redhead tossed them over, giggling loudly, and Tin Man snagged them out of mid-air. He seemed to attract exhibitionists. Probably one of the reasons Celia hired him in the first place.

Tin Man made a big deal of smelling the panties. “I think there might be some organic matter on them.” Then he handed them over—reluctantly—to the forensic expert.

Dennis closed his eyes and rubbed the panties all over his face. Rick glanced over at Tubby, who seemed a little ill. Who wouldn’t be, being a part of this? Sometimes Rick wondered about his role. Even though his part of the
Circus
was better-mannered, did it really exonerate him? Or was he as bad as these two clowns? It was a fine line, one he was always dancing around. Too often, he feared, he caved in and believed the excuses he told himself.

Dennis had opened his eyes, and he carefully placed the panties on the table in front of him, keeping his fingers in contact with them. “The owner of these panties,” Dennis said, eyeing the redhead for a beat too long, “is a vivacious, fun-loving girl.” His voice was high-pitched and squeaky. Not very good for radio.

The audience whooped and hollered. Fun-loving girls were always a crowd favorite. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stanton take a step toward the stage. Celia grabbed his sleeve, holding him back.

“Yes. Yes, I am,” the redhead said. She started shimmying and swaying to some internal tune.

“You have a boyfriend, too. Don’t you?”

She smiled coyly. “Yes. There’s a guy I like and we’ve dated some. I don’t know if you could call him my boyfriend though.” She turned toward the audience and raised both her hands, grinding her hips. “I like lots of guys. Whooooo.”

The catcalls got louder. Rick sipped his coffee, looked at his watch. No matter what happened, he’d be on stage in a few minutes. He’d gotten used to following all sorts of unsavory acts. What did it say about him that it all rolled off his back?

Dennis asserted himself, high-pitched voice rising. “I’m getting the picture that you were, um, with your boyfriend in the very recent past.” He arched one eyebrow. “Like within the past hour.”

The redhead whooped again and began hiking up her dress. The alcohol level in her system caused her to wobble on her high heels. Stanton couldn’t take it any longer. He jumped on stage and hurried toward his indecency problem. “Okay. We’re done here. Go to commercials. Time for break.” Stanton grabbed the girl by her elbow and escorted her off the stage to a chorus of boos from the crowd.

“Well, say hello to our giant pain-in-the-ass. Our snarky shark. The lawyer man.” Tin Man stood and pointed after Stanton, inciting the crowd. “Let him hear you.”

The crowd ramped up their booing and jeering. A few beer cans rained down on the stage. Tin Man picked up a couple of full plastic water bottles and hurled them back out into the crowd. The crowd responded with more beer and soda cans. Tin Man flipped the audience off and ran for cover, stage left, followed closely by Tubby. J.T. appeared from the wings, hands over his head, and made his way, ducking and weaving, toward the console. The shower of debris lessened as he hit a few buttons and sent the show into break.

The audience, full of short-attention-span twenty-somethings, forgot all about the dizzy redhead. They began a rhythmic chant. For their radio hero.

Rick. Rick. Rick. We want Rick. Rick. Rick. Rick. We want Rick.

Rick felt goosebumps pop on both arms, despite the warmth provided by his heavy leather bomber jacket. He gazed out over the crowd, watched the people pumping their fists into the air as they shouted his name. Most of his fans’ faces were shrouded in shadow, but at certain angles, the spotlights would catch a beaming face, red and shiny with anticipation. As if receiving direction from some unseen conductor, the chant got louder. And louder. They were all calling his name.
Rick. Rick. Rick. We want Rick.

It was time. Time for Ringmaster Rick to make his glorious return.

R
ICK HAD ONLY
been gone for a little more than a week. But it felt like a month. His mouth was dry, and despite his usual comfort behind a mic, his stomach fluttered. Maybe it had something to do with the undulating sea of a thousand adoring people screaming his name in unison.

“Hello, everyone. It’s great to be back.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t think anyone noticed. The crowed was too busy yelling. “Thank you. Thank you. I had no idea you felt this way about me.” Rick extended both arms toward the crowd, palms up. “Thank you.” Off to the side, Celia applauded, every so often stopping to exhort the crowd to continue. Rick didn’t spot Stanton anywhere. Must still be busy with the redhead.

Celia had wanted Rick to open his segment with a little speech. She wanted him to congratulate Tin Man and Tubby on how they’ve been handling the First Time hullabaloo in his absence, and she wanted him to crow about how great the ratings have been. Both toady, self-congratulating messages. Rick had just nodded, having no intention of doing either. He had a few things of his own he wanted to say. And with Brewster’s mandate, he wasn’t worried too much about Celia.

After a full minute, Rick motioned for quiet and the cheering subsided. “Thank you. Wow, it’s nice to be back. Although I’ve only been gone a short time.” He licked his lips and looked around for a bottle of water. Damn Tin Man for hurling the water into the crowd. Rick spotted J.T. and pantomimed taking a sip of water. Maybe he’d get the message.

“This evening, I’ll be talking with some of you. Those of you who’ve braved the cold to come out to support me.” Rick gestured at the crowd, eliciting a few screams. “And I’ll be taking phone calls, as usual. But before I get started, I’d like to say a few things.” Rick paused to catch his breath as J.T. jogged across the stage with two bottles of water. He set them down in front of Rick, then waved to the fans and scampered off.

“Thanks, J.T.” He twisted off the cap of one of the bottles and took a long sip. “Much better. Now I can really talk.” A few people clapped. It was one of those magical nights when reciting the grocery list would get applause. “As you all know, a terrible thing happened recently. An innocent man was killed.” Rick stood and walked to the side of the stage closest to the trashcan. He pointed and shouted to the crowd. “His arm was found right over there. In a trashcan!”

The crowd erupted. Rick walked solemnly back to his seat behind the mic. “And if that wasn’t bad enough, the killer decided to drag my show—our show—into the mud with him.” The crowd had quieted and everyone focused on him, on his words. Here and across the country.

He raised his voice, settling into a sermon cadence. “It’s time for us to come together. Band together. Stand together. Together, we will find this guy and bring him to justice.” Rick imagined Adams cringing at the thought of a thousand vigilantes. And at that exact moment, Rick had no doubt if the killer showed, he’d be ripped to shreds by the energized mob.

More thunderous applause. Shouting. An airhorn sounded, a long blast followed by a dozen short ones. Rick could whip up a crowd when he wanted. “We’ll show this miscreant, this First Time Killer. We’ll show him who he’s messing with.” Frenzied fans shouted and screamed, turning Major Francis Park into Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

Rick took a sip of water and closed his eyes, letting the wall of noise go out over the airwaves without any interruption or commentary from him. Let the rest of the country hear—feel—the raw emotion of his fans. After a moment, he put his arms up calling for quiet.

“I need to add something. Something very important. At least to me.” Rick shot a glance in Celia’s direction, but didn’t wait to find out if she was paying attention. “I vow to do everything in my power to bring First Time to justice. Before he harms someone else.” The noise welled up again, but Rick cut it off. “Hold on, hold on. I’ll do everything I can to stop this insanity. But I’m going to do it my way. No exploitation. No outrageous contests. Nothing to incite him or anger him. I’m going to follow through the only way I know how. Listening to your concerns and worries. Helping you allay your fears. Working with the police department any way I can to bring in First Time. And of course, I can’t do any of it without the support from you, my beloved fans.”

Like a preacher or a politician, Rick had a well-developed sense of timing. Fire the crowd up, calm them down. Fire them up higher, then bring them down a little. Ride the roller coaster. He knew when to pause for applause, and now was one of those times. He slowly rose and took a few steps toward the front of the stage. Held his arms up. When he was sure every eye was on him, he took a deep, theatrical bow.

It was good to be back.

For the next two hours, Rick was on top of his game. They’d set up a mic stand out in the crowd, and it attracted a steady stream of people eager to ask Rick’s advice or spout off about First Time. Every so often, he’d take a phone call, and the listeners in Scottsdale or Seattle or St. Louis weighed in with their opinions. The fact they were physically removed from First Time’s handiwork didn’t diminish the depth of their anger.

Usually, when Rick discussed an issue—abortion, death penalty, paper or plastic—he’d elicit all types of comments. Some listeners were for, some against. Some argued both sides of the issue at once. The back-and-forth made for a lively debate. Not surprisingly, the opinions about First Time were more one-sided. Like about 100% disapproval. Tonight, it didn’t matter to Rick. He was on top again.

A few fervent fans brought presents for Rick. A coffee mug, t-shirts, an original watercolor of Rick behind a microphone. Homemade brownies. A box of gourmet chocolates. J.T. escorted the gift-bearing fans on stage, and Rick would thank them and give them a hug or an autograph or a slap on the back. J.T. was eager to help; Rick usually passed the booty around the station for the crew and interns to enjoy. He’d always found it made him a little hinky to bring home the stuff his fans had given him. He didn’t employ a taste tester.

Rick cued up his last set of commercials. One segment left. Still buoyed by adrenaline—and the support of his fans—he felt like he could go on forever. Not even the sight of Celia marching toward him dampened his mood.

“Great show, Rick. Outstanding.” She flashed him a megawatt smile. “Maybe we should do a live remote every day.” Eyes sparkled.

Rick was glad Celia was happy. He wasn’t too sure how she’d take his “nothing outrageous” stance. Tomorrow, he might hear about it. But tonight, he only felt the love. “You know, I could get used to this. The adoring crowd, that is. Not the cold.” The wind had picked up, and the crowd, while still large, was starting to drift off to warmer homes and apartments.

“This is your night. You should enjoy it. Remember it. It’s not every day you get thousands of people chanting your name and treating you like a rock star.”

Maybe there was hope. Maybe tonight would be the start of a closer working relationship with Celia. “Listen, I…”

Celia tilted her head. Blinked a couple of times.

“I know we haven’t always seen eye-to-eye on things. But…well, thank you for setting this up. In honor of my return. It means a lot to me.”

She reached out and touched the sleeve of his bomber jacket. “Welcome back, Rick. Only good things ahead.” She stood. “Bring her home.” Celia nodded and turned to leave.

“Wait. Wait here a minute.” Rick pointed to the chair next to his. “Please, sit down.”

J.T. signaled him from the side. Back on air.

“Welcome back to the
Afternoon Circus
. This is Rick Jennings.” He paused, feeling Celia’s presence. “Ringmaster Rick. This evening, we’re broadcasting the show live from Major Francis Park. Forty yards away from me, off to my right, is the site of the trashcan where the arm of First Time’s victim was recovered.” This was about the tenth time he’d mentioned it, and every time, a wave of hate rippled through his body. How could someone do that to another person? He shook his head, sending the morbid thoughts scattering.