FM for Murder (22 page)

As she worked, she thought again about the assumptions she was making about the disc jockey’s murder. She had assumed—they all had assumed-- that the killer entered the studio door, remained at the door, shot the dj who was seated at the desk, walked to the desk, turned off the microphone, and then exited. Maybe that was not what actually happened. She poured flour into her large bowl. It did not flow out smoothly from the sack and a puff of flour exploded into her face. She wiped the white powder from her eyes and mouth and barreled ahead. If the gun shot was loud for the initial explosion but softer for impact, maybe the killer and victim had somehow exchanged positions. But how? And why? She wondered. Why would the killer sit at the microphone and the victim walk to the door? That scenario didn’t make sense. Well, at least it didn’t make sense according to what they knew was happening from what the disc jockey said.

She cracked an egg into the flour, added a cup of milk, and started stirring the thin liquid. Unfortunately, her mixing bowl wasn’t large enough for all the ingredients she was using, and large amounts of the mixture poured over the top of the bowl onto the counter and eventually onto the floor. Hmm, she thought. Cooking is such a messy activity. Maybe the problem was that they were all assuming that what they were hearing on the recording—that is, what Ted Ballard was saying--was an accurate representation of what actually happened. She added a spoonful of vanilla which dribbled onto her fingers, causing her to lick the tips. Not bad. She turned to the stove and extracted the large flat griddle from beneath the oven. She placed it on the largest burner, turned on the gas, and plopped a glob of butter on the surface. The butter sizzled and she grabbed a plastic cup and dipped it into the pancake mixture. As she brought it up to pour on the griddle, droplets of mixture trailed all the way from the counter to the stove and onto her slippers. Ick! How does Rocky do this and stay so neat? she wondered. Lucky for Ballard’s killer that he used a handgun because it wasn’t very messy. The bullet remained lodged in his brain, according to the autopsy. There was very little blood. But that still doesn’t account for the discrepancies in the sound. The only thing that would account for the sound being loud at the mic and soft at the door would be, she realized, if the killer was seated at the desk and the victim was standing at the door. In fact, she realized immediately, that such a repositioning would also account for the strange angle of entry of the bullet—the bullet coming from below rather than straight or from above. Let me think this through, she said to herself, as she flung another cup-full of pancake batter on the stove. She took a spatula and peeked under her first cake. Ooops! A little too done, she realized as she attempted to flip it. Too bad! It ripped in half, leaving one part stuck to the griddle and the other half now resting on top. A lost cause, she realized as scraped her first attempt off the griddle and dumped it in the waste basket. She resolved to keep a better eye on the second pancake.

Watching a second pancake—and a third and a fourth—with an eagle eye, she hovered over the stove. If, she thought, the killer was seated at the desk in front of the mic and the victim were standing by the door—all of the clues fit. The gun blast would be loud because it occurred immediately in front of the microphone. We don’t hear the bullet impact because it’s further away, by the door. We also don’t hear any sound from the victim on impact because the victim is too far from the mic. The angle of bullet entry would be right too, she realized because if the killer was seated at the desk and the victim was standing, that would create a wound with the bullet entering from below. She flipped her three pancakes. One of the three made the journey unscathed.

This new scenario, she realized, also could explain the reason the mic was turned off so fast and why they heard no footsteps. If the killer was seated at the desk, he merely reached over and flipped off the microphone. He didn’t have to walk to the desk from the door. It all fit, she thought. She piled the three lop-sided little cakes on a platter and started on a new set with three new cupfuls of batter. These would be better, she vowed. All of the acoustic and physical evidence worked with her new scenario of having the killer at the desk and the victim standing—all except the recording. The recording seemed to indicate the exact opposite. The only reason she could see for the recording to be wrong would be if the killer somehow plotted to make it that way. But if he did, how did he do it? And how did he get Ballard to change places with him and make the tape? There were still so many questions. If she didn’t know any better, she would think that Ballard had masterminded his own murder, because everything with this new scenario seemed to implicate the seated person—by all rights—the disc jockey, as the killer. But, the disc jockey—Ballard--was dead. He didn’t kill himself, obviously. Or, did he?

She opened the refrigerator and got out syrup and some bacon. She’d have to keep thinking about the murder—the recording and the clues. Somehow or other they would point her in the right direction. She placed the syrup on the table and started the bacon. She got plates and silverware from the cupboards and set the table. As the bacon hit the frying pan, Candide set up a tirade of barking when the odor of cooking pork hit the air. Two bodies appeared in the kitchen door.

“My god, Mom,” yawned Angela, in her de rigeur bedspread, “what are you doing?”

“Making breakfast,” Pamela responded brightly, holding up her spatula as a badge of honor, pancake batter dripping from her hair and robe.

“At least you didn’t burn down the house this time,” grumbled Rocky. Then he smiled and walked over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

Chapter 30

Previous week--December 17, Monday

David Bridgewater had found an out of the way small bed and breakfast on a side street of the French Quarter. Here he had holed up as he prepared for the next phase of his project and waited for the call that he hoped would come soon, but that he knew would come eventually. His look had changed. He had now transformed into a traditional, conventional, young businessman. His hair was trimmed neatly—no facial hair remained. He had purchased a wardrobe of comparable clothing to add to what he had already changed into from his brother’s dead body. He had discarded all of Daniel’s personal items and his suitcase in various trash bins around New Orleans. He was careful to remove any identification and to not deposit too many items in the same place. He remained very low key. The only pleasure he allowed himself during this time of–what he considered—transition were nightly visits to some of his favorite alternate music bars. He realized he probably stuck out in his new attire, but he speculated that people would just think he was a tourist trying to pick up some local color. Also, as he knew that the underground vampire ball was in full swing in the next few days, he was anxious to take in some of his favorite bands—some he’d introduced on air himself and had helped get their start.

He realized that the news of “Theodore Ballard’s death” might create some problems for him. After all, his brother had found him so people knew where he was. That private dick Danny Boy had hired knew his alias, so he—or anyone he or Daniel may have mentioned the name Ted Ballard to—might become suspicious if—when—the news of “Ballard’s” death got out. Hopefully, it wouldn’t reach his family or their entourage—and if so—no one would connect the news of Ballard’s death to David Bridgewater—wayward son. If it did, he was ready with a cover story.

He kept getting calls from Daniel’s obnoxious girlfriend Amy. You’d think she’d give up; he’d ignored all her calls. Surely, she’d get the message that he wasn’t interested. The last thing he needed was some clingy, uptight society daughter looking to hook herself a Bridgewater. She might have gotten her clutches into Danny Boy, but not him. David knew what he intended to do with the Bridgewater fortune—once it was his and he didn’t intend to share it with anyone.

Amy was frustrated beyond belief. Daniel was simply refusing to answer his phone. That must be it. Harold Vickers had spoken to him. According to Vickers, Dan had answered his phone and spoken with him. Vickers even asked Amy if she wanted him to ask Dan to call her, but she said she didn’t. If he didn’t want to talk to her, she’d deal with it herself. She didn’t need a lawyer acting as a go-between for them. Besides, right now, talking to Dan wasn’t even at the top of her list. She was still feeling terrible and she’d made an appointment with her doctor for this morning—if she could make it there without vomiting. She maneuvered her small car into a spot in front of her doctor’s little clinic. She knew she could see Dr. Knowles, the Bridgewater family physician; Daniel had told her to go to him, but she just felt more comfortable with Dr. Lucy who she’d known for years.

Monday morning she assumed would find Dr. Lucy’s waiting room packed, but amazingly it was empty except for Sherry, Dr. Lucy’s receptionist/nurse. It was a very small practice and the large, motherly Sherry did everything that Dr. Lucy didn’t do and then some.

“Miss Amy Shuster,” Sherry cried, hugging Amy and patting her back like a mother burping an infant, “I haven’t seen you in—years!”

“That’s not true, Sherry. You know I’m here every year for my physical.”

“Have you been hiding out?” Sherry’s eyes looked her up and down, suspiciously.

“No,” replied Amy, surprised, “I’ve just been busy with work.”

“And what is wrong today?” asked Sherry, ever the professional as she escorted Amy directly into the back and into an examining room.

“I’ve got some bug, I think. I’ve been vomiting off and on for days. I’m exhausted.”

“Dr. Lucy,” said Sherry as an older woman with a long grey braid and warm brown eyes entered the room. She wore a stethoscope and carried a clip board. She smiled immediately when she saw Amy.

“So,” said Dr. Lucy, her piercing eyes glancing over the young patient from head to toe, “you look a little peaked.”

“Peaked,” repeated Amy, “Is that a medical term?”

“No,” replied Dr. Lucy, “but it describes how you look perfectly. Now, hop on the table and tell me what’s wrong.”

Amy complied and Dr. Lucy talked and asked questions of the young woman as she conducted a thorough physical exam, including blood work.

“Amy,” she said, sitting on the chair beside the table, “I can’t say for certain. I will need to wait for confirmation from the lab, but I believe I know the cause of your symptoms.”

“What?” asked Amy.

“I hope I’m not adding to your problems,” she said, taking Amy’s hands, “but, my dear, it appears you’re pregnant.”

Chapter 31

Present time--Saturday, December 22, afternoon

“Detective Shoop,” said Pamela when she finally got the police man on her phone, “Something strange has happened. Last night, my husband, my daughter, my graduate assistant and I went to New Orleans to do some background research on the alternative music scene. You know, the type of music played by Ted Ballard on his radio show.”

“I know, Dr. Barnes,” replied Shoop, “And I see you’re out on your own detecting again. Didn’t I warn you about that?”

“Yes, Detective,” replied Pamela, “we were merely visiting some local music spots and listening to some of the local bands. I’d hardly call that dangerous.”

“If,” said Shoop, pointedly, “that’s all you did. I assume you aren’t calling me just to tell me you listened to some bands.”

“No,” she said, “while we were in one bar, we saw a man who resembled Ted Ballard, the murdered disc jockey. I mean, Detective, he more than resembled Ballard, actually. He was a dead ringer for the man.”

“And you would know this, Dr. Barnes,” added Shoop, “because you were so close to the man?” Shoop was always so skeptical.

“No,” answered Pamela, “I wasn’t, but my husband knew him from the English Department and my grad student knew him from the music scene. He’d run across him often at various rock performances—both in Reardon and in New Orleans.”

“So, you’re saying you saw someone who looked like Ballard?” asked Shoop calmly.

“Identical,” she replied. “Identical.”

Shoop remained quiet for a few moments. Pamela could almost hear him thinking over the phone.

“Actually, Dr. Barnes,” he said, “Your discovery may have a simple explanation. There are some people I’d like you to meet. Could you possibly come down to the police station?”

“Now?”

“Yes, now,” he replied, “I can’t ask them to remain here indefinitely.”

“I suppose so. Does this have something to do with the man we saw?”

“Maybe,” replied Shoop, “just get down here.” He hung up.

Pamela remained standing with the receiver in her hand, a puzzled look on her face. Rocky glared at her.

“What did he say?” he asked “What did he think when you told him about the guy that looks just like Ballard?”

“He says there’s a simple explanation. He wants us to come down to the station and meet some people.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” she said to her husband. “Evidently, he thinks the man we chased and these people are connected. I’m going.” She placed the receiver back on the phone base and headed for the bedroom. Quickly she started changing from nightgown, robe, and slippers to trousers, shirt, and shoes.

“You’re not going alone,” said Rocky, joining her in the competition to get dressed. “Who knows what that man wants from you? Maybe he wants you to identify a suspect from a line-up. It could be dangerous.”

“Maybe,” she said, brightening, “Maybe they caught the killer!”

“Hurry up,” he said. As soon as they were dressed, the couple headed for Rocky’s Accord and set out for the Police Station in downtown Reardon. When they arrived they parked in the “visitor” lot and quickly headed into the front door of the large, two-story, ochre-colored brick building. At the main desk, a uniformed officer directed them to Shoop’s office through a central section and towards the back of the building on the left. Pamela had been to Shoop’s office several times before when she had assisted Shoop with the investigation into the murder of her colleague Charlotte Clark. As Pamela and Rocky reached the entrance to Shoop’s office, they saw two people seated on chairs in front of the detective’s desk—a young woman and an older man. Both carried winter coats over their arms. The young woman was crying. The older man had his arm around the young woman’s shoulders protectively.