First Time Killer Page 4

  “I’ve been taking it easy all day so I’ll have enough energy to keep up with that bouncing bunny. She wears you out, you know?” The old man’s eyes twinkled.

  Rick knew. A stream of never-ending questions that couldn’t be brushed off. Livvy possessed some kind of innate sense to know when an answer didn’t ring true or when an adult was pulling her leg. “Outsmarted by a five-year-old? A wily newsman like yourself?”

  “Shit. I’m having enough trouble with Damon, and he’s only about half as smart as Livvy,” Winn said. According to station scuttlebutt, General Manager Marty was planning to show Winn the door at his first opportunity, and Damon Oh was the heir apparent.

  “Marty couldn’t find his teeth with his tongue. If he tries to can you, I’ll blockade myself in the studio and stage a sit-in. Mobilize our listeners to march upon the station,” Rick said, although Marty wasn’t to blame. Everyone knew he was Brewster Landis’s puppet. He might as well have Brewster’s hand rammed up his ass.

  “Thanks, buddy. But I wouldn’t want my goddaughter’s daddy to get hauled away to jail over me and my problems,” Winn said.

  “I’ve heard that a little jail time builds character.” The casual bantering eased Rick’s mood, put things into perspective. Loyal friends like Winn were hard to come by, especially in this cutthroat business.

  “Don’t you think I’ve got enough character?” Winn smiled, eyes flashing. After an instant, the spark fizzled. “Damon’s a tool. Kid only cares about appearances. No depth to him. Calling him superficial would be an understatement.” Winn tugged at his ear. “Worst of all, he ignores what I tell him. Thinks he knows a better way to do everything. Arrogant bastard.” The sides of Winn’s moustache accentuated his frown.

  Ambitious, eager, and slick as blood, Damon had a brain only slightly larger than a blueberry. But he was willing to lower himself into the mud working for the Circus, an attribute Marty valued highly. The GM never placed much importance on news. All of which was bad news for Winn. “Look on the bright side. When he’s fully trained, you can cut back your schedule and coast. And when SatRad buys us, you can retire. Buy an estate on a tropical island. Really let loose. You’ve got enough equity in this thing, don’t you?” Rick said.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Gotta get the ratings up, though.” He cocked his head at Rick. “How we doing?”

  “Well, it’s making me sick inside, but Celia says the buzz is booming since…,” Rick said.

  “According to her friends at True Data?”

  Rick nodded. “Yeah. She’s got them polling listeners daily, I think. If she had her wish, they’d be calling every hour, on the hour.” The Arbitron ratings book wasn’t due out for weeks, but Celia wasn’t letting that deter her. She’d gone out and hired her own firm to do the measuring. No expense too great.

  “She’s a piece of work, all right.” Winn made eye contact with Rick. “I’m feeling too old for this foolishness. Even older since Bette died.”

  Winn’s wife of thirty-four years died last May. “We love you, Winn. You know that.”

  Winn’s eyes shone. “Yeah. Thanks. But don’t say that out loud again. Okay?” Smiling now, he clapped Rick on the shoulder.

  The creaking door startled Rick. The morning man, Garth the Goth, strode into the room, dressed head-to-toe in black. A button on his XXL shirt read, “Don’t Question Authority. Just Ignore It.” He eyed the two of them through oversized, black-framed glasses. “Hey muchachos. Mind if I pull up a chair?” The big man didn’t wait for an answer before dragging a molded plastic chair up to their table. The metal chair leg screeched along the already-scuffed vinyl tile.

  “How’d your show go today?” Rick asked. On his left, he caught Winn’s scowl out of the corner of his eyes. The old guy didn’t like Garth. Too far off-center.

  “Jammers, man.” Garth eyed Winn sideways. “What’s new, newsie?”

  Winn grunted.

  Garth tried again. “What’s the skinny on the investigation?” He stroked his thick black goatee.

  “Investigation?” Winn’s expression turned innocent.

  “Come on, man. Spill.” A goofy grin appeared, at odds with Garth’s Goth persona.

  “Oh, the First Time Killer?” Winn nodded, white moustache obliterating most of his mouth. “So far, they haven’t been able to identify the victim from the arm. No hand means no fingerprints. And they didn’t get too many possible matches from the rolls of missing persons.”

  “It’s sick, all right,” Garth said. “I mean, what kind of monster kills someone and cuts his body up into pieces?”

  “A psycho, that’s who,” Rick said. “Some stunted Anthony Perkins wannabe.”

  “Is that your official position?” Winn asked, then cleared his throat and delivered the news, the same smooth delivery he practiced daily. “The detective I spoke with says they’ve reviewed the air-check from the night he called. Said it sounded like the killer used some type of electronic voice-disguising gizmo. That’s why it sounded so flat. We’re sending him all our on-air tapes. He’s hoping the killer will call back. Either as himself or disguised as another caller. Maybe they can run some kind of voice analysis. I don’t know, really. And I don’t think the cops know much either.”

  “Yeah, that police dude in the control room doesn’t look too happy to be here. Probably a Garrison Keillor fan,” Garth said, dark eyebrows shifting.

  “Well, I hope the psycho has moved on. I’m ready to forget all about him,” Rick said.

  “I think you should diss him right over the air. Chew him up good,” Garth said. “Your show is better for that than mine.” He glanced around the room. “Actually, Tin Man should do it. That freak has no conscience at all.”

  “Thanks for the suggestion, but why don’t you just stick to playing music for your twisted fans? Leave the long-term strategy to those who know radio,” Winn said, an edge to his voice. Experience clashing with youth.

  Garth squinted at him, and without speaking, rose and sallied to the vending machine tucked away in the corner of the room, next to the ancient coffee machine.

  Rick spotted the glint of victory in Winn’s eyes. Rick sometimes overheard the interns taunting Winn about his old-time sensibilities. To them, Winn was like the curmudgeonly old grandfather scolding the young ’uns for roughhousing in the living room.

  The break room door slowly swung inward on its squeaky hinges, and the tippy-top of a little blond head poked around the corner. Then Livvy burst in, bee-lining for Winn. A single hop later, firmly ensconced in Winn’s lap, she brushed his moustache with her sticky hands. “Hi, Uncle Winn. Ready? Ready? Ready? Where are we going today? Can we go ice skating?”

  “Hello Miss Olivia, my little princess. How are you?” Winn tried to squeeze in his greeting but the words got steamrolled by a three-foot dynamo with curly hair.

  “Can we? Can we go to the mall first? To the toy store? Can we, Uncle Winn? Please?”

  Rick reached over, touched his daughter’s smooth cheek with the back of his hand. “Hi sweetie. Good to see you.”

  “Hi Daddy. Hey, are you talking on the radio right now? Am I talking on the radio?” Her eyes darted around as she searched for the hidden microphones. “Am I?”

  “No, not right now. This is where we take breaks. I’m not on until later. Where’s Mom?”

  “She’s coming. She was talking to the pretty lady. Mrs. Pez.”

  “It’s Ms. Perez, honey.”

  “I know, Daddy.” Livvy rolled her eyes at Winn.

  Rick followed suit, rolling his eyes at Winn. That’s all he needed. Barb getting into it with Celia. If Barb got riled and tore into his boss, he’d find himself on overnights in Boise.

  Garth returned to the table with a package of Ding-Dongs. Livvy stopped chattering and peered over Winn’s shoulder. “Hi. My name is Olivia. But you can call me Livvy. Everyone does.”

  Garth smiled when he realized Livvy was speaking to him. “Hi there. My name’s Garth. Livvy’s a nice
name. Don’t think I know any other Livvys.”

  “Me either. I know another Olivia, but nobody calls her Livvy. I think maybe I’m the only Livvy on the whole earth,” she said. Her eyes seemed to be transfixed on Garth’s lone earring. The ornate silver cross pendant sparkled as it bobbed around.

  A moment later, Barb entered the room. She leaned over and pecked Rick on the cheek. “Hi honey. I see Livvy found you.”

  “And Uncle Winn. They were just planning their date,” Rick said.

  Barb leaned over and kissed Winn, too. “Hi Uncle Winn.” She beamed at him. “You have exquisite taste in women.”

  “Why, thanks.” Winn raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing later?”

  “Sorry, Winn. I’m taken.” Barb sighed. “But if I wasn’t…” She seemed to notice Garth for the first time and gave a little nod in his direction.

  “Barb, this is Garth. Garth the Goth. The morning man. I’ve spoken about him.” Rick knew Barb always liked to be introduced to everyone around, regardless of who, what, or where.

  “Oh, sure. Very nice meeting you.” She extended her hand.

  Garth stood and took it, pumped it twice. “Nice meeting you, ma’am.”

  “My mother is ‘ma’am.’ Please call me Barb.”

  “Sure. Thanks, Barb.” Garth nodded. “Well, I’m out of here. Nice meeting you, ladies.” He bent over and winked at Livvy. Straightened. “Later Rick. And, so long, Mister Newsie Newsman.” With a final smirk directed at Winn, Garth took off.

  Rick caught Barb staring at Garth’s earring as he left. What was it with women and jewelry? He glanced at his watch and nodded toward Winn. “You guys ought to get going too.” He got up and plucked Livvy from Winn’s lap, gently setting her down on the floor. “We’ll see you later. Have fun, sweetie,” Rick said to Livvy.

  Barb knelt and swallowed Livvy in a hug. “Bye. Have fun. Take care of Uncle Winn, okay?”

  “Okay, Mommy.” Livvy’s curls jounced as she nodded.

  Winn grasped the table and hoisted himself up. “Ready, little lady?”

  Livvy giggled. “Can we go to the arcade again? Please?”

  Rick shot Winn a glance, but the older man dodged it, reached down and took Livvy’s hand in his beefy paw. They started toward the door.

  “Can we ride a pony? I want a pony. Mommy said maybe I could get one for my next birthday. She said, ‘We’ll see, honey.’ That means maybe, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it, Uncle Winn?” The questions echoed as Livvy led Winn out of the room and down the hall. With Livvy gone, the energy level of the room deflated like an untied balloon.

  Rick faced Barb. “The arcade?”

  “Easy, fella. Since Winn lost Bette, he’s needed some cheering up. I’m glad he’s taken to Livvy. And she’s eating it up, milking it for all it’s worth. Nice having a sugar daddy. Not that I would know.” Barb grinned.

  Rick let the comment go. “The arcade? Can she even reach the video games?”

  “Don’t worry. Today it’s an early dinner and ice cream. Burger King. Livvy likes the giveaways there this month.”

  “Of course she does. She likes all those little plastic toys,” Rick said. “Winn probably does, too.”

  Barb frowned. “Cut Winn some slack. He’s gone through a lot.” She picked at a piece of fuzz on her sleeve. “You know, he seemed a lot older to me today. I’m worried about him.”

  “He’ll be fine dear. Maybe sugar daddy should get some new clothes. Or a new car,” Rick said. “That’ll make him seem younger, more vibrant.” He flicked at his earlobe. “Or maybe an earring larger and shinier than Garth’s.”

  “Yeah, that’s the ticket.” Barb smiled. “I’ve always loved pirates.”

  CHAPTER 8

  RICK SIFTED THROUGH the Rolodex on his desk, searching for the name of a psychologist he interviewed a couple of years earlier. Carson, or Coleman. Something like that. Professor at George Mason. He might have something cogent to say about a murderer’s motivations. Flipping to the C’s, he came upon his card, Dr. Harrison Caldwell, and removed it, placing it atop the short stack he’d started next to his phone. How about that ex-FBI profiler? Maybe he had a book to hawk. Rick flipped the whole stack of cards back to the beginning and started riffing through the names again. He’d bring some dignity to this fiasco, if he could.

  Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. A lanky figure loomed in the doorway. It took Rick a moment to place him. One of the detectives investigating the First Time Killer. Mostly arms and legs, he reminded Rick of a black six-foot-four praying mantis. Except for his gleaming bald head. The detective wore a navy blazer over a white shirt. Khaki slacks. Nondescript, if a little rumpled.

  “Come on in.” Rick stood, extending his hand.

  The detective entered, grasped the proffered hand, gave it a perfunctory shake. “How you doing? Ms. Perez sent me up. Said you wouldn’t mind.”

  Rick hated it when Celia spoke for him. That’s probably why she did it so often. “Sure. What can I do for you?” He pointed to a side chair. “Have a seat?” Rick lowered himself back into his leather chair.

  The detective flipped around the small chair, sat on it backwards. Pulled out a pad and a cheap plastic Bic. “So you guys got another call, Mr. Jennings?”

  “Please, call me Rick.”

  “Sure thing.” The detective stared at him, neutral expression.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not very good with names.” Rick had remembered the detective’s face, but forgotten his name. He always relied on Barb’s great memory for names to rescue him from similar social lapses.

  “Oh, right.” The detective fished a business card out of his shirt pocket and slid it across the desk to Rick. “Detective Tarver Adams.”

  Rick picked up the card, flicked the corner of it with a fingernail. “May I call you Tarver?”

  “Well, if we were having a beer or watching the Skins, I’d say sure, call me Tarver. Or Tarve, that’s what my friends call me. But I’m investigating a homicide, so I think it might be better if you called me Detective Adams.” He paused, clenched his jaw. “No disrespect intended, Ringmaster.” His eyes crinkled, but no smile appeared on his lips.

  Evidently, Adams wasn’t a big fan of the Circus. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “Trying to find me a killer. We listened to the tapes of the second call. Think it’s probably the same guy. Same tonal qualities. We’ve sent both tapes off for analysis to get a more thorough work-up,” Adams said. “The electronics he’s using to disguise his voice make things difficult.”

  “Did you trace the call?”

  “No such luck. We’re still working on it, but I’m not optimistic. You’ve seen the technician in master control? He’ll be around from now on. Trying to get a bead on things.” Adams cleared his throat. He tapped his pen against the side of the chair and glanced around the office. “You like working here?”

  Rick’s eyebrows rose. “Do I like working here? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Nothing. Just making small talk.” More crinkling, no smile. “So, do you?”

  “Sure, I guess. We’re a popular show. What’s not to like?”

  “I heard your show was more popular before the Rhino overdosed. Things are sliding now. That true?” More tapping with the pen.

  “The ratings have dipped, yes. We’ll turn it around.” If only he really believed it. Professionally and personally, Rick wanted that to happen, needed for it to happen. People were counting on him. “I don’t suppose you’ve identified the victim yet?”

  “As a matter of fact, we did. Just this morning. That’s why I’m here. Got a missing persons call and matched x-rays. The victim broke his arm as a kid. Sometimes you just get lucky.” Adams stopped and fixed his eyes on Rick. “I believe the killer was right. I think you knew him. Ted Danzler.”

  Rick’s stomach dropped two floors. “Oh shit. He was an intern for the Rhino.” He looked away from Adams. Young. Friendly, too. Double shit.
>
  “That’s what I understand. Did you know him well?” Adams got up and spun the chair around. Sat on it correctly.

  “No, not really. I’d seen him around. I was working a different shift. Middays. He was with the Circus during afternoon drive. Seemed like a nice kid, though.”

  “Anything you can tell me about Danzler? He rub anybody wrong? Into drugs? Gangs? Womanizing?”

  Rick shook his head. “Not that I saw. Like I said, he seemed like a nice kid.”

  “Even nice guys have enemies, Rick.” Adams gently tapped the pen against his pad.

  “J.T. would know more about him. He handles the interns,” Rick said.

  “Okay, I’ll be sure to ask him.” Adams scribbled something in his pad. “Now that you’ve had a few days to mull things over, do you have any further insights you’d like to share?”

  “Nope. Wish I did, but I don’t. Sicko. Nutcase. What other explanation could there be?”

  “Let’s see. The victim worked here. The killer called here. Don’t you find that an odd coincidence?” Adams asked.

  “He probably found out Danzler worked at the station and called in, for kicks.” Rick tried to sort things out, but he couldn’t get past the picture of a smiling Danzler in his head.

  “Either that, or Danzler was killed because he worked here.” Adams glanced at his pad, then looked at Rick. “Hopefully, we’ll figure it out and catch this guy soon.” He crossed his long legs, settled in. “What’s your take on the arm?”

  “My take?”

  “Yeah, why do you think the killer cut off Danzler’s arm and stuffed it into a trashcan? What about the rest of the body?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t think like a psycho.” Rick’s voice got louder.

  Adams held up a hand. “No need to get insulted, I was just asking. You’ll be glad to know the amputation was post-mortem. He did a pretty tidy job of it.”