First Time Killer Page 5

  Rick hadn’t even considered the killer might have cut off the arm while the victim was still alive. A shudder reached his toes. “Good. I guess.”

  “Excuse me.” Adams plucked a tissue from the box on Rick’s desk and blew his nose. He wadded it up and flipped it into the trash. “Hey, did you go down to the park after the arm was discovered? Hang out there for a while?”

  Rick hoped his surprise wasn’t evident. “As a matter of fact, I did. How’d you know?”

  “ESP, of course.”

  Rick waited for Adams to continue.

  Adams laughed, a mellifluous sound that seemed out of place in a conversation about a crazy killer, like a harp at a cockfight. “Actually, we found out the old-fashioned way. We staked out the site of the trashcan. Had one of my guys taking photos from a bench across the road.” Adams began tapping his pen softly on the heel of his shoe. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you go down there? I mean, hell, the trashcan wasn’t even there any more.”

  Rick swallowed, not sure why he felt guilty. After First Time’s call, he thought maybe he’d pick up some vibes first-hand, get a glimpse into the killer’s dark mind. “First of all, I didn’t know you guys had taken the trashcan. I just wanted to see it. See where some monster discarded a piece of a human being. Treated it like trash.” He swallowed again. “Curiosity is all, Detective.”

  “It’s a curious thing, for sure,” Adams said. “And curiosity must be contagious, too. Because we photographed a ton of curious people sniffing around the site. Senior citizens, nannies with kids in strollers, construction workers on lunch break. Dozens of people approached the taped-off area. Most looked around, probably wondering what happened to the actual trashcan. Some strode toward the scene with purpose. Others came up to it tentatively, like there was a bomb nearby about to explode. People are funny, you know?” Adams stopped, peered at Rick. Waiting for some comment.

  Rick shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “And you know who are some of the funniest people around?” The light glinted in Adams’s eyes.

  “Who?”

  “Radio people.” Adams nodded twice, small nods, almost to himself, as if he’d solved a great mystery. “Besides you, we photographed some of your station’s sales reps, deejays, engineers, what seemed like two dozen interns—they thought it was a grand joke, by the way—and your boss, Ms. Perez. All came by to check out the scene. Did the station hire a shuttle bus or something?”

  Rick didn’t respond, feeling like his privacy had been invaded. “Anything else, Detective?”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get this guy.”

  Rick nodded, relieved at the detective’s confidence. “The sooner, the better.”

  “Right.” A knowing grin from Adams. “I realize Detective Bergman asked you this the other night, but have you remembered anyone who might have something against you? That might want to drag you into this? It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility for some crazy stalker or obsessive listener to try to bond with you like this, would it?”

  Rick closed his eyes. Tried to shake the nasty thoughts from his mind. When he opened his eyes, the detective was still there, staring at him, waiting for a response. “Not that I know of. I’ll admit there are plenty of jock-sniffing listeners who’d pull all sorts of stunts to get close to a radio personality. But murder?”

  CHAPTER 9

  EVER SINCE HE’D read an old Batman comic book as a child, he’d thought of himself as a modern version of the arch-villain Two-Face. While Batman’s foe had a horribly disfigured face, his face was unremarkable. His two faces were on the inside. One face he’d show to the public. Law-abiding. Responsible. The other face dwelled deeper. In the murky cesspools of his id. Where morality and virtue and decency were fleeting concepts.

  As Two-Face, he’d weathered every storm that battered his shores. The cruel parents, the crueler foster parents, the uncaring bosses. He always figured out a way to get what he wanted. This time would be no different.

  Yet now they wanted to call him something else. They wanted to call him First Time.

  First Time. First Time. He rolled the name around in his mouth, felt the words gambol over his teeth, melt under his tongue, rebound off his gums. Nuzzle in his cheeks. He rubbed his naked arm with his hand. Patted his shoulder. Felt his smooth skin. First Time. He hated to admit it, but that vile toad Tin Man was right. First Time fit.

  First Time got comfortable in his kitchen chair and picked up a dog-eared section of newspaper. Re-read the article in the Post for the twentieth time. He loved the attention, loved knowing thousands of other people read about him. About his deeds. About his life. He’d even looked up the circulation of the Post: 665,531. If only one out of every three subscribers read it, more than 221,000 people had admired his achievement. Not bad, but a mere drop in the Potomac. He was a radio celebrity. A phenomenon. The best thing to hit the airwaves since Howard Stern.

  Rick Jennings. For a radio guy, he was okay. Down-to-earth. Thoughtful. A little aloof at times, but he had a job to do. On the other hand, Tin Man was a bunghole-licker. Phony blowhard, only interested in his own puny problems. He’d show ’em. First Time knew how to entertain, how to capture an audience. He knew what the fans wanted; he’d been around enough listeners to know exactly what they needed. Since his teenage days, everyone had told him he had a voice for radio. And listening to a tape of the conversation he’d had with Rick, he’d have to agree with them. Even with the black box distortion, he was a natural.

  The Afternoon Circus boasted more than a million listeners. In more than forty cities across the country. All over the United States of Fucking America. He’d be able to go into a 7-Eleven in Topeka and hear people discussing his latest exploits as they filled their Big Gulps. He could wait in line at the dry cleaners in L.A. and hear people voicing their opinions about his adventures. Or he could sit at a sidewalk café in Boston, drinking in the adulation of the listeners right along with his latte. And no one would know who he was.

  He was Two-Face.

  He was First Time.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE SCHOOLS WERE closed for Martin Luther King’s Birthday, and Rick jumped at the chance to take Livvy to Sterling Commons Mall for a little father-daughter time. Their first stop had become a tradition: Mrs. Fields Cookies. Livvy pressed her face against the glass display case as the lady behind the counter readied a bag.

  “Daddy, can I have a giant cookie today? Please?” She looked up at Rick, one eyebrow raised.

  “Honey, I think if you got a giant cookie, I’d have to help you eat it,” Rick said. “And you know what a big mouth I have.”

  Livvy’s face squinched up.

  “You could pick out a regular sized cookie,” Rick said. “Or you could get a brownie. I think that’s what I’m going to have.” He pointed to a tray of dark chocolate brownies at the top of the case.

  “Okay, Daddy. That’s what I’m going to have, too. But no nuts. Just a plain chocolate brownie. With icing.”

  “Of course with icing. Do they make brownies any other way?” Rick knew that’s what Livvy would get. That’s what she got every time they came to Mrs. Fields. Livvy was a certified junior chocoholic.

  Rick paid for their treats and they strolled toward the children’s play area.

  During the spring and summer, Rick didn’t frequent the mall. But in the winter, as an antidote to cabin fever, he often braved the crowds with Livvy. A habit he and Barb had started when Livvy was a few months old and one they’d perpetuated. With Winn bringing her here from time to time, Livvy would often hit the mall two or three times a week, especially when it was too cold outside for some more wholesome activity. Some people had winter homes in Boca. Livvy had one with a view of Nordstrom.

  Rick didn’t mind. Today’s mall, like yesteryear’s town square, offered people a place to meet and mingle. The bright lights and bustling shoppers helped lift the winter doldrums, and Livvy could run around
and scream and spill Cheerios to her heart’s content without anyone getting ticked at her.

  In the play area, all of the molded plastic playthings were themed like an airport, a nod to nearby Dulles. A bunch of planes, a runway, and a four-foot control tower entertained the under-six crowd. One of the airplanes even had “FedEx” painted on its side. Rick wondered if they had to pony up some product placement money.

  “Wow. Look at all the kids here,” Rick said.

  “I like it when it’s crowded. There’s more kids to play with.”

  Rick smiled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think today was a school holiday.”

  Livvy rolled her eyes at Rick. “Daddy,” she said, drawing the word out like it was four or five syllables. “It is a holiday.”

  Rick gave her his best innocent face, then steered her over to a bench being vacated by a mom with a stroller. “Here, have a seat. We can eat our snacks and then you can go play. ’Kay?” He pulled a Juicy Juice drink box out of his coat pocket and handed it to Livvy, along with her brownie.

  She took the juice box and pierced the top with the little straw. Took a short slurp of juice, then started in on her chocolate fix.

  In front of them, dozens of kids ran from one miniature airplane to the next, like bumblebees buzzing from flower to flower, not wanting to miss a drop of nectar. “Remember last year, when we took an airplane to see Grandma up in Boston?” Rick took a bite of his brownie, careful to catch all the crumbs with his tongue. Livvy came by her sweet tooth honestly.

  Livvy’s eyes lit up. “That was fun. I took all those pictures of the clouds.”

  Gotta love digital cameras. Livvy took more than seventy pictures out the window. Forget Paul Revere and Fanueil Hall. Livvy’s memory of her trip to Boston consisted of fluffy white cloud photos.

  Livvy stuffed the last bite of brownie into her mouth and pulled her shoes off without untying the laces. “I’m done, Daddy.” Before Rick could comment, she scooted off the bench and darted for the closest jumbo jet. How quickly they became independent.

  Rick finished his brownie and wiped his mouth with a napkin. As he was stuffing the trash back into the Mrs. Fields bag, a man stepped up to his bench and jutted his chin at the empty space next to Rick. “Mind if I sit?”

  Rick slid over to make more room. “Sure. Have a seat.”

  The man nodded and sat. He carried a camouflage jacket and wore a red Nationals cap with a white W inscribed on the front. A small scar began over his left eye, zigzagged up his forehead, and disappeared under the cap. “Busy day here at the mall.”

  “Sure is,” Rick said.

  The man gazed at the children playing. “Love watching the kids have fun. Makes me wish I was a kid again.”

  “I know what you mean. They have lots of energy.” Rick eyed his new friend. Mid-twenties, rugged. Something about him seemed familiar. Maybe his speech cadence.

  The guy stuck out his hand. “Name’s Mike.”

  Rick shook his hand. It was unnaturally warm and moist, and Mike held on a fraction of a second too long. Rick pulled his hand away.

  “Which one’s yours?” Mike asked.

  Rick hesitated, then pointed to a pack of kids crawling around a pretend cockpit. “Over there. Blond.”

  “Oh. In the blue shirt?”

  Rick shifted on the bench. Livvy had on a blue sweatshirt. But how did he pick her out of the group? There were several other towheaded kids. Lucky guess? “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Cute kid. Real cute.” Mike cleared his throat, and the wet, gargling sound unnerved Rick. “You must be real proud.”

  “She’s a great kid, all right,” Rick said. “And yours is?”

  Next to him, Mike leaned back and stretched his legs out. Dirty jeans and work boots. “Don’t have any kids. Not even married.” He paused. “Just taking a break. Watching these kids cheers me up.”

  Rick glanced at his watch. Maybe they should get going.

  “What do you do for a living, don’t mind me asking?” Mike extended one arm along the back of the bench, fingers almost touching Rick’s shoulder.

  “I’m in media.” On the other side of the plastic runway bisecting the “airport,” Rick spotted Livvy playing follow-the-leader with two other children. Livvy was the leader.

  “Media? Hell, media’s a great business to be in.” Mike chuckled. “I love media.” A weird grin settled on his face.

  Rick’s creep detector powered up.

  “So, what media are you in?” Mike asked. “Radio?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “I love radio. You ever listen to the Afternoon Circus?” Mike cocked his head at Rick. Waiting for an answer.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard it. Listen, I think I need to be going.”

  “That’s too bad. Looks like your daughter is having a good time.”

  Rick stood. “We’ve got a lot to do. Nice talking with you.”

  “Ditto. Give Livvy my best, will you?”

  Rick nodded and headed for Livvy, who had migrated to the front of the play area, near the control tower. After five steps, he froze. He’d never mentioned Livvy’s name to Mike. Rick whirled around, heart beating wildly.

  Mike was gone.

  CHAPTER 11

  RICK NURSED HIS beer, waiting for Winn to return from the can. He’d been to the Belly Up dozens of times, but never really examined his surroundings. The Belly Up was a drinking establishment in transition. Had been since he first came years ago. When the owner, Sammy Volusio, bought the bar, his ex-wife had given him shit. Told him he’d be bankrupt in two months. Sammy wouldn’t be deterred. Named the place Belly Up as a fuck-you to his ex and forged ahead, starting ambitious renovations. Once Sammy got a good look at the cash flow, though, he pulled the plug on the construction. Five years later, the only subsequent “renovation” had been to the sign outside. Sammy had squeezed the words, “To The” between “Belly Up” and “Bar.”

  The restaurant looked like it had been designed by an interior decorator with a split personality. A seriously disturbed decorator. The left half was decorated in Early Men’s Club: dark wood, leather banquettes, dim lighting. Old, silver picture frames held photos of even-older celebrities, few still alive. The right half had undergone a partial metamorphosis. Blond wood, a few plants in hanging planters, and chrome tables scattered about. Abstract pictures on the walls. If you didn’t know better, you’d think a wall separating the two sections was missing.

  Rick relaxed in one of the worn, cracked-leather booths in the old section of the restaurant. He and Winn were regulars but varied their table selection based on their moods. Tonight, no question. Dark side.

  Winn returned to their table, talking before his butt hit the seat. “Bullshit, Rick. That’s all it is.” He scooted in and pulled his glass of scotch close. His third. He leaned forward on his elbows, wiped at his moustache.

  “Always has been, hasn’t it.” Rick was still nursing his first beer, harboring no illusions of keeping up with Winn. “’Cept sometimes it gets to us more than others.”

  Winn’s head swiveled toward the bar, homed in on two redheads. Sitting on stools, sipping glasses of white wine amongst the ferns. Some nights the Belly Up segregated like a junior high school dance. Boys on one side in the dark, girls on the other in the light.

  “If the Rhino were still here, things would be better. Count on it.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to the Rhino.”

  The Belly Up had been the Rhino’s favorite watering hole, but Rick knew Winn was talking about the bigger picture. With the Rhino, their future would have been satellite-driven. Without him, they might not even have a future. “I’m doing the best I can, Winn.”

  “No, no, no. I know you are. That’s not what I mean. It’s not your fault the ratings…” He took a gulp of scotch. “I was talking about the business. In general. Celia. Trampling the listeners to get what she wants. Trampling us, too. Not just her though. The whole new breed. Shit.” He gripped his tumbler tightly, st
ared down into it, trying to read his fortune in the golden liquid.

  “Things change. We need to change with them.”

  Winn’s head snapped up. “Do we? Do we really? What happened to decency? We have an obligation. We occupy the public airwaves. We shouldn’t be spewing shit every chance we get.” He coughed, an ugly, phlegmy sound. Wiped at his mouth, took another sip. “How do you think I feel? I’ve been in this business for thirty-seven years. And it’s turned into a shithole. My entire life’s been a waste. I’ve got nothing to show for it. Not even a healthy retirement, if the satellite deal falls through.”

  Rick sipped his beer, accustomed to Winn’s drunken condemnations of the radio business. Would he be in Winn’s shoes twenty years from now? Drinking in a dingy bar, bemoaning his life? He didn’t think so. Livvy’s bright face was a portent he wouldn’t be.

  A couple of metrosexuals in designer suits swooped in on the two redheads in a well-orchestrated attack. All four began to laugh and flirt, touching arms and patting shoulders. Rick turned back to Winn. Time to change the subject. “I haven’t noticed the furor dying down any, have you?” Ever since Danzler had been identified, his death was all anyone at the station had been talking about.

  “Poor kid. I wonder what he did to deserve it.”

  “Come on, Winn. Getting murdered wasn’t his fault. He just was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Rick shook his head. Winn wasn’t a very happy drunk.

  “I always knew being an intern was a dangerous job,” Winn said. “Good thing they’re disposable.”

  “Not funny.” Rick thought back to his younger days. “I loved being an intern. New to radio. It was very exciting. I slept at the station on many occasions, as I recall.”

  “Things are different now. Most of the interns don’t even care about radio. They couldn’t give a flying fuck about radio. All they want is to hear their voices on the radio. Show off to their friends. ‘Look at me, I’m a radio hotshot.’ Things have changed, and I don’t think I like what they’ve changed into.” He drained the last bit of his drink, then popped his head up searching for the waitress.