Dead Air

by David A. Poulsen

  Shulsky nodded, then went on. “The tenor of the questions the police investigators asked my client would indicate they are basing much of their arrest and charge on four things — that phone call, physical evidence found in my client’s SUV, the lack of a corroborated alibi for Mr. Larmer, and the alleged existence of a feud between my client and the deceased.”

  Cobb looked at Larmer. “The uncorroborated alibi being?”

  “I was doing what most people do at that hour of the morning — sleeping.” Larmer’s words were clipped, showing his continued unhappiness with my being there.

  Cobb returned his gaze to Shulsky. “Are we closer to an exact time of death?”

  “What I’ve got so far is between 5:00 and 7:00 a.m. Give or take thirty minutes either way.”

  “What time was the tip called in?”

  “Six-forty-eight.”

  Back to Larmer. “What time do you usually get to the station?”

  “Shortly after nine,” Larmer said. “And in anticipation of your next question, my alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m. on days I’m on air. I get up and am out the door twenty to thirty minutes later en route to the gym near my home, where I work out, shower, and have breakfast. I leave there around 8:30 to 8:45, which puts me in my office by 9:15.”

  “And that’s what you did the morning Hugg was murdered?”

  Larmer paused, looked at his lawyer again, then shook his head.

  Cobb said, “Is that no, I won’t answer the question, or no, I didn’t follow my normal morning routine on the day Hugg was killed?”

  “The latter,” Larmer said slowly. “I wasn’t feeling well that morning and slept late. I woke up a couple of times but I went back to sleep. The second time, I think it was about 7:30, I got up, took a couple of Tylenol, and slept a while longer.”

  “And you were alone that night?”

  Larmer started to say something, settled for a nod.

  “Thus the uncorroborated alibi.”

  “Yes,” Shulsky answered.

  Cobb stopped then, sat back in his chair, thought for a while. When he spoke again, he was addressing Larmer. “So you slept later than usual, then got up, and what came next? Shower, breakfast, drive to work?”

  “Partly.”

  “Partly,” Cobb repeated. “What part?”

  “The part about getting up, showering, and having breakfast. I didn’t drive to work — it was a nice day, so I walked. Thought it might help bring me out of the fog I was feeling from whatever was wrong with me that morning.”

  “How long is the walk?”

  “Half an hour maybe. Or a bit more. Forty minutes, tops.”

  “Had you parked the Navigator in the garage?

  “Yes.”

  “When?’

  “The previous afternoon when I arrived home from the station.”

  “And I’m guessing you didn’t happen to see or hear anyone taking it out of the garage yesterday morning or the night before?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “And you didn’t happen to look in the garage that morning before you left for work?”

  “No, I did not.”

  Cobb had his little notebook out on the table in front of him. Now he pulled a pen from an inside jacket pocket and made a couple of notes.

  He aimed the pen at Larmer as he said, “What was the source of the feud between you and Hugg?”

  “No source because there was no feud.”

  “Dispute, then.”

  “No dispute, no feud, no disagreement. The show is getting better ratings than it ever has. Advertising rev­enues are at an all-time high. We’re living —” He stopped, checked himself, looked genuinely upset for a couple of seconds. “We were living the broadcasters’ dream. There was nothing for us to disagree about.”

  “Broadcaster’s dream,” Cobb repeated, “turned nightmare. Who do you think did this?”

  Larmer shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. I’ve thought about nothing else since … this happened. And I just don’t know. The easy answer is some left-wing psycho-job, but I realize that is the easy answer. And maybe not the right answer.”

  “Wouldn’t a lefty psycho who was unhappy with something that was said or done on the show be more inclined to exact his or her revenge on the host of the show rather than on the producer?”

  “I would have thought that, yes.”

  “What about enemies? We know Hugg could get physical at times when things weren’t going the way he liked them.”

  “That happened rarely, Mr. Cobb,” Larmer pointed out.

  “Maybe,” Cobb replied, “and maybe not. But we know it happened. What’s your answer to my question?”

  “Enemies?” Larmer smiled, but it was a smile without warmth. “I’m not sure I can help you there. Jasper, and all of us in this radio format, have people who don’t like what we stand for and who we stand up against. Maybe sometimes they dislike the messenger, too. But I’m not sure I’d class those people as enemies.”

  “Somebody killed him. One assumes there was a reason. And at least one person in the world disliked him enough to want him dead. Often we refer to those people as enemies.”

  Larmer shrugged. “Point taken.”

  “Whether it happened rarely or not, you are aware of Hugg’s propensity for violence?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.” Larmer frowned.

  “Hugg had been in trouble a few times for hitting people,” Cobb said.

  “Including his wife,” I added. It was my first contribution to the discussion, and judging from the look on Larmer’s face — it went from a frown to disgust — my effort wasn’t particularly welcome.

  “I suggest you talk with his alleged victims.” Larmer sat back in his chair, directing his comment to Cobb and ignoring me. “I never saw Jasper display the behaviour you’re describing and to my knowledge he was never convicted of anything approaching an assault charge. In fact, I doubt very much he was ever charged.” He continued to look hard at Cobb as he said, “You might want to have your trusted assistant do some real research for you. Something more fact-based and less reliant on rumour and innuendo.”

  Shulsky cleared his throat. “If we can wrap this up, gentle­men, my client and I have a number of things to discuss.”

  If Cobb heard that, it didn’t appear to register. His eyes rested on Larmer. “On your way to the station the morning Hugg was killed, you make any stops? Starbucks? Timmy’s?”

  “What is the purpose of that question, Mr. Cobb?” Shulsky said.

  “Might be helpful in terms of establishing credibility for our client’s story.”

  “That would be my job, Mr. Cobb. Now, as I said, Mr. Larmer and I have work to do and the time to do it is not limitless.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Cobb said to Larmer.

  “The answer is no.”

  “Last question,” Cobb said. “Did it cross your mind that Jasper Hugg might have been the person making the threats against you?”

  The reply was quick and succinct. “Not for a second.”

  Cobb stood up and I followed suit.

  “Thanks for your time,” Cobb said. “We’ll be chatting again.” He turned to Shulsky. “I’ll see you at the arraignment.”

  ”Your presence won’t be needed there.”

  “Mr. Shulsky. I remind you that we are both after the same result here — that is establishing the innocence of your client. In my book that doesn’t make us adversaries. In fact, that puts us on the same team.”

  “You’ll forgive me, Mr. Cobb. My experience with private detectives has been … unpleasant in the past.” Shulsky shifted his gaze to me. “I would say the same thing applies to my previous dealing with journalists. So if we stay with your team analogy, let’s think of it this way. You are the offence and I
am the defence. And in football the two are not on the field at the same time. In other words, you do what you do and I’ll do what I do. And occasionally and if absolutely necessary we can meet for a chat on the sidelines.”

  Several suitable responses formed in my mind, but I figured none of them, even with the expletives deleted, would advance the teamwork concept Cobb had alluded to, so I settled for what I thought was a stern look.

  Cobb said, “I’m betting you never played football, Mr. Shulsky. “I’ll see you at the arraignment.”

  No one answered, so we made our way to the door and knocked. We were let out by a uniformed guy the size of a motorhome. I was tempted to ask if he’d played offence or defence.

  Cobb and I split up after the meeting with Larmer and Shulsky. He didn’t tell me what he was going to be doing and I didn’t ask.

  I called Jill and was heartened by the life that seemed to have returned to her voice. “We’re just leaving the hospital. Should be home in a half-hour or so. I might spring for a coffee if you stop by.”

  “Good news?”

  “Not really,” she said. “But not bad news. We meet with a specialist Monday and should know what’s happening then. In the meantime, I have a daughter who is hungry for the first time in over a week and has requested that I provide barbecued ribs and baked potatoes as a special treat. We’re both hoping you’ll join us.”

  I said, “Are you kidding? Barbecued ribs, baked potatoes, and my two favourite babes on the planet? You’d have to lock me in the trunk of my car to keep me away.”

  “How are things going in the investigation?”

  “Slow and so far not much to show for it. But we’ll keep slugging. Which reminds me, I have a few calls to make, then I’m on my way. Anything you need me to bring?”

  “Just you and maybe a few mega-hugs.”

  “I can do that,” I said. “See you soon.”

  I wanted to go home and change — my time at the remand centre in the presence of Larmer, Shulsky, et al. had left me feeling the need for a vigorous shower. I rolled through Bridgeland, and as I always did when I crossed First Avenue heading east, I felt something good move through my body. It was as if my neighbourhood was a harbour from those parts of the city I knew were out there like rough waters, dark and silent and cold.

  When I got home I opted instead for a bath and while the water was running made three of the four calls I needed to make — four being the number of people working at the radio station that Cobb wanted to me to interview.

  The four I had drawn included a news/sportscaster named Lance Knight, ad copywriter Helen Burgquist, a show researcher named Bernie McCready, and the newest member of RIGHT TALK 700, Shawn Beamer, who was in promotions and handled their social media, as well. I had time to reach the first three and made appointments for the next morning. Helen Burgquist was the only one who’d needed persuading.

  “I’ve already spoken to the police,” she told me in a voice that I figured had a lot to do with why she wasn’t on air. “Junior-high whiny” might best describe her tone. “I can’t see any need to talk to anyone else. Especially someone unofficial.”

  I could’ve enunciated a fairly lengthy sentence in the time it took Ms. Burgquist to say the word “unofficial.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I understand that, but I’m working with a private detective who has been retained by Buckley-Rand Larmer, and I know you’d want to do anything you can to help clear Mr. Larmer’s name.”

  “Only if he didn’t kill Mr. Hugg.”

  That caught me by surprise and I was a few seconds coming up with a response. “Absolutely, I … uh … quite understand and would not want to try to influence you in any way. We’d just like to ask you a few routine questions that I’m sure you’ve already answered for the police. It would be very helpful if you could spare the time.”

  “As long as it’s not too much time.”

  “I promise to keep it as brief as I can. Shall we say 10:15 a.m. tomorrow?”

  “There’s a Second Cup across the street. I don’t want to do this in the station.”

  “That’s just fine, Ms. Burgquist, I’ll see you then. Uh … just one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “What you said earlier. Do you have some doubt as to Mr. Larmer’s innocence?”

  “I have no opinion one way or the other. I just want Mr. Hugg’s killer to be arrested as soon as possible. No matter who that person is.”

  For that last statement she applied the same inflection as she had to the word “official.” Helen Burgquist was not a woman without opinions and I expected at least one of my interviews the next day to be, at the very least, interesting.

  A bath and a shave later, and after I was dressed and ready to head out the door, I called the last of my four subjects. Shawn Beamer agreed to meet me at 10:45 a.m., which meant my interviews were each roughly a half-hour, one after the other. I was hoping I’d given myself enough time with each, but truth was, I wasn’t sure I had enough questions for more than five minutes apiece.

  I raced out the door, had to come back twice, once for my wallet and once for my phone, but finally was on my way.

  I’d taken to altering my route slightly on my way to Jill’s house in order to drive down the street and by the house where Faith Unruh’s body had been found. I’d even crawled slowly down the back alley a couple of times to get a look at the garage beside which her body had been found. I had no way of knowing, of course, if it was the same garage that had been there at the time of the girl’s murder, although it didn’t look new, so I guessed it was the same building.

  I’m not sure what my reason for doing that was. It wasn’t like driving by the house and garage was suddenly going to provide me with the answer to the long-unsolved crime. And I didn’t think it was simple ghoulish curiosity.

  A book or an article? I doubted that unless there was a chance it might trigger some memory, some long-forgotten something that had seemed like nothing at the time, but now, so many years later, seemed somehow wrong. Maybe then I’d write something. But even that wasn’t why I went by there.

  So what, then? Part of it, I suppose, was a desire to preserve Faith Unruh’s memory, at least in my own consciousness. After all, what happened with cases like hers after the family and the investigators, even the killer, were all gone? Would anyone remember?

  It was possible, in the same way I remembered little Donnie Goss, that there might be the odd person who would recall, however hazily, the murder of the eleven-year-old girl who was on her way home from school.

  That night as I drove down the street Faith had lived and died on, I tried to picture in my mind that day. What had the weather been like? I wasn’t even sure of the exact date. What were the girls thinking about on that walk home from school? What had they talked about? School? Their plans for the summer? Boys? Faith’s birthday?

  I knew so little. But I decided that I wanted to know more. I wasn’t sure how I’d make that happen, but maybe for whatever I might one day write, I was determined to learn all I could about that long-ago horror.

  But now was not the time for that process to begin. I turned my car and my attention in the direction of the woman I was surer than ever I was in love with and her daughter, who I hoped was on the way to recovering from her illness.

  They met me at the door before I could ring the bell and I hugged them both. And instantly received a rebuke.

  “I won’t break if you give me a real hug, you know,” Kyla told me, stepping back and regarding me with a critical eye.

  I moved forward and gave her what I hoped qualified as a real hug and we both laughed. I was happy to be laughing and, most of all, I was happy she was laughing.

  The evening was given over to barbecued ribs and a hard-fought game of Scrabble. I was reminded yet again that a wordsmith should have been a lot better at Scrabble than I was — and for the f
irst time in days, things felt close to normal.

  Kyla headed off to bed with a book in tow, and Jill and I sat over a couple of glasses of wine. Neither of us felt like talking, but there was a lot of looking at each other and soft smiles back and forth.

  “I was just thinking …” Jill said at last.

  “Thinking,” I said.

  “About how it would be nice if you didn’t have to make that long, arduous drive home tonight.”

  “Long and arduous,” I agreed, the smile on my face and in my voice.

  “Yes,” she said.

  I nodded. “I think maybe you’re right.”

  TWELVE

  My first interview was with Lance Knight, surely one of the stupidest on-air names ever — knight … lance, yeah, I get it. He had been the station’s news director since September 2007, and because sports were given minimal attention and importance at RIGHT TALK 700, the job of sports director was lumped in with that of news director. That meant Knight or one of the two other news voices reeled off a few of the previous day’s scores at the tail end of a few of the day’s newscasts.

  Knight was short, maybe five-six, but must have weighed well over two hundred pounds, making him the approximate shape of a round bale. He was wearing a tan blazer over what looked like a T-shirt and jeans, a decent ensemble that would have been almost stylish on a less rotund frame.

  But the man had a radio voice, deep and resonant, and he used it well. We’d agreed to meet in the station’s coffee area, which was actually a room that would have made a terrific broom closet. A card table, with three wooden chairs, provided the only flat surface for cups and plates. I remembered Helen Burgquist’s suggestion that we meet at the coffee place across the street. Wise woman.

  I’d gotten there first and had taken the liberty of making myself a cup of Keurig coffee. I’d found a small container of one percent milk in a fridge the size of a microwave that sat next to a microwave the size of a toaster. I was sitting at the table, my notebook and four-colour pen — the only kind I ever used — resting next to my coffee cup.

  “Mr. Cullen, I’m guessing,” Knight said with a glance in my direction as he took the two strides required to get from the doorway to the coffee machine. Two more strides would have taken him through the wall.