Dead Air

by David A. Poulsen

  I would soon learn that Knight did not merely say things, he boomed them. “I see you found the coffee,” he boomed over his shoulder. As it was obvious he’d seen my cup already, I didn’t think the comment required a reply. He didn’t use milk but added two cubes of sugar from a glass container perched precariously on the postage stamp–size counter.

  When he sat, he took a swallow of coffee from the ceramic cup he’d brought with him, then gave a satisfied “ahh” and nodded at me. I took that to mean he was ready for questions.

  “Thanks for taking the time to meet with me,” I began.

  He nodded again. He was cradling the cup in both of his beefy hands. The cup had a picture of Niagara Falls on it.

  “How well did you know Buckley-Rand Larmer?” I asked him.

  “Well, let’s see … I was already here, been here maybe a year or so before he came to the station. Hell of a coup, getting that guy,”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Have you heard the guy?”

  “I have, yes.”

  “Then you’ll have to agree that there aren’t many — not even the big gunslingers down in the States — who are better than him. Dynamic on-air presence, charismatic, articulates conservative positions as well as anyone. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  “I see.”

  “Gives us something else, too. A lot of conservative format stations don’t do well with female listeners. We do just fine in that department, and the reason is Buckley-Rand Larmer. That voice, that presence, that intelligence, and he’s easy on the female eye, if you know what I mean. Our demographic includes more female listeners than virtually any news-talk station in the country.”

  He put his hand to his mouth and lowered his voice. “Of course, he needs to remember to keep it in his pants … if you know what I mean.”

  “As in he likes the ladies as much as they like him,” I said.

  Knight winked. “You could say that.”

  “Has that ever presented problems that you’re aware of?”

  “Nothing that couldn’t be looked after.” His volume returned.

  “Payoffs?”

  Knight shrugged and looked concerned, like he was afraid he’d said too much.

  “Anyway, to answer your question, I started here in oh-six and, like I said, Buckley-Rand came on board about a year after that. I’ve known him a long time and I would say pretty well, too — maybe as well as anybody here. Except for Hugg, of course.”

  “Would you say Mr. Larmer was well-liked around the station?”

  “Hell, yes. Not liked as in huggy-kissy, and he doesn’t go to the bar with the gang for TGIF drinks, stuff like that, but sure he was liked. And more than that, he was respected. That’s the word I would use. Buckley-Rand Larmer was respected.”

  “Anybody not like him?”

  “Here at the station? No, I don’t think so. Nobody I’m aware of, at least.”

  “Any of his … extracurricular activity involve people who work here?”

  Knight shook his head vigorously. “Listen, I don’t want you to take what I said earlier too seriously. Boys will be boys, right? It’s no big deal and I don’t want you to think …”

  Backpedalling big time.

  “And what about Jasper Hugg? People like him as well as they like Mr. Larmer?”

  Knight paused and pursed his lips before answering. “‘Like’ might not be the best choice of words to describe how people felt about Jasper. I would say people coexisted with him. I wouldn’t say they disliked him. But Jasper Hugg wasn’t a man who instilled that … friendly feeling in people, you know?”

  “Not a warm, fuzzy guy.”

  “Neither warm nor fuzzy.”

  I nodded, made a note in my notebook, mostly so it would look like what he was telling me was important enough to warrant my writing it down. It was a technique I’d often used in the interviews I conducted, the idea being to give people the feeling that they mattered. That sometimes led to them being a little more willing to part with information they might not otherwise have shared.

  “Knowing the two men as well as you did, what do you think of the murder charge laid against Buckley-Rand Larmer?”

  Knight considered his answer for several seconds, then shook his head. “I think it’s nuts. There needs to be a reason for someone to kill someone else. A motive. These two men had worked together and worked hard to make Buckley-Rand’s show and all the programming on the station appeal to a large audience. And they accomplished that. The show’s numbers have been growing almost every month and it’s because of the work of those two men. No, I can’t see Buckley-Rand as the killer here. Makes no sense.”

  I was beginning to think I’d misread Lance Knight. My first impression of him had been that he was just an obese version of the buffoonish Ted Baxter character in the old Mary Tyler Moore TV show. (Baxter was played by an actor named Knight — interesting coincidence.) But I was wrong. This man was articulate and far from stupid. I was surprised to find myself almost liking the guy.

  “Anyone else at the station who might have had issues with either man?”

  Again he paused. “I really don’t think so. I mean, nothing that was, you know, a blow-up or anything. People disagreed, sometimes voices were raised, but really, there was nothing that would precipitate fisticuffs, let alone a murder.”

  “Anything unusual happen in recent weeks around the station?”

  “What do you mean by ‘unusual’?”

  “I’m not sure I know myself what I mean. Someone behaving differently, something that wasn’t quite the same as it had been in the past. You know, those little things that just don’t feel right — arguments, bad blood, somebody threatening someone else … anything along any of those lines?”

  This time no pause. Instant answer accompanied by vigorous head shake. “No, I can’t say I saw or heard anything like that. Nothing at all.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have had a reason to want Jasper Hugg dead?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t honestly say I do. Groups of people maybe, such as the libs that don’t like us for our politics. Lots of them. But as to one individual who could’ve done this, no. I can’t point to anyone and say, maybe that’s the one right over there. Sorry, I wish I could.”

  “One last question, and I know you’ve already answered this for the police, but where were you the morning Jasper Hugg was killed?”

  A small smile formed on Knight’s puffy features. “You’re right, I was asked that and the answer is ‘At home.’ My first broadcast that day wasn’t until noon so I was planning to have a fairly late breakfast with my wife and cut the grass before I headed into work. We had breakfast, Bea and I, but before I could get to the lawn I got the call from the office that, uh, Jasper was … deceased.”

  “Who called you?”

  “Al. Alonzo Diaz. He’s one of our news guys — mostly a reader as opposed to on-the-street reporting. He was pretty shook up when he called. So was I … I mean, after he told me what had happened.”

  I swallowed the last of my coffee, pulled out a business card I’d had made up a couple of days before, and handed it to him. He took it, then read it aloud. “Adam Cullen, Freelance Investigations.” He looked at me. “Your name’s familiar.… Hey, wait a minute. Aren’t you the guy … yeah, I talked about you in a couple of newscasts. Your wife was killed in a fire set by that crazy —”

  “Yeah, that was me.” I stood up. “I appreciate your taking the time to do this, Mr. Knight. And if you think of something else, anything at all that you think might be helpful, just call me or shoot me an email.”

  “Listen, I was just thinking, I mean, this just came into my head … how would you feel about coming on air and talking about what happened with your wife? I mean it would be a moving story and we could take the opportunity to reinforce the importance
of effective law-enforcement legislation, you know?”

  I’d stopped liking Knight now and wanted to end the conversation quickly. “Yeah, I won’t be doing that. Thanks for your time.”

  He shoved the card in his pocket, stood up, and held out his hand. “Sure, sure, I understand. Listen, good luck, you know … with everything, I mean it. I hope you guys and the cops find whoever did this and get Buckley-Rand back here ay-sap, you know?”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  The questions and the answers with Helen Burgquist were almost a copy-paste of my conversation with Lance Knight. Right up until I asked her if she could think of anyone who might want Jasper Hugg dead.

  A small woman, she straightened in her chair and stared at me for several seconds before she answered. Like she was deciding if I was worthy of hearing her response.

  Decided I was. “Well, you could start with me. I’d have cheerfully choked the man.”

  I drank coffee while I tried to come up with a suitable response.

  “I see,” I said. “Is there a particular reason for your feeling that way or is that more of a general feeling about Mr. Hugg?”

  She smiled. “Actually that was probably said more for effect. I’ve had challenging bosses before, but there were times when Jasper Hugg was more than challenging — more like exasperating. But no, I’m not capable of killing someone — not even Jasper Hugg.”

  “Exasperating how?”

  “He was the second-most arrogant man I’ve ever known, right behind Buckley-Rand Larmer.” The smile was gone. “And a meaner pair never walked the earth.”

  So much for the accuracy of Lance Knight’s assessment of intra-station relationships.

  I thought back to my phone conversation with Helen Burgquist. “You told me that you hoped the killer would be found as soon as possible — I think that’s the phrase you used.”

  “Mr. Cullen, I just told you that there’s not much about Jasper Hugg that I liked, other than that he was very good at his job, and maybe even less that I like about Buckley-Rand Larmer.” Her eyes narrowed. “But I can guarantee you as sure as I’m sitting here that the man you are representing did not kill Mr. Hugg.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Yin and yang,” she said. “One force passive and negative — that’s Hugg. The other active and positive — that’s Buckley-Rand. They were inseparable, and more than that, I think both men were fully aware that they needed each other to be successful. One was the behind-the-scenes string-puller, putting it all together, and the other was the public face of what they both believed — out there, forceful, persuasive. They were the perfect match.”

  I sat back to think about what she’d said, but she wasn’t finished. “Which doesn’t mean they got along all the time. My God, the two of them were often at each other’s throats. Figuratively,” she added quickly. “But then they’d get it sorted out and turn their attention to whatever the next threat to what they believed in was, and they’d put together a plan of attack. And ‘attack’ is the operative word, Mr. Cullen.”

  “Were there others who felt about them the way you do, Ms. Burgquist?”

  “Helen, please.”

  “Sorry … Helen.”

  “Have you ever heard the show? The callers? The hate? We have to run a seven-second delay so a technician can cut out the foul language, the nastiest of the threats, and so on.”

  “Would you say there was anything to those threats?”

  She shrugged. “Who can say? You naturally want to think it’s all just idle talk, but there have been other incidents, haven’t there.”

  “You mean the Monday shooting in Hamilton — although the killer apparently had to take two cracks at it.”

  She shook her head. “Yes, but there were others. That explosion in Fresno, California — station with a similar format to ours. Of course, they said it was a gas leak or something, but Buckley-Rand claimed it was deliberate, even said so on the air, which I thought was a bit brazen, but of course he was a man who could …” She paused.

  “Make things sound true because he said them,” I finished for her.

  “Something like that, yes.” She nodded. “But I don’t think he was doing that with the explosion thing. He really believed there was something fishy about that. And then there was the woman in Dallas … or Houston … anyway, somewhere in Texas — I think she was a columnist for a paper down there, but she did some guest things on a couple of conservative television talk shows. She was gorgeous and the story was she was about to get a regular spot on Fox News, but then she had a heart attack or something in the middle of her morning workout at a gym. Buckley-Rand was sure it was foul play. Though he didn’t go on the air with that one as far as I know.”

  In thirty seconds Helen Burgquist had given me a whole lot to think about. I remembered hearing of the Fresno explosion but hadn’t really followed the story — certainly didn’t make a connection with either this case or what had happened in Ontario.

  Until now. As I worked at remembering, I recalled that there had been one fatality and a couple of people injured, maybe three.

  But the woman in Texas was brand-new information to me — another suspicious death and again the victim was a right-wing media personality.

  I wondered if Larmer had ever mentioned either of the two incidents to Cobb. You’d think he would have if, as Helen Burgquist contended, he thought there was something suspicious about both the woman’s death and the Fresno explosion, that they were both part of a great conspiracy to silence the most vocal of the right-wingers. I’d ask Cobb later.

  “Do you recall when those two incidents took place?”

  “Not exactly. Two or three years ago maybe. I think the explosion in California was sometime around Christmas, but I’m not sure which Christmas.”

  “Was there anyone at the station who had a more volatile relationship with either Hugg or Larmer? I know you’ve indicated there may have been people who didn’t like one or both, but …”

  “Are you asking me if I think someone at the station might have murdered Jasper Hugg?”

  “Yes, I guess that’s what I’m asking you.”

  She sipped coffee, her eyes never leaving my face. “”I suppose I’d have to say it’s possible. But I know what your next question is going to be, and no, I can’t point to anyone as a likely suspect. I’m sorry.”

  I ended the interview by asking her where she’d been at the time of the murder, then spent ten minutes on my phone after she’d gone back to the station. Helen Burgquist’s alibi was easily verifiable and, once verified, airtight; she’d had an early medical appointment and had stayed at her daughter’s home that night as it was closer to her doctor’s office. I spoke with the daughter — Helen had been okay with my doing that and had provided the daughter’s phone number. And while it could be argued that people were asleep and might be unaware that someone slipped out of the house, stabbed Jasper Hugg, cleaned herself up afterward, and snuck back into the house undetected, it seemed at the very least far-fetched. Surely if you planned to murder someone you wouldn’t choose to do so while a guest in someone else’s home. That, and the fact that Helen Burgquist was too small to have inflicted the kind of damage I’d seen on the body of Jasper Hugg, had me eliminating her from the list of people we should be looking at.

  That done, I had time to think about what she’d told me about the other incidents. I wished I had time to hit my computer for even a few minutes, but that would have to wait. I dialed Cobb, got his machine, decided not to leave a message.

  Next up was Bernie McCready, a man who could have been part of a beer commercial featuring the most uninteresting man in the world. He and Shawn Beamer, my final interview, had both agreed to meet me at the Second Cup, sparing all of us the agony of the station’s pathetic coffee room.

  Medium height, medium weight. From his clothes
, which I suspected came from a closet known lovingly as Fifty Shades of Grey, to a facial expression that defined bland, to a voice that was Midwestern nasal, the man was an all-natural cure for insomnia.

  And, in fact, I found myself desperately wanting to yawn five minutes into our time together. He was short on facts and long on pontification.

  “One of the finest men I’ve ever known,” McCready told me when I asked him about Larmer. “People love that man — they’re willing to follow that man. He’s a leader of men, plain and simple.”

  “A leader of men,” I repeated, finding my voice drifting toward the same monotone McCready had perfected. “What about women?” I said it mostly to point out that there were two sexes, something I often wondered if right-wing radio was aware of.

  “Ah, the ladies.” McCready got a weird look on his face. I think he was trying for suggestive; mostly he looked, well … silly. “He could lead them, too.”

  That got my attention, particularly after what Lance Knight had said about the trouble Larmer apparently had “keeping it in his pants.”

  “What are you saying, Mr. McCready?”

  “No surprise, I suppose,” he said. “Good-looking man, great voice, intelligent — has everything women want. And he knows it. Uses it well.”

  “So you’re telling me that Mr. Larmer was a ladies’ man?”

  “Ladies’ man, philanderer, seducer, pick your descriptor.”

  I was a little surprised — there was something akin to emotion in McCready’s voice. And a look on his face that wasn’t as admiring as it had been a moment before. In fact, I wasn’t sure what it was — disapproving, dis­appointed, like a parent whose kid has been caught shoplifting a CD from the record store.

  But it didn’t last long. Once we moved off the topic of Larmer’s facility with the opposite sex, a talent I suspected McCready did not share and may have been envious of, his voice returned to the dull drone of earlier.