Dead Air

by David A. Poulsen

  Thankfully, McCready had nothing more to contribute and I was happy to excuse him, but not before he launched into a lengthy oration on the long-term benefits of having church-based charities, rather than government, doing most of the heavy lifting when it came to welfare distribution.

  His alibi — I dove in while he was taking a breath during his dissertation — was that it had been his turn to drive his kids to school after spending the early morning getting them ready. He was between school and the station when he heard the first report of an “incident involving an individual with potentially life-threatening injuries.”

  I prayed the alibi was solid because I’d sooner have garroted myself than have had to do a follow-up interview with Bernie McCready.

  But before I bid him a fond farewell, I asked him if he’d ever been to Texas or California — a question I’d decided to add since my chat with Helen Burgquist. McCready had been to both, although his California trip had been to Disneyland with his parents when he was nine years old and his Texas excursion was a college thing that had happened years before the death of the reporter.

  That left only Shawn Beamer, handler of social media. For a long time I had tended to think of social-media types as techno-geeks — soft, awkward, very Big Bang Theory. Happily, I had discarded that unfortunate characterization some years before.

  Shawn Beamer would have dispelled all remaining vestiges of that flawed judgment had there been any. He was neither soft nor wimp-like. Tall and lean, he had a firm handshake, a ready smile, and a steady gaze that regarded me with something between curiosity and anticipation. I guessed he was mid- to late-twenties.

  We both got coffee, my third since the interviews had started, and sat in a couple of comfortable easy chairs I’d been eyeing since I’d first arrived at the Second Cup. They’d finally become available just before Beamer’s arrival.

  He stretched out, crossed one long leg over the other, and tested the coffee temperature as he waited for me to start.

  “How long have you been at RIGHT TALK 700?” I began.

  “Right to it, huh? No small talk.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “This is my fourth interview in a couple of hours and I’m probably getting a little punchy. I apologize if that came across as rude. How ’bout them Stampeders?” Trying for humour.

  He smiled, shook his head. “No need to apologize, and I understand that you’d want to move things along. Besides, I saw McCready on his way back to the office. If you just interviewed him, you might want to pop a couple of energy drinks to keep from lapsing into a coma.”

  I laughed. “Glad I’m not the only one he has that effect on.”

  “I think it’s pretty well universal. Anyway, I came here in September of last year. Moved here from Oshawa, Ontario. Had a somewhat unexpected breakup with my girlfriend — that’s code for ‘She dumped me.’” He smiled ruefully. “Figured it was time to check out new challenges in new places. And here I am.” He spread his hands, palms up.

  “Like it?”

  “Calgary? I love Calgary. The job? It’s okay. I can take it or leave it, I guess.”

  “Why’s that? Not a believer?”

  He shrugged. “Not a believer, not a disbeliever. Guess I’m sort of apolitical. I mean, I care what’s going on in the world around me, but I don’t exactly share the passion of the people at the station.”

  I wondered how that attitude would sit with the Larmers and Huggs of the world. “You get much pressure to fall in line? Become more passionate?”

  Another shrug. “Actually, less than you’d think. Of course I’m careful not to wear my ‘I Don’t Give a Shit’ T-shirt, but as long as I do my job, they pretty much leave me alone.”

  “How does someone become the go-to person on social media, anyway? Are there courses? Or are you self-taught?”

  “A little of each. I’ve been into computers since junior high. Social media is just the latest leg of the journey, I suppose. I had a blog in high school, but once I was out of high school I got too busy to keep it up so I started tweeting. That whole 140-characters thing has its appeal, especially when you’ve got deadlines and stuff coming up but you think you should be out there talking about something.”

  He paused, drank some coffee before continuing. “Then I figured I better get some formal training, especially if I wanted to make a career out of communications. So I got a diploma in Applied Arts from Humber College in Toronto and four months later I’m wearing a cowboy hat and living ninety minutes from great skiing.”

  “Do you actually write the posts that go out on the station’s social media, or are you only responsible for getting them up and out there?”

  “The latter. I get the messages from management or the on-air people, then I post them and monitor the responses.”

  “Who writes the majority of what you post?”

  “A lot of it comes from Buckley-Rand. A couple of the other on-air types send me stuff fairly regularly, as well.”

  “How about Hugg? You get much from him?”

  Beamer shook his head. “Almost nothing. Once in a while in a meeting he’d say we should get this or that up on Facebook or Twitter or on one of the blogs, but then somebody else would write it.”

  “How did you get along with Hugg?”

  “Same as everybody else. Carefully.”

  “Hard guy to work with?”

  Beamer considered this. “Not if you did your job and met his expectations. Oh, and didn’t disagree with him — that was never a good idea. I didn’t really have any reason to disagree with him so I’d say we were okay, at least I thought so.”

  “Anybody at the station who wasn’t okay with him?”

  He paused, took a sip of the coffee. “There were lots of disagreements around the place and occasionally there were lost tempers, but I’m guessing what you want to know is if I thought the disagreements were the kind that could end up with somebody killing somebody. I’d say a definite no to that.”

  “Does that include Larmer?”

  He took longer this time before answering. His words were accompanied by a slight nod. “I think so, yes. Buckley-Rand is a different kind of guy — volatile, mean, maybe even ruthless when it comes to advancing the conservative agenda. And he and Hugg were two of the loudest voices sometimes. But no matter how big or loud their disagreements, I never once thought, Shit, one of those guys is going to smoke the other one. It just wasn’t like that, you know?”

  “So in your mind, it’s unlikely that Larmer murdered Jasper Hugg.”

  “I guess anything’s possible. But probably not that.”

  “And there’s no one else at the station you think the police ought to be looking at?”

  “As a suspect? I really don’t think so.”

  “How about outside the station? You hear anything about somebody — a sponsor, a listener, somebody Larmer or the other on-air people eviscerated? Anybody maybe pissed off enough to do something like this?”

  He paused again. “Sorry, I wish I could point you at somebody … I mean, only if there was something to it, you know, but the truth is, this is a puzzler. It’s damn sad and it’s a total puzzler.”

  “The responses you monitored online, especially the ones where people disagreed, did you get many where you kind of thought, Whoa, there’s some serious hate going on here?”

  He nodded, smiling. “Hell, yeah, lots. But to be honest, the real scary randos were the ones who agreed with the stuff the station put out there.”

  “Randos?”

  “Sorry. Web-speak. Randos are the odd, the socially inappropriate, basically the losers.”

  “Got it.”

  “Anyway, some of those posts made Buckley-Rand and the rest of them look like Joe Clark.”

  Joe Clark. Interesting choice for his comment, especially from a guy who was likely still in day care when Joe Cla
rk was a prominent political figure. I got the impression that Shawn Beamer had done some reading and some thinking.

  “And the morning of the murder, you were …?”

  “Oh, my alibi. That’s a bit problematic. I went to the gym early, got there right around six, but for the first while I was by myself. Nobody in the place except Champ Carroll, the guy who runs the place, and he went out for a while, told me to keep an eye on the place.”

  “He do that very often?”

  Beamer shook his head. “Never before that morning. Said he had a meeting with his investment person.”

  “So how long were you by yourself?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Forty-five minutes, maybe an hour. I finished my workout and had my shower and when I came out, Champ was back.”

  “Where’s the gym?”

  “Downtown. On Fourth. Right next to the Westin.”

  Which meant that Beamer could have had time to leave the gym, get to the station, kill Hugg, and be back in the time the manager of the place was out. So he had the opportunity. Of course, I had no idea about motive or any of the other factors that figured in a murder case. Still, I thought Cobb might want to do a follow-up with the young man. Thing is, I kind of liked the guy, but I’d already learned in my brief acquaintance with crime investigation that liking or not liking a potential suspect had zero bearing on anything.

  “What’s the gym called?”

  “Champ’s. Not very original, but a good facility. And the guy knows his stuff.”

  “Got a number for the place?”

  “I don’t think so, but it should be in the book.”

  “Book? As in phone book. Does anybody use those anymore?”

  Beamer grinned and shrugged.

  “And how old are you?”

  “Twenty-nine. I hit the big three-O in a couple of weeks.”

  I shook my head. “I hate to have to tell you — it’s all downhill from there.”

  He laughed. “So I’ve heard.”

  “Well, thanks, Shawn, this is really appreciated. Oh, one last thing. You do much travelling?”

  He looked surprised by the question, but after a second shook his head. “I want to, for sure. Already got a pretty big bucket list. But with school and everything, not much so far — unless you call a couple of spring-break-ski-and-drink-till-you-puke trips travelling.”

  “So no trips to Texas or California in recent years.”

  He shook his head. “Can’t say either of those is on the bucket list. Only American stop for me was in Wyoming. Laramie. I did a summer course in screenwriting, if you can believe it. Thought I might want to write for television or the movies.” He grinned and held up both hands. “So far I haven’t created anything screen-worthy.”

  “Laramie,” I repeated. “University of Wyoming. Played them in baseball. I went to Oklahoma State. Both teams were called the Cowboys. Played hell with the fans and cheerleaders.”

  Beamer laughed. “You played baseball?”

  “A little. When were you there?”

  “Summer of 2011.”

  “Yeah, my college career was over a long time before that.” I stood up, drained the last of my coffee, and extended a hand. “Thanks for your time.”

  “No problem.” He got to his feet, too. “If there’s anything else you need from me — I don’t know that I’ll be any more help than I was today, but I’d be happy to try. And good luck, I hope you or the cops — somebody — gets the bastard who did this, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  He left first and I got the number for Champ’s and called. Champ himself answered the phone. Maybe a one-person operation. I told him who I was.

  “I was just talking with one of your clients,” I said, “in connection with an incident you may have heard about — the murder of Jasper Hugg in the parking lot of RIGHT TALK 700.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that.”

  “The client is Shawn Beamer. He’s indicated he was working out at your gym that morning and that you were gone for a while.”

  “Yeah, I opened up, but then I had a meeting. I’m the only guy here, so if I have to step out I sometimes ask somebody to keep an eye on things, answer the phone. I usually like for it to be a woman — they’re more, ah, responsible, but that morning Shawn was the only one here. It’s like that during Stampede, so I got him to do it. He’s a good kid.”

  “Do you recall how long you were out?”

  “I’d say an hour maybe. Give or take.”

  “And Shawn was there when you left and when you got back?”

  “Yes and yes. The kid a suspect?”

  “Everybody’s a suspect, Mr. Carroll.”

  “Even me? Shit, I was the one who was out of the gym that morning. Maybe you better be checking me out. I wouldn’t mind being a murder suspect. Be good publicity for the gym.” I heard a chuckle.

  “Did you know Jasper Hugg, Mr. Carroll?”

  “No, but I’ve listened a few times to that other asshole — Buckingham whatever. Besides, I thought the police charged him with the murder.”

  “They did.”

  “So I guess that means I’m not a suspect.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Carroll.”

  He chuckled again. “It’s okay. Could’ve used the publicity though. I mostly rely on word of mouth, you know? Speaking of which, you wanna drop in some time — the first workout’s on me.”

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. One last thing. Did you happen to mention to Shawn beforehand, the day before or something, that you’d need him to watch the place that morning?”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line, then a phlegmy cough before Champ answered. “Can’t recall for sure. I probably mentioned it to somebody, kind of hoping they might be available to watch the place. But did I mention it to Shawn? I might’ve … or I might not’ve. My guess is I didn’t. Sorry, I just don’t remember.”

  “Thanks again, Champ.”

  “Sure. And don’t forget — first workout’s on me.”

  “Got it.”

  I rang off and made a quick stop at the washroom before heading out into the sunshine. I stopped at the curb while my eyes adjusted to the July sun and was about to cross the street to the Accord when I caught sight of a small, dark-blue car — maybe a Jetta, but too far away to say for certain — pulling away from the curb a few cars ahead of where I’d parked the Honda. It sped away and quickly merged into traffic, although I was able to pull out my phone and take a desperation shot as it moved off. I looked at the photo but it told me nothing conclusive. Blue car, roughly the size and shape of the Jetta; that was it. But it gave me an idea.

  I changed directions slightly and stepped into the front reception area of RIGHT TALK 700. I smiled at the receptionist I’d met earlier that morning when I’d arrived to interview Lance Knight. A nameplate I hadn’t seen the first time I’d met her indicated she was Jocelyn Ohlhauser. She was pretty in a down-to-business way and she returned the smile

  “Where would I find Shawn Beamer?” I asked her.

  “His office is upstairs — down the hallway to the right.” She pointed.

  I thanked her and climbed the stairs two at a time, then turned right as directed. I popped my head into the first office I came to. The door was open but no one was there. I surveyed the top of the desk hoping to see a nameplate identifying the occupant. But first my attention was caught by a photo of a striking woman. I’d have put her at fortyish, but she could have starred in one of those mother-daughter commercials where you can’t tell which one’s which. Next to the photo was the name of the office’s resident — Bernie McCready. And the beautiful woman in the picture? Wife? Sister? Girlfriend?

  I looked around and leaned in far enough to get a look at what had been written across the bottom of the photo: To my Bernie. L
ove you, Sugar. Tammy.

  There was a heart next to Tammy’s name. The photo and inscription surprised me. No, I’ll be truthful, they shocked me.

  McCready may have been duller than a three-day rain, but he clearly had something, God knows what, going for him that was below the surface. Way below the surface. And clearly I had once again misjudged someone.

  I was still dealing with the incongruity of the Mr. and Mrs. McCready situation as I moved down the hall to the next office. A woman I didn’t know but who I guessed was one of Cobb’s interviewees was at a computer typing faster than I can talk. She saw me and looked up, showing some irritation at the interruption but doing a decent job of disguising it.

  “Sorry to bother you,” I said. “I wonder if you could tell me where I’d find Shawn Beamer.”

  “Right behind you.” She gestured and was back at her typing before I got turned around.

  And right behind me is exactly where Shawn Beamer was. I supposed he’d had to make his own washroom stop.

  “I do have one more question,” I told him. “You have an office or a workspace somewhere where we could talk for a second?”

  “Sure,” he said. “You’re almost there.” He led the way past one more office to the last one down that hall, and as it turned out, the smallest one — barely bigger than the main-floor coffee room. He pointed to a chair, squeezed past me, and sat behind the desk.

  “Something else you wanted to ask me?” He looked a little embarrassed that I’d seen his office and I decided to be quick.

  “Are you into cars at all, Shawn?”

  He shook his head. “Not really … I never was. I mean I’ve always had a car since I was legal, but I guess computers are more my thing.”

  “Right. Listen, I need a favour.”

  “Sure, like I said, anything I can do …”

  “There might be,” I told him. “Is there some way you could find out what the people who work here drive? And maybe let me know as soon as you can?”

  He thought for a few seconds, then nodded. “Sure, I guess so. Is it okay if I just ask people or do you want me … undercover?” He hunkered down, looked around, and laughed.