Dead Air

by David A. Poulsen

  “Hey, how are you guys?” It was more than a throwaway greeting. Since Kyla’s recent medical issues, when I said “How are you?” I really wanted to know how they were.

  “Kyla went back to arts summer school today and she was pretty pumped when she left here. She’d signed up for it weeks ago, but has only gone twice since the summer started. Then she got sick. But this morning her colour was better, she ate a pretty good breakfast, and she was smiling. I’d say we’re doing pretty well.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “And how about you?”

  “I’m smiling, too. My daughter’s feeling better, I have a terrific guy in my life, and it’s a gorgeous day outside. I’d say things are pretty good.”

  “It’s good hearing the life back in your voice,” I told her.

  “So what do you say we celebrate all the good stuff that’s happening to us with a barbecue tonight?”

  “Love it. Your deck or my balcony?”

  “I was thinking here,” she said. “How about ribs? You bring red wine and I might let you join us.”

  “I have a better idea. How about I bring the wine and the ribs and I do the barbecuing. You and your daughter sit back, look lovely, and admire my technique on the barbecue.”

  “You have technique?”

  “I’m more than just a cupcake guy, you know.”

  Adam, you don’t have to —”

  “No argument. I’m doing the cooking. Need anything else?”

  “Just you, mister. See you around six.”

  We rang off and I headed for the computer once again, this time to search out the kind of conferences right-wing media might want to attend.

  An hour and a half later I had a list of a half-dozen annual events that could fit the profile, as well as a couple of one-offs. Now I just had to figure out how to make the information useful. I started by emailing organizers, telling them I was a freelancer and interested in attending their upcoming event and asking for the list of conference-goers for the last few years. I batted .333 on the recurring conferences, which I thought was okay. Two told me they’d get them out to me in the next couple of days, one more said it didn’t keep records of previous attendees, which I knew was bullshit because you’d want to invite and encourage past delegates to come again next time around; two replied that they respected the privacy of those who attended their events and wouldn’t be sending me any information. One did not respond at all, at least not right away.

  I realized at that point that I’d made a tactical error. I couldn’t blame the conferences that were reluctant to share delegate information with just anybody.

  So I picked up the phone and called the first conference organization to give me a straight refusal. It was called the Organization of American Unity, was based in Kansas City, and it staged an annual conference called Freedom Calls. When a woman answered I asked for the name I’d seen identified as the secretary manager of the OAU, someone named Denton Jarvie.

  Jarvie came on the line, his voice a deep, smooth drawl with special attention paid to diction. When he identified himself and greeted me, I got right to it.

  “Mr. Jarvie, my name is Adam Cullen. I’m afraid I have to confess something to you. I sent you an email a couple of hours ago that said I was thinking about attending the conference this fall and hoped you might provide the names of previous conference delegates.”

  “I recall the email.” Jarvie’s voice turned icy.

  “I’m sorry to say that was a deception. It’s true that I’d like to have access to the lists of attendees for the past few years, but the reason for my wanting to see them is not what I indicated in the email.”

  “I see … and what would be the reason, then? The real reason?” Still frosty.

  “I’m calling from Calgary, Alberta, Canada, and I’m part of a team representing a man who is charged with a murder.” I paused to let that sink in. “It’s a murder we don’t believe he committed. His name is Buckley-Rand Larmer and the victim was a colleague of Mr. Larmer’s — Jasper Hugg. Mr. Larmer is a tireless worker for the conservative cause. You may know him at least by reputation and you may have heard about the case.”

  There was a generous pause on the other end of the line.

  “I am aware of the case, of course, Mr. Cullen. Mr. Larmer is a great champion of the right and many of us are watching and monitoring the situation with concern.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Mr. Jarvie, there’s something you might be able to do that would help us and in turn be useful to Larmer’s case.”

  “I’m sure the OAU would be more than willing to do what we can as long as what we are asked to do is legal and … uh … appropriate.”

  “I’m certain that what we’re asking fits both of your criteria.” I was having trouble dealing with the silky smooth delivery of Jarvie’s every word. I figured I better speed things up before I explained to him how annoying he was.

  “We?” Jarvie said.

  “What?”

  “You said ‘we.’ Who else is working with you on this?”

  “Mr. Larmer’s attorney, Stanley Shulsky, an investigator named Mike Cobb, and me.”

  “Thank you. Go on.”

  “We’re hoping you might be able to provide those lists of delegates to past conferences going back maybe five years, even a little farther if it’s possible.”

  “I’m curious as to how that might assist Mr. Larmer.”

  “We’re looking at other attacks on conservative-media people to see if there are any connections between the victims. Connections that might help to establish a pattern and maybe get us closer to the killer or killers.”

  “Ah, well, there you are, then,” Jarvie said. “You see, I know about the attacks on high-profile conservative spokespersons and have always felt that there was something that would tie the victims of these attacks together. Everyone, well almost everyone, laughed at my assertion. Now it appears there might be vindication at last because, you see, I couldn’t regard these as simply random acts and —”

  “Can you help us, Mr. Jarvie? I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s a bit of a time crunch here.”

  He hesitated, no doubt disappointed that I hadn’t wanted to hear his entire dissertation. “I’ll go to work on it right away and email the lists.”

  I gave him my email address, then added, “And I want to apologize again for the deception earlier.”

  “I’ll send the lists,” he repeated and hung up without accepting or acknowledging my apology.

  My next call was to an organization calling itself the Association for Conservative Broadcast Values, which staged an annual event called “Let’s Make It Right” that moved from venue to venue each year; recent locations for their conference included New Orleans, Oklahoma City, Denver, and Houston. This time my confession fell on the ears of Wanda Lucksinger, a no-nonsense woman whose voice indicated that either she gargled with gravel or she was 130 years old. She would not discuss my request until I forwarded my credentials, along with Cobb’s and a letter from Larmer (whom she had heard of) authorizing me to receive information from the association on his behalf.

  I put in a call to Cobb thinking he might be at the remand centre and could get Larmer to draft a letter for Wanda Lucksinger. There was no answer and I figured he had, at the very least, been required to shut off the phone, or it had been taken from him to be returned after his visit was complete.

  I tried two more conference contact people but got no answer, left messages. I decided not to pursue the one-off events just yet because I felt that the odds were better that the victims met at an annual event. I decided to at least wait until I received the lists that were coming and to pursue the two groups I hadn’t been able to reach.

  My phone rang. It was Cobb.

  “I got your message and ran back inside. Larmer had a good idea — he suggested we get Shulsky t
o write the letter. It’ll be on legal letterhead and might pack a bit more of a wallop.”

  I thought about Wanda Lucksinger. “Yeah, that might be the better way to go,” I agreed.

  “And Larmer’s putting together a list of conferences, meetings, and the like that he’s aware of. He’ll get it to us in the next couple of days.”

  And that was it. I didn’t ask about the meeting with Larmer. I knew Cobb would tell me what I needed to know when I needed to know it. And I had a sense he was in a hurry, so we ended the call.

  I resumed my post at the computer and discovered that Denton Jarvie’s promptness was every bit as reliable as his pompousness. The lists were already in my inbox and I spent the next ninety minutes poring over them while first Buffy St. Marie, then Bruce Cockburn filled the room with magic.

  I learned that Jasmine Swales had twice been to the Freedom Calls event — 2007 and again in 2009. I also discovered that Dennis Monday had attended the event once, in 2011, and that none of the victims of the Fresno explosion had ever attended the Freedom Calls conference.

  Nor had Jasper Hugg, although I did notice that Larmer had attended once — in 2008. No surprise, but not much help in terms of connecting the dots.

  I scratched the Organization of American Unity off my list of possible connections.

  While I was waiting for lists from a couple of the other groups I had approached, I had an idea. It still bothered me that Kyla had missed the Stampede Parade. The Stampede was moving into its final weekend and I decided to try to make up for her disappointment.

  I called a long-time friend — Mac Grantham — who worked in the Promotion Department of the Stampede. Over the years I’d done him a couple of favours — pounding out stories on the joys of deep-fried butter on a stick or the undeniable talent of the World Champion hoop dancer. I wasn’t surprised when I didn’t get Mac first try. Things might be just a little hectic during the ten days of the Stampede. I left a message telling him that I was hoping he could wrangle up three tickets to the infield for the rodeo the next day. I was happy to pay for the tickets, but I knew that this late the chances of getting decent seats anywhere in the grandstand were slim, and in the infield almost zero without some inside help. I refrained from reminding him of my near Pulitzer Prize–winning deep-fried butter piece.

  I’d seen the rodeo from the infield only once in my life — Donna had sprung tickets on me as a surprise gift “for being a great guy” and I remembered that there was nothing quite like being a few feet from where the cowboys were warming up and resining equipment while broncs and bulls stomped and snorted.

  It was a long shot, but if my contact came through I was fairly certain Kyla might join the hordes of women, young and old, who thought of me as “a great guy.” Or at least a guy who could score cool stuff now and again.

  I hoped I’d know before I left for Jill’s house and the barbecue. I checked my in-box and found an email from one of the organizations that had agreed to send me their delegates list, without my ill-conceived bullshit story. This one was called the Coalition of Conservative Cooperation, the CCC. Their lists only went back four years, and I didn’t find any victims’ names on those lists.

  I was nearing the end of my perusal of names when the phone rang.

  “Hey, Adam, Mac here.”

  “Knife, how ya doing? Been a long time.”

  “The Knife” was a nickname that had been hung on him several years before, most likely after several rounds of drinks, which is when ideas like Mac the Knife seem almost divinely inspired.

  “It has. But hell, when the author of some of the Stampede’s greatest writing ever calls, I drop trivial shit like impending visits from heads of state and return the freaking call.”

  “And that’s as it should be.”

  We both laughed. Then Mac turned serious.

  “Hey, listen, Adam, I don’t check in with you nearly as often as I should, and that’s crap. How’ve you been doing?”

  I knew that he was referring to how I’d been doing in the years since Donna’s death. Mac was one of the people who knew I hadn’t been very good for a long time.

  “I’m okay, Knife, I’m okay.” As long as I don’t think about it.

  “Good, I’m glad to hear it. And good news, I got some tickets for you. Four rows up, dead centre. They’re sponsor tickets and they can’t use them.”

  “You’re the best. What do I owe you?”

  “This one’s on the house. Just make sure you stop in here some time. Be nice to catch up. We can split a Scorpion Pizza.”

  “Yeah, can’t wait.”

  We both laughed at that.

  “Tickets will be at Will Call in front of the grandstand. Have a great time.”

  “Guaranteed. And, Knife? Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  I hung up and when there were no more replies from conferences with lists for me to check, I decided to put the Larmer case out of my mind for a while and go for a run. Along the way I checked over my shoulder several times for the dark-blue Jetta, but Kendall Mark was apparently at his post near the Faith Unruh murder scene. And probably saw no reason to follow me now that he knew I wasn’t connected to the girl’s death.

  At least I hoped that was his thinking.

  The evening was close to perfect. For my drive across town I had Paul Brandt’s Risk at a decibel level that I’m sure is what they warn you against. I arrived at Jill’s just after six, a bottle of Amarone in one hand, Sunterra Market ribs and a Marianas Trench CD for Kyla in the other. I didn’t really know her taste in music, but I figured I might as well start the Canadian music indoctrination process. I knew there was one direction I wouldn’t be going after hearing her say a few days before that Justin Bieber was “talented but just too immature,” a sentiment I shared. Of course there was always Nickelback and their love ’em or hate ’em camps (I’m in the former), but I figured I’d better clear that one with her mother before I invested in a CD.

  The ribs were beyond wonderful; the weather was deck-perfect, and not a single mosquito ventured onto our turf.

  After dinner, Kyla asked if she could go to her room to listen to her “awesome new CD.”

  When she’d gone, I topped up the wineglasses and looked at Jill.

  “Is she really a fan of that band or is she looking excited because she knows I want her to be? And did she really want to hear it right this minute or is this part of a plot to give us some alone time?”

  “Yes, yes, and yes. Yes, she does like Marianas Trench; we even saw them a couple of years ago. I mean, she’s not like some nine-year-old girls who want to marry one of them, but she does like their music. And yes, if it turned out that she hated them, she would pretend to be excited so you wouldn’t feel bad. And yes, she wanted us to be alone on the deck in the moonlight with the wine and each other because … well, because that’s the kind of person she is.”

  I thought about that. “She is a very special girl. Like her mother.”

  “And there’s a fourth reason she wanted to go.”

  I looked at her, trying to read her face. She looked serious but not angry or upset. “And what is that?”

  “She knows that there’s something I wanted to talk to you about. To ask you about.”

  “You can ask me anything, you know that.”

  She shook her head, smiling. “No, it’s not one of those probing your past, learning your secrets kind of things.”

  “Phew,” I said, trying to mask the fact that I actually was relieved, not because I had any interesting secrets, but because I hated those you-tell-me-yours, I’ll-tell-you-mine moments in life. I was glad this wasn’t one of those.

  “I’ve been thinking about something,” Jill said slowly, her voice lingering on each word. “Something Kyla and I have talked about.”

  “Now you’ve made me curious.”

  “Well, I …�
�� Jill stopped and sipped her wine.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were nervous.”

  “And you’d be right.”

  I reached over, took her hand. “Jill, there’s nothing you can’t say to me. Well, except for ‘Get lost, buddy.’ Maybe not that.”

  “Yes, well this isn’t that.”

  I started to say something that might or might not have been funny, but I stopped. Something told me this wasn’t the time for kidding around.

  “Adam,” Jill began, “a couple of days ago, Kyla asked me if someday we’d live together. ‘Like a family’ is how she worded it.”

  I paused before responding. “What did you say to her?”

  “I told her I didn’t know. I said we hadn’t been together that long yet and didn’t want to rush into it. She looked kind of disappointed.”

  I took a sip of wine and looked at her for a long time before answering. “Jill, I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it. There’s no two people I care about more than you and Kyla. And I visualize in my mind the three of us living together and that’s a wonderful visual. Like a family. That pretty well summarizes how I picture it.”

  “Why am I feeling there’s a but coming?”

  “No but, not really. Maybe a not yet. I guess I’m still working out a few things —”

  She held up a hand to stop me. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. I get it, I really do. I guess because I’m having some of those same things happening for me, too.”

  She didn’t look angry or upset and I was relieved at that. We sat for a few minutes, silent and still. Then she set her wineglass down, reached over, and took my hand.

  Her voice was soft, the words slow and gentle. “When you get married you think it’s going to be forever. I was so in love and things were really good for a long time. Then Kyla came along and something I didn’t think could possibly get any better … suddenly did. And then three or four years later things started to unravel. First little things, then bigger stuff. Things were said that I wouldn’t have thought either of us were capable of saying.