First Time Killer

by Alan Orloff

  Celia gazed out at the crowd. “Okay, everyone. Back to work.” People started to stand, gathering their coats and hats. “One more thing. I’ve hired some security for the station. We’ll post a guard in the front lobby. But please be vigilant. We’ve already lost one person. Let’s not lose any more.”

  Rick cringed, envisioning every moment on-air talking about First Time. He saw what was left of his career slowly sliding into the ocean, like one of those Malibu houses in a mudslide.

  CHAPTER 14

  TIN MAN GENTLY pushed open the door to the station lobby until he could peer through the crack. More than a dozen listeners dressed like chickens filled the seats. Others milled around looking lost, some gathered in groups to chat. A few sipped from water bottles. It looked like happy hour at Old MacDonald’s Farm.

  First Time’s call had rattled Tin Man. How did the killer know he drove a Beamer? Right after the show, he’d driven around the Northern Virginia suburban sprawl for hours, taking side roads, making sure he wasn’t followed. Then he’d dumped his car at Dulles airport—Green economy lot—and rented a nondescript family sedan. Finally, he’d checked into an airport motel. Hope you have a nice stay, Mr. James Munrow. Tin Man wasn’t backing down, but there was no sense taking chances either. And there was no chance in hell he was going to postpone this contest he’d come up with, just to appease a madman. As Tin Man liked to tell people, his momma didn’t raise no dummy.

  Two more chickens bustled through the front door and Tin Man felt his pulse quicken. Their Chicken Killer contest was going to be a good one: funny, caustic, outrageous. Just the thing to grab some big ratings. He wanted—needed—to beat Rick Jennings. This was his future, and he planned to ensure it any way he could. What better way than going after First Time on-air? Especially now that he’d gone underground.

  The rules of the contest were simple. You had to dress up like a chicken and recite an original poem with the theme, Why the First Time Killer is a Giant Chicken. Other embellishments were fair game. You could juggle, tap dance, or eat a banana while reciting. Tin Man, Tubby, and the station’s newest celebrity, J.T. O’Connor, would judge each contestant. Winner got $666 and a year’s supply of Popeye’s chicken.

  Tin Man did a quick head count: eighteen. Eighteen nutty—greedy—listeners had donned chicken suits to participate. Some people’s embarrassment knew no bounds. He and J.T. had wagered on the number they thought would show up. J.T., always the pessimist, had predicted nine, while he’d guessed sixteen. Guess tomorrow’s dinner would be on J.T. The one stipulation for their little bet: neither was allowed to order chicken.

  Tin Man examined the costumes. About half appeared to be store-bought and resembled the San Diego Chicken mascot. Big heads with oversized beaks, scads of yellow feathers, and big, floppy, three-toed feet. The rest of the get-ups were homemade, inspired by each individual’s interpretation of what a chickenshit the killer was. A tall skinny guy in pale yellow tights had glued construction paper feathers directly to his torso. On his head, he wore a football helmet garnished with more feathers. A metal funnel for a beak and yellow bunny slippers completed his ensemble. One young lady sported a bright yellow thong and a bikini top. She held a yellow Mardi Gras mask up to her face. On her feet, black stiletto-heeled boots with brass buckles. Must be what all the well-dressed hens were wearing. Tin Man had a feeling she would be a favorite for the crown.

  Someone tapped him on his shoulder. Behind him, J.T. whispered, “Two minutes, Tin Man,” then squinted through the crack into the lobby. “Wow. You sure do know how to throw a party.”

  The first six contestants were mildly entertaining. Decent poems, adequate costumes. But nothing truly outrageous. Tin Man could sense Tubby drifting off beside him. The pace needed to pick up. “Okay. J.T., let’s bring in the next contestant. See if you can find one with a little spunk.”

  A moment later, a large man ambled into the studio wearing a rented model. Full chicken. J.T. handed him a microphone and took his own seat. The chicken stuffed the mic down his long beak. “Hi. My name is Chuck.” The voice was muffled, which didn’t really surprise Tin Man. Stuffing a mic down a chicken’s beak will do that.

  “Chuck. How’s it hanging?” Tin Man said.

  “It’s a hen outfit, so I guess it’s not hanging at all,” Chuck said, then gave a woeful impression of a chicken clucking.

  “What do you do for a living, Chuck? I’m guessing you’re not a comedian.”

  “Grocery business. I’m a butcher.”

  “Well, I suppose that gives you an advantage. Being around real chickens all day long.” Tin Man took a swig of water, waited for some innocuous comment from Tubby. But his partner remained mum, staring at the tabletop in front of him. Tin Man usually didn’t mind when Tubby checked out, but sometimes it was hard work keeping the show going all by himself.

  “My specialty is beef. Red meat.”

  “Then you’ve got the right name, Chuck.” Tin Man winced at his own humor as he hit the waah-waah sound effect. “Okay. Let’s get to it. Recite your poem.”

  Chuck cleared his throat, or made some kind of noise; it was hard to tell what was going on down his gullet. “It’s a free verse. But it does rhyme a little. That okay?”

  Just freaking get on with it. “Sure. Fine. Shoot.”

  “Arm in trash, what a bash. Searching the world, looking for cash. Killer is phat, a real cool cat, some would say he’s all of that. Death is good, death is fine, death happens to people all the time.” Chuck paused.

  Tin Man shook his head. Didn’t anyone beside him have any talent?

  Chuck continued. “The media’s a joke, the press is a sham, trying to be hot, trying to be glam.” As Chuck recited his ditty, he strutted his chicken suit to the rap-style cadence, grabbing his crotch as he sang. “Tin Man and Tubby, couple of jocks, full of jokes and plenty of shocks. Got a lot of listeners, got a lot of fame, but they’re just playing a big, bad game. Tin Man and Tubby, two big shitheads, like to jerk—”

  Tin Man hit the dump button and turned off the chicken’s microphone simultaneously. He motioned to Peter, one of the interns sitting quietly in the corner. Peter jumped to his feet and escorted the contestant out of the studio, accompanied by a bunch of disapproving clucking. There was one in every flock, almost without fail.

  “Sorry, everyone. That was truly fowl.” He could hear the groans of the listeners all across the country, followed by the sound of radios being switched off. It was one thing to “accidentally” let bad language go when you were amusing. To risk getting fined for crap was another thing altogether.

  Tin Man gestured to J.T. “Hey, how about bringing in the little chickadee in the thong?”

  J.T., in turn, gestured to another intern, who ushered in the next contestant.

  “Welcome to the show,” Tin Man said. “What’s your name?”

  The blond in boots replied, “Ashlee. With two e’s at the end. Ashlee Wicker.” Her voice was deep and gravelly. Two-packs-a-day deep and gravelly.

  “Hello, Ashlee. Ever dressed up like a chicken before?”

  She giggled. “No, first time. But I kinda like it.” She lowered the mask she’d been holding in front of her face, then tossed it aside revealing dazzling green eyes and brilliant white teeth.

  “I like it, too, Ashlee,” Tin Man said, perking up. “In fact, I’d kinda like to cluck you.”

  Ashlee’s face turned crimson and she looked down at the toes of her boots. From her outfit, Tin Man wouldn’t have guessed she was bashful. “You do look fetching in that outfit. Simply fetching. Why don’t you describe it for our listeners?”

  Tin Man knew how much his listeners appreciated the visuals.

  “Well, I’m wearing a yellow thong and a bikini top,” she said.

  Tin Man said, “Come on, tell the truth. You’re not wearing a top at all. And those are some mighty meaty breasts. Thighs aren’t bad either. Look finger-lickin’ good.”

  This time, Ashlee didn’t blush. “Y
ou’re bad, Tin Man. I am wearing a top.” She ran her tongue across her lips seductively. Tin Man could tell she really wanted the prize money. “And I’m wearing knee-high boots with three-inch heels.” She ended her description with a throaty gasp.

  “Tell them about your tattoo,” Tin Man said.

  “I’ve got a little black and yellow butterfly, right around my belly-button. My boyfriend digs it.”

  “I’m sure he does, Ashlee. He’s a very lucky rooster,” Tin Man said. “Or, I should say, he’s a very lucky—” He paused, looked around the studio, waiting for someone else to finish his sentence. Everyone stared back at him. Tin Man snorted. “Rhymes with rock.”

  Tin Man glanced into the control booth, where Celia sat next to James Stanton, the station’s chief counsel. “Looks like we’ve got a special guest today. Mr. James Stanton, Esquire. His business card says he’s the station’s lawyer, but I just call him Mr. Shark. Care to say hi to our fans, Mr. Shark?” Tin Man pointed at master control. Stanton put his head down and shook his head. He’d been a fixture at their contests since an incident six weeks ago involving a cucumber, a zucchini, and a twirling baton.

  “No? Okay, then. Let’s get back to our contest. Ashlee, has anyone ever told you that you’re a very hot chick?”

  “Chick! I get it. Good one, partner,” Tubby said. He seemed to come alive, now that a half-naked girl cavorted in the studio. It didn’t take a genius to learn what pushed his partner’s buttons.

  Tin Man said, “You want to win the contest, Ashlee? The money is all yours. That is, if you take off that bikini right now.”

  J.T. whistled in the background.

  “Well?” Tin Man asked, leering. To his left, he could almost see Tubby sweating through his shirt.

  Ashlee looked around at all the men in the studio. “I haven’t recited my poem yet. Plus, you have all these other chickens to hear.”

  “Oh, a stickler for fairness?” Tin Man asked. “Okay, then. If you’d rather be judged on your literary talents, that’s your choice. Although—personally—I think you’re making a big mistake.” Howard Stern usually managed to get his girls to take their clothes off. Maybe once he got on satellite, it would be easier. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “Sure.” She bent down and removed a folded piece of paper from the shaft of her right boot. Unfolded it. Smoothed it out. Took a deep breath. Exhaled. Put the mic right up to her mouth.

  “There once was a guy named First Time,

  Didn’t care about committing a crime,

  Cut off an arm,

  Then sounded the alarm,

  But he’s really ickier than slime.”

  “Not bad. Not bad,” Tin Man said. Maybe she did have other talents aside from her bodacious body.

  “Wait! There’s more.” She stared at Tin Man, who nodded. She cleared her throat.

  “There once was a chicken-s killer,

  Had a girl, but couldn’t thrill her,

  Tried loving her one night,

  Had to give up the fight,

  When his johnson couldn’t even fill her.”

  Tin Man made a few guttural sounds of appreciation, and eyed her, waiting for more. After a moment, he said, “Finished?”

  “No. Not yet.” She wriggled a bit and adjusted her bikini top. She was after first prize, all right. “Okay, here’s the rest.

  The cowardly killer likes to play,

  But cries if he doesn’t get his way,

  He’s a loser for sure,

  Who needs to know more?

  Except he’s most definitely gay.”

  Ashlee closed her mouth. Gave a little bow. Now she was done.

  “Well, Ashlee, you have quite a way with words. That was very creative.” Tin Man relaxed. It was nice to have the show back on track. Nothing like a hot girl to liven things up. “Judges, are we ready with our—”

  “Tin Man.” Ashlee interrupted, voice insistent and direct. A stern look had chased the silliness away. Was all the previous giggling and blushing an act?

  “Yes, Ashlee.”

  “I would like to tell you—and him—what I really do think.” She paused. “If I may, of course.”

  Tin Man glanced around. J.T. was gawking at Ashlee, as were the interns. “Sure, go ahead. Tell us what you really think.”

  Ashlee folded the paper she’d been holding and stuffed it back into her boot. Then she gripped the mic with both hands. “I think the First Time Killer is a scumbag. A real weakling. A coward, a loser. A total loser. I mean, killing someone, then cutting off an arm. You have to be mentally insane to do that. Why, he’s probably a hundred pounds overweight with hair all over his back and huge zits on his face.” Ashlee stopped, eyes darted around the small studio. Tin Man could feel her anger and frustration from where he sat. “He killed another human being. What could be worse than that? He’s probably still a virgin.” She nodded, as if she’d hit upon the key to the puzzle. “Yeah, he’s still a limp-dick little pussy virgin. Probably lives with his mommy.”

  For the second time in the segment, Tin Man pounded the dump button. In the control booth, James Stanton scowled like only a lawyer—or network censor—could. Next to him, however, a gigantic grin spread across Celia’s face.

  CHAPTER 15

  RICK SETTLED INTO his seat behind the mic, determined to calm things down at the Afternoon Circus. Bring some semblance of order back to the show. Tin Man’s contest had been outrageous, as usual, and he wanted to offer the listeners something a little more refined now. Before he came on-air, Celia had encouraged him to keep things going in the same vein, but he’d begged off, telling her he didn’t want to encroach on Tin Man’s shtick. He’d carved out his niche, and he wanted—desperately—to take the high road, or at least the road that didn’t wind through the muck.

  Rick scooted his chair closer to the microphone. Pulled out a manila folder and removed a sheath of papers, all printouts, fresh from the laser printer in his office. “Good afternoon, everybody. This is Rick Jennings, continuing with the Wednesday installment of the Afternoon Circus. Before I dive into your phone calls, I’d like to read some listener emails.” Usually the Circus got twenty or thirty emails a day, sometimes double that if something especially controversial was happening. Since First Time had called, they were logging in more than 500 emails a day. They’d had to assign an intern to monitor them full-time for the duration of each show.

  “First, I must say the response—your response—has been tremendous. Overwhelmingly, you want this guy caught. And punished, oh, do you want him punished. Here’s one. ‘Ringmaster. This guy, this killer, is a lowlife scumbag. Who does he think he is? How can he go out and kill someone? Doesn’t he know God is watching? He’ll burn in Hades for what he’s done.’ That’s from a listener in Newton, Mass.” Rick swallowed a gulp of water from a mug on the console. The ice cubes clinked softly when he set it down.

  “Here’s another. ‘This is directed to all you who don’t believe in the death penalty. The killer knows he won’t get punished for his crimes. He knows he’ll get off in this liberal-assed court system we got in this country. If we had a mandatory death penalty, he’d think twice before he went and killed somebody. I know I would.’ From Jerry P. in Mobile.” Rick riffed through his stack. He’d scanned most of the emails, but Peter had stuffed a few last minute ones into the pile just before he went on-air. Along with the legitimate emails, Rick had read dozens of fake ones, purportedly from the killer, describing death and dismemberment in various ways. Some of his listeners were depraved, albeit creative. He’d left the bogus ones back in his office.

  Rick picked one at random. “Okay. This one’s from a listener in Bethesda. ‘Kudos to the Afternoon Circus. Rick, I love you. I also love putting my hands around…’” Rick stopped reading aloud, read the next few sentences silently. “Okay, I think we’ll skip the rest of that one.”

  Rick checked the phone queue. The first caller wanted to talk about some difficulty he was having with his daughter o
beying her curfew. He expelled his breath, relieved not to be bombarded with calls about First Time from the outset. As the afternoon wore on, he knew he’d be getting his share, but it was nice not to be inundated from the start.

  “You are live! Speak to me, John.”

  “My name is John. I’m a first time caller.”

  “Go ahead, John. You have a problem with your daughter?”

  “My daughter? Oh, right. My daughter.” John’s voice sounded flat. Devoid of emotion. “Actually, Rick, I don’t have a daughter. And my name isn’t John. It’s First Time.”

  “What? Come on, not you, too. Don’t you all get tired of—” Rick tried to mentally compare John’s voice and speech patterns with First Time’s. Similar. “How do I know you’re him?” Rick asked. In master control, he saw the police tech sit up straighter.

  “I didn’t like what Tin Man and Tubby did this afternoon. They mocked me. Called me names. Don’t they know what I’m capable of?”

  While First Time talked, Rick’s fingers found the keyboard and he IM’d J.T: Cop getting this?

  Yes boss.

  “They know what you did. We all do. Why don’t we talk about it?” Rick tried to keep calm. If he could keep First Time on the phone, maybe the cops would trace the call and catch this guy, and they’ll be able to get back to business. Rick wasn’t a religious man, but he figured a prayer might not hurt.

  “What’s to talk about?”

  Rick swallowed. First Time seemed eerily calm, like he was recommending a dry cleaners. “Why? Why did you do it?”

  There was a pause.

  “First Time? Still there?” Sweat soaked the armpits of Rick’s shirt.

  “I had to. Simple as that.”

  “You had to kill him? Was it self-defense?” Rick whispered into the mic, like he and First Time were the only two people on the planet engaged in the conversation. Screw the other two million listeners.