by Alan Orloff
The room fell silent. Rick felt nauseated. He’d have to buy a new bottle of Pepto-Bismol, the way he was chugging through it. He was getting swept along by a giant wave, unable to change course.
A creepy grin appeared on Celia’s face. “This is how it’s going to be. Tin Man, you keep doing whatever you want. Within FCC guidelines, of course. Stunts, contests, interviews, insults, whatever. Play to your strengths. You’re radio’s bad boy.” Celia turned toward Rick. “And Rick. You do what you do best. Empathize with our concerned listeners. Give them a broad shoulder to cry on. You’re our good guy.” She stepped forward and spread out her arms again. “And me, well, I’ll do my utmost to help both of you get the best damn ratings possible. Three months from now, I plan to be on satellite.”
CHAPTER 18
IT HADN’T TAKEN much effort for First Time to uncover details about Rick Jennings’s life. A few clicks on the Internet and a wealth of knowledge scrolled by. In minutes, he’d compiled a list of the cities and stations where Rick had worked, complete with formats and dayparts. Personal appearances, quotes, bios in radio mags. The information was there for anybody to see. He even dug up tax records and information about prior home sales. And along the way, he’d even discovered a little bit of family history. Spiced up a bit, First Time thought the Rick Jennings Story had all the necessary elements to produce a two-hour, three-star, made-for-TV flick.
As he bounced around cyberspace, First Time took notes. Names, addresses, any scrap of info that might conceivably come in handy. When he was through, he’d have quite a complete dossier on his friend. First Time didn’t have too many friends. He hoped his association with Rick would be a long and fruitful one.
On the other hand, he was done with Tin Man. He wouldn’t be talking to him again.
Still online, First Time cruised to the Radio & Records website. Read the daily updates about his exploits and wondered how much he’d increased their circulation. For kicks, he typed “First Time Killer” into the browser’s search box and hit the enter key. Thousands of entries appeared. Too many to read now. He’d come back later and savor each one. At the moment, he needed to stay on task.
He called up MapQuest and entered Rick’s home address. He already knew where Rick lived, but he wanted a map of the surrounding area. On his monitor, First Time lightly traced the route from Rick’s home to the radio station with his finger. Back and forth, until the twists and turns etched into his memory. Then he repositioned the map and memorized the way from Rick’s to the mall. When he had that one down cold, he jiggered the map again. One last route. With his pinky, he traced the route from Rick’s house to Livvy’s school.
But he was getting ahead of himself. Pursuing Rick was Plan B. If things worked out the way he expected, he’d never have to resort to it. He filed his notes away.
So many things on his to-do list, so little time. First things first. His next stunt would throw the Circus into a tizzy. At least that’s what WTLK management would say publicly. He knew better. He knew the truth. Privately, they’d be pleased. It was all about ratings, and he’d deliver all right. He’d give them ratings to die for.
CHAPTER 19
J.T. HAD SECURED the sales conference room for what he called the “meeting of the misfits.” Rick lingered in the back, away from the conference table, watching the “regular” callers carry on like a bunch of seventh-graders on a field trip. Every time Rick glanced at the table, a set of crazy eyeballs stared back at him. These outcasts were anything but “regular.”
Rick surveyed the group. A half-dozen men—no women—gathered around the large table, sipping from mugs or water bottles. One, a large guy wearing a backwards baseball cap, chomped on a hoagie. Two other guys played paper football, sliding the folded paper triangle back and forth across the table’s glossy surface. Another had earbuds in his ear, but they weren’t attached to any electronic device; the jack end dangled down, resting on his chest. His head bopped to some imaginary tune.
At least the Nazi Hunter wasn’t there. As Rick waited for the meeting to start, the level of noise in the room steadily climbed.
J.T. entered the room and strode to the head of the table, stopping next to an empty chair. He raised his voice to be heard over the din. “Hey everybody. Quiet down. Detective Adams just called, said he’s on his way, but he’ll be a little late.” A few of the regulars groaned. One by one, they shifted their attention toward the back of the room where Rick leaned against the wall.
Rick glanced at J.T., found he was also staring at him. J.T. called across the room. “Hey, Rick. You want to lead things here for a while, until Adams gets here?” A look of exasperation flashed across J.T.’s face. Like the field trip chaperon who had lost control of his charges.
Rick nodded and joined J.T. at the front of the room. Time to use his status as a radio celebrity. He didn’t have to exert much influence; the room quieted by itself. “Uh, hello everyone. My name is Rick Jennings, and I—”
A collective shout rose up to greet him. “Hello, Ringmaster Rick!” To a man, their faces sported big grins.
“Okay, then. Um, why don’t we go around the table and you can each introduce yourself. I’ve spoken to most of you on-air at one time or another, but I don’t think I can match all of your names to your faces.” He nodded to the guy on his left.
“Sweet Pete here. Whassup, Rick?” He pointed back at Rick, with both hands. “Glad to be here, my man.”
“Well, thanks for coming,” Rick said. He addressed the whole group. “All of you. Thanks for coming in today to answer some questions for the police. If it helps catch First Time, then…” Rick held his hands out, palms up.
Heads nodded all around.
“Okay, who’s next?”
The beefy hoagie-eater spoke up. “My name’s Mack McCoombs. Everyone calls me Minnie Mac.” Rick recognized his high-pitched voice. He never would have matched the voice with this body, though. Minnie Mac took a bite of his sandwich, and with his mouth crammed full said, “Did you know I eat sandwiches every day? Sometimes twice a day?” Some shredded lettuce escaped his mouth, landing on the table in front of him.
Rick gestured to the guy on Minnie Mac’s left.
“I’m Whizzer. And this is my friend Lap Dog.” Whizzer reached over and patted the shoulder of the man sitting next to him. Lap Dog merely nodded at Rick.
Another big man, Harrison Johnson, aka Hard Core Harry, came next, followed by a lanky guy in a Grateful Dead t-shirt with a long white beard who called himself Godman. Godman had been playing paper football with Whizzer. Rick wondered who had won.
Dimitri Papadoukas was the last to introduce himself. When he did, all of the other regulars stopped their chatting and fidgeting and paid attention. Rick figured running a website must have elevated his stature among the regulars.
“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you all in person,” Rick said, propping up his smile. They gave him the willies. He turned to J.T. “This everyone?”
“Johnnie Ray and Wilma Flintstone couldn’t make it. I don’t know where Manchild is. He said he was going to be here, but he doesn’t have a car and I think the bus schedules confuse him.” J.T. shrugged. “There were a bunch of others I didn’t even call, too.” He shrugged again.
Rick thought it must be tough keeping track of the dozens of weirdos who clung to the show like remoras. He didn’t envy J.T’s task at all. “Okay, then. All of you guys follow the Circus. Who has any ideas why First Time seems to be targeting this particular show?”
Godman jumped up. “Because it’s the best damn show on the air, that’s why. I mean, if you’re going to zoom in on one show, you might as well go for the best.” His eyes darted around, looking for support. A few others nodded in agreement. He lowered himself into his chair, obviously proud of himself. Even Godman needed an ego boost now and then, Rick figured.
“Okay. Makes sense,” Rick said. “Anyone else?”
“He knew you and Tin Man were cool, would take his calls,”
Sweet Pete said. “You dudes are righteous. You’d give him a fair shake, a good deal, a sweet trip.” His face tightened as his eyes swept over the conference table. “Hey, I thought J.T. said there’d be refreshments.”
To the side, Rick saw J.T. shrug. He ignored it, wanting to wrap things up as quickly as he could. “Okay, thanks. Who’s—”
Minnie Mac spoke. “He’s just a big freak, that’s all. Thinks he’s hot shit, calling up, saying he’s done this and done that.” He paused for a second, then belched. Grinned. “Sorry. Listen, First Time wants to be famous, but all he’s doing is killing people. Any freak can do that. That’s not the best way to get famous.” He stopped talking, but his mouth remained open.
Rick waited to hear Minnie Mac’s tips on achieving fame, but nothing came out. He’d returned to his hoagie. This was hopeless. Rick wondered why he’d decided to waste his time coming to this meeting. As soon as he found out Adams was going to be late, he should’ve excused himself.
“He’s probably a serial killer,” Dimitri said. He was a small man, about thirty-five years old.
“Go on.”
“This is probably the first in a long string of murders. I bet he’s got some kind of weird pattern in mind. Maybe he’ll kill one person from every radio show on the air. Or maybe it has something to do with the zodiac. Isn’t that something serial killers like to mess with?” Dimitri asked. He punctuated his sentences with odd little hand movements. A little twitchy, Rick thought.
“I’m not sure you can lump all serial killers together. Besides, he’s only killed one person so far. That doesn’t exactly make a serial killer.” Rick glanced at his watch. Where was Adams? Maybe he’d have better luck getting some useful information out of these guys. Probably knew some very effective interrogation techniques.
Lap Dog raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“Rick, I don’t think First Time is a loyal listener. If he was, he wouldn’t have called in. This is messing with the show. I don’t want to hear about people’s arms in the trash. I want to hear about you and about Tin Man. Your lives, your dreams, your insights. If I wanted to hear some retarded nutcases spewing forth, I’d hang around with these losers more often.” He looked around the table and smirked.
“Hey, fuck you, Lap Dog.”
“Eat me, you dipshit.”
“Your mama.”
“She was good, yo mama. Yes she was. So good, in fact, I had her twice.”
The insults flew as the room descended into anarchy. Minnie Mac tossed his soggy hoagie wrapper at Godman, and Godman chucked his half-empty water bottle back at him. Hard Core Harry picked up a chair and began brandishing it like a lion tamer. Whizzer hid under the table, barking like a dog.
J.T. dove into the fray, trying to restore order.
Rick slipped quietly from the room.
CHAPTER 20
“MY GUEST SHOW up yet?” Rick asked J.T. over the intercom. There was about a minute to air, and the psych professor from George Mason University hadn’t materialized yet. Probably stuck in traffic. Rick would have to find some other angle to explore until he arrived.
“Uh, boss. I think there’s been a change in plans. Celia said something about some different guests.” J.T. shrugged at Rick through the glass.
“What? Who?” Just what Rick needed right before going on, Celia screwing with his show. He should know better than to make deals with a program director.
Rick saw J.T.’s head turn. “Here they are now. Ten seconds to air. You’ll have to greet them live. Sorry.”
Rick cursed Celia. This was the last straw. He’d have it out with her after the show. J.T. pointed at Rick, mouthing the words, You’re on.
The door to the studio opened, and Celia ushered a man and a woman in. Rick nodded to them as he leaned forward toward the mic.
“Good afternoon everybody. This is Rick Jennings on the Afternoon Circus. Broadcasting from WTLK in Fairfax, Virginia. Syndicated across this great country of ours.” As he spoke, he gestured for the pair to take a seat on the two stools next to him, and pointed out their mics. “Pardon us for a moment, I’ve got two guests entering the studio now. Let me get them buckled in, and we’ll kick the show off.”
Rick helped them get positioned so they could reach the mics. “Hey, nothing like live radio to add a little zip to your day.” Rick loved live radio, as long as he was in control. It was the surprises he wasn’t fond of.
“Okay. Everybody settled in? Great. Why don’t you introduce yourselves? Just speak into the mics, like you were talking to your neighbors over a cup of coffee. Okay?” Rick smiled, trying to put his guests at ease. Then he tapped off an IM to J.T. Who are these people?
The man moved his mouth up to the mic. “My name is Barney Danzler. I’m here with my wife, Miriam.” She didn’t lift her face, content to examine her hands in her lap. A curt nod was the only sign she’d heard what her husband said.
Oh fuck. Ted Danzler’s parents. What was Celia doing? “Uh, I’m terribly sorry for your loss. It was a terrible, terrible tragedy.” Rick looked into master control, searching for Celia. She was seated, engrossed in something on the desk. She knew better than to make eye contact with him now. On the monitor, J.T.’s IM popped up. Sorry, boss. Not my idea.
Barney leaned closer to the mic, while Miriam kept her eyes cast downward. “Devastating. To lose a child. Might as well have killed me too,” Barney said as he gently, almost reverently, set a small picture frame on the console before him and angled it so his wife could see too. If she raised her head. A photo of Ted in a graduation gown and tasseled mortarboard.
“I can’t begin to imagine your loss.” Rick mentally spun through a dozen questions to ask, but had trouble deciding on a course for the interview. What did Celia expect from him? Tearjerkers weren’t usually his strong suit. “Is there something I can do to help ease your pain?”
Barney glanced at Miriam, but his wife wasn’t looking. “We don’t want what happened to us to happen to anyone else.” Barney swallowed, choking back the tears. “So we’re asking. Begging. If you have any information about Ted’s murder, please let us know. Please.”
“Well, I think maybe we’ll leave that to the pol—” Rick said.
Barney spoke up. “We last saw him eighteen days ago, on Sunday, January 9. We’d just had dinner at O’Tooles, by the university. They were on break then, and he seemed so relaxed. Said he was going to meet some friends later that night. He never made it.” A single tear dripped down Barney’s face. He backhanded it away. “I shook his hand goodnight at about 9:10. It was the last time I saw him.”
“Tragic, Barney. You must be heartbroken.” Rick knew how it felt to be terrified for a child’s life. The horrible what-ifs took over your life, possessed every waking moment. And too many of the sleeping ones.
“Please, my wife and I are begging you. We want this monster caught. If you know anything, or saw anything, that might lead to his capture, let us know.”
The phone lines lit up. Seemed people wanted to talk to the Danzlers. Rick eyed the board. Should he take calls? Or was that just inviting trouble? He shot a look into master control, this time found Celia staring back at him. He watched as J.T. slid the keyboard over to her. An IM popped up. Take some calls. Let the Danzlers talk to the listeners. Rick shook her off, turned to his guests. “Barney? Why don’t you tell us a little more about Ted? I’m sure the listeners would like to get a better sense of who he was.”
While Barney talked about his dear son, Rick pulled his keyboard closer, typed out an IM to Celia. What are you doing? This is a disaster about to happen.
Celia replied. This is good radio. It’s what people want. Take some calls, you’ll see.
I can’t believe you set me up like that, Rick typed.
Get over yourself, Rick. We’ve got a show to do. Get cracking. Take the calls. Now! On the other side of the glass wall, Celia stood, crossed her arms.
Celia should be careful what she wished for. After a
few callers, she’d see what a colossal mistake this was.
“…and he really loved his time here at the station. He often talked about how much he’d like to be a talk show host.” Barney stopped to take a breath. Looked at Rick for direction.
Rick set the keyboard aside. “Barney. Miriam. We all feel your pain. How about if we take some calls? Let you talk with some of our listeners? Let them express their sympathy.”
Finally, Miriam looked up. She and Barney exchanged glances. Miriam looked like a deer in the headlights, but Barney seemed to brace himself. Putting on a brave front for his wife. For himself. “Okay. Sure,” Barney said.
Rick felt sorry for him. Barney had no idea what he’d agreed to. Rick checked the phone queue, hit line three. “You are live, Jill! Speak to us.”
“Hi Rick. Hello Mr. and Mrs. Danzler. I’m so sorry for your loss. I knew Ted. He was in my journalism class at Mason. He always knew all the answers.” Jill paused. “That’s all I wanted to say. They’ll catch him. They will.”
“Thank you, Jill.” Rick glanced at his guests. Miriam had her eyes closed and was sobbing quietly. “Sounds like Ted had a lot of friends.”
Barney said, “Oh, he did. Always hanging out with his buddies, going to parties. Everybody loved Ted.” Barney reached out and grabbed Miriam’s hand. Her sobbing intensified.
Rick reached over, gripped Barney on the shoulder. Managed a weak smile and lowered his voice. “Let’s take another call. You are live. Speak to me, Dylan.”
“I know where the rest of Ted’s body is.” Giggles in the background.
Rick disconnected him. Shit. It didn’t take long for the nuts to come crawling out of the woodwork, like roaches when the lights go out. “Sorry about that. No matter what the situation, we get jerks calling in. On behalf of the entire Circus, and all its normal fans, I apologize.”
