First Time Killer

by Alan Orloff

  “Did he fight for the North or the South?”

  Rick didn’t take the bait. “Nam, actually. Listen. Just do what you’d normally do. Ray won’t be expecting you to entertain him. Really. Go shopping. Read books. Take long baths.”

  “Watch my stories and eat bon-bons? You have no idea what I do when you’re at work, do you?”

  “I’m just saying, do whatever you want. Ray will go with the flow. Same for Livvy. Maybe she’ll make some new friends.” Rick reduced his voice to a whisper. “With any luck, they’ll catch this guy in a few days and you can move home. Then we can pretend it never happened.”

  “I hate you, Rick Jennings.” A smile slowly grew on Barb’s lips.

  “Look on the bright side,” Rick said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Maybe you can pick up some recipe tips. Ray’s a fantastic cook.”

  CHAPTER 33

  THE OFFICE TIN Man and Tubby shared would have made a broom closet look like the Presidential Suite. Two desks, no windows. A small TV in the corner with an Xbox plugged in. A couple of Springsteen posters on the wall. A red plastic milk crate full of Maxim and old FHM magazines Tubby liked to research. All in all, Tin Man thought, a depressing, isolated existence. Not one befitting a shock jock on his way up.

  He swiveled his chair around and glanced at his partner. Tubby’s desk faced the back wall, and Tin Man could make out the beginning of a bald spot as his partner leaned back in his chair. Tubby had his Nikes up on his desk, working on a crossword puzzle. Not a New York Times puzzle, or even one from the Post. He was struggling through one in TV Guide.

  Enough farting around, they had a show to do. Tin Man flung a pencil at Tubby, hitting him squarely in the back of the head. “Hey dipshit. Let’s talk about our show.”

  Tubby caught himself before he tipped over backward in his chair. “Okay. Take it easy.” He set the magazine down on his desk and turned around. “What about it?”

  Tin Man took a deep breath. “Listen. I think you need to step it up some. Show a little more spunk. I’m the headliner, but I need a stronger number two man. Think Robin Quivers. Or Ed McMahon, before he kicked. You know, they inject some personality into the show without crowding the star. That’s what I’m looking for.”

  Tubby looked hurt. “I’m trying, man. I really am. I just…”

  “I know you’re trying. But you’ve got to try harder.”

  “It’s just that you’re so funny, sometimes I find myself listening to you, rather than thinking of something to say.” The look on Tubby’s face reminded Tin Man of a chocolate lab he once owned.

  “Okay, okay. You just need to concentrate more. Don’t be so tense, either. Just let it flow,” Tin Man said. Maybe he’d do better without a partner. Or maybe he should think about asking Marie the Psychic to join him. He’d have to talk to Celia about that.

  “I’ll try harder.” His eyes shifted, focusing on something over Tin Man’s shoulder. “In fact, I’ve been thinking about a few skits that might work well.”

  Skits? Jesus Christ, what was with this guy? Did he want to bring back Amos ’N Andy? “Well, it’s good you’re thinking. We can discuss those ideas another day. Right now, I don’t have to tell you how important ratings are. We’re neck and neck with Rick Jennings. And we’ve got to kick his ass.” Tin Man took a sip of coffee from his Giants mug. Lukewarm.

  Tubby nodded. “How?”

  “First Time. He’s the key. Our listeners are lapping him up. All we have to do is keep it coming.”

  “Uh, I don’t think First Time is very happy about all of this,” Tubby said, face taking on an ashen cast. “He killed Danzler. He killed Garth. Do you think we could be next?”

  “First Time’s a psycho, but he’s not going to try anything here. Didn’t you notice the Rent-a-Goon in the lobby Marty hired? Take precautions, but don’t wuss out. Just be sure you’re not alone away from work. Or do what I did. Check into a motel somewhere using a fake name. Feel free to use Rush Limbaugh.”

  Tubby didn’t crack a smile. “Maybe it would be safer if we ignored him. Ran some other wild contest that had nothing to do with him. Get the show back to normal.”

  “Normal?” Tin Man couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You really are a dumbshit. We need to swing for the fences here. Hit one out of the ballpark. We need the ratings to get the satellite deal and make millions. Once we’re on satellite, everyone in the country will have the chance to hear us. We’ll be fucking famous. If you’re too scared to go for that, then you are in the wrong business.”

  He paused, waited a moment for Tubby to reply. When he didn’t, Tin Man pounded on his desk. “We’re shock jocks. What could be more shocking than having an on-going dialogue with a killer? This is what we fucking live for. And I’ll be fucking fucked if I’m going to let my one chance to be a radio icon slip through my fucking fingers.”

  CHAPTER 34

  LATER THAT DAY, Rick received a summons to a meeting in Marty’s office. When he entered, everyone stopped talking and stared at him. Marty sat behind his large cherry desk fiddling with a pen, forehead shiny from a light sheen of perspiration. Celia leaned casually against a matching wall unit, arms crossed. The tendons in her forearms stood out. She reminded Rick of a sleeping jaguar, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.

  Detective Adams perched on the corner of Marty’s gleaming desk, one long leg stretching down to the floor while the other dangled a bit. Judging from Marty’s expression as he looked at Adams, he didn’t seem pleased by the seating arrangement.

  Tin Man wasn’t there. Probably sleeping or harassing coeds at the community college. Something useful to his career.

  “Come in, come in.” Marty waved Rick in. “You know Detective Adams?”

  Rick nodded and Adams nodded back with crinkled eyes. Rick didn’t like the whole dynamic, but he was powerless to change anything.

  “Good. Well, Brewster had to fly to Palo Alto to address an investor group, but he’s going to try to join us in a couple of minutes by conference call,” Marty said, looking from Adams to Celia to Rick. When no one spoke, Marty cleared his throat. “So, Detective. You called this meeting. What can we do for you?”

  Adams adjusted his jacket. Waited a moment to get everyone’s attention. “We want you to shut down the Afternoon Circus. At least—”

  Both Celia and Marty interrupted, but Marty ceded to Celia’s louder voice. “What are you talking about, Detective? No way are we going to be pressured into folding. Haven’t we already been through this? Don’t you realize he wins, if we shut down? First Time wins.” She smiled smugly, certain she’d made her point.

  “I’d rather First Time win than kill,” Adams said. “You can play Best Ofs or spin records or do whatever other radio stations do. Give the Afternoon Circus a vacation. Just until we catch this guy.”

  It was Marty’s turn to speak. “Listen, Adams—”

  “Detective Adams.”

  Marty’s face flushed. He glanced at Celia, then back at Adams. “Sorry. Detective Adams. We have a business to run here. Our advertisers pay good money to be on our show. They expect results. They expect listeners. And our listeners expect to hear current, topical shows. First Time happens to be the hot topic,” Marty said. Rick felt the beginning of a headache forming.

  “He’s killing people. Not just any people. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s killing people from your station. If he continues, there might not be anyone left,” Adams said. “Then what would your listeners listen to?” He eased himself off Marty’s desk. “Do what’s best—for you, for your show, for your listeners. For the general public. Forget First Time. Talk about midgets or supermodels or people having affairs with their wives’ sisters. See who can belch the loudest while eating cat food. But leave him alone. You’re just liable to infuriate him further. And we know what happens when he gets mad.” Adams abruptly turned to Rick, who’d been content to neither be seen nor heard during the discussion. “What’s your tak
e?”

  “Well—” Rick shrugged.

  “He feels like we do. The show must go on,” Celia said, cheeks rosy. Rick knew she thrived on conflict and argument. If she won, that is.

  “Why don’t you let him answer for himself?” Adams glared at her.

  “We stick together. We all do what’s best for each other, and the show. Right, Rick?” Celia arched an eyebrow at him.

  Celia had spoken. Going against her would only spell trouble. “Detective. What I believe has little relevance here. I’ve got a job to do, and I’ll do it the best I can. With or without anyone’s blessings.” Rick prided himself on his ability to give an answer that would tick everyone off.

  Celia crossed her arms across her chest. Stared at Adams, challenging him to suggest something else she could shoot down. Marty cowered behind his desk, looking very much like a cuckolded wimp getting redressed by his wife for being worthless. Rick felt a little sorry for him. He was getting worked from above by Brewster and from below by Celia. Puppet man polka.

  Adams shook his head. “You are too much. All of you. We’ve got a guy killing people and hacking off their body parts and you’re worried about your stupid show’s ratings.” His eyes turned hard. “Do I need to rustle up a court order?”

  Marty’s hand was on his phone before Adams had finished his sentence. “I’m calling Stanton.” He started punching in numbers.

  “Hang up,” Celia said. Both rows of teeth showed in her mouth.

  Marty set the phone back in its cradle, clearly relieved he wouldn’t have to drag Stanton into this mess.

  “Detective, would you mind giving us a few minutes to chat alone?” Celia asked.

  Adams nodded, looked around. “Sure. I’ll go call the office. Excuse me.”

  As soon as Adams shut the door behind him, Celia and Marty started talking at each other. Celia was pumped, saying over and over how good ratings were going to be this week. Marty bemoaned the police department’s involvement, worried about what Brewster and Stanton would say when they found out he’d gone against the wishes of Detective Adams.

  Rick watched them deliver their simultaneous monologues, both talking, neither listening. “Shut up ! Shut up for a minute!” He stepped forward and leaned on Marty’s desk. Celia had stopped talking but her mouth hung open. Marty stared at Rick with wide eyes. “You two are unbelievable. Adams is right. We should shut the show down for a while. Go on vacation. First Time’s already killed two of us. Who’s going to be next?” Rick pointed across the desk at Marty. “You? What if First Time decides to kill you? Or Celia? Or me, for Christsakes? Are we willing to risk that?”

  Marty’s face turned crimson. He glanced nervously at Celia for support, but didn’t say anything in his defense.

  Rick didn’t dial back his intensity. “I don’t know about you, but my life is more important than any stupid ratings book. This is just a radio show!”

  Celia looked like she’d been socked in the gut. For a moment. Then she regained her icy composure. “I’m not running scared. Think about it. Adams has it wrong. Backwards. First Time’s not going to kill again because of us. We’re going to prevent him from killing again.”

  “Maybe we should run this by Stanton. He’d know how to handle Adams,” Marty said, rising from his chair and moving closer to Celia. Although he was older and a good six inches taller than Celia, there was no question who cut the more imposing figure. This radio station was Celia’s dominion, and Rick realized sleeping with Brewster wasn’t a factor. She’d be running the joint regardless.

  “Hello? Marty?” The speakerphone did nothing to diminish the rumbling baritone of Brewster’s voice.

  Marty spun around, craning his neck down to the phone on his desk. “Yes. I’m here. With Celia and Rick Jennings.”

  “What’s going on there?”

  Marty said, “Detective Adams wants us to shut down the Circus. Says he’s going to get a court order, so we—”

  Celia interrupted. “There isn’t a judge in this country who’ll do that. We’ve got about five amendments on our side. I’d say Adams was bluffing.” She stared at Marty. Rick took a step forward, ready to reprise his argument for Brewster.

  Marty started to respond, but was cut off by Celia, who was cut off, in turn, by the speakerphone.

  “Quiet! Stop talking!” Brewster sounded like he was addressing two feuding toddlers. “As much as I want to close this satellite deal, I’ve got to think of the long term repercussions of antagonizing a madman. A negative public image will kill us, even if we get great ratings. Who knows, SatRad may suddenly develop a conscience and kill the deal if they think we’re somehow responsible for any more deaths. I’m sure you understand.”

  Celia plopped down in a chair.

  “Yes, we understand,” Marty said. Rick thought he looked relieved again.

  “This is what we’re going to do. Marty, I want you to write up a statement. ‘In the best interests of the community, WTLK has decided to suspend broadcasts of the Afternoon Circus indefinitely, blah, blah, blah.’ We can run Best Of shows for a while.”

  “You can’t be serious, Brew! Going off the air now will kill us.” Celia looked like she was about to cry. Rick stepped back from the phone. He’d gotten what he wanted. No need to pile on.

  “Sorry. As I’ve said, we can’t risk something bad happening and it backfiring on us. That would kill the SatRad deal for sure,” Brewster said. “We have to do it. As of now, the Circus is on hiatus.”

  CHAPTER 35

  FIRST TIME CURLED his fist around the cold hard knife handle in the pocket of his parka. Sharp, lethal, reassuring. His trusty tool. His razor of revenge. He glanced at his watch. 9:43 p.m. Any minute, his prey would waltz through the doors. He slumped against the wall, trying to appear uninterested in everything. Keeping one eye on the exit.

  Almost on cue, the outer mall doors swung open and two women came bursting through, filling the brisk night with their hot air. The blond was wearing the same high-heeled boots she’d worn at the studio, but this time, no bikini. Too cold for that. He waited a moment, then fell in behind them, instinctively pulling the hood of his coat up over his head. Not so much for warmth, but for the shadows it provided. He followed them into the parking lot as they headed for their cars.

  First Time had followed Ashlee for four consecutive nights, and it was always the same routine. Tops ’N Bottoms closed at 9:30. They’d shut the store down, and at about quarter to ten, she and her friend would exit the mall chatting, no doubt about all the losers they waited on during their shift. Then they would walk directly to their cars, which were parked in the farthest part of the lot, where he guessed the employees were instructed to park. Each night, he’d followed Ashlee home and she hadn’t gone out again. For someone so hot, it struck First Time odd she was such a homebody. Maybe she saved it all up for the weekends. He didn’t care. What was, was. And if tonight went according to plan, What was, used to be.

  It was the perfect night. He’d already scouted things out. Ashlee had parked farther away than her friend, by about fifteen spaces. He gripped the knife again, caressing the handle through his gloves, feeling his excitement grow as he struggled to maintain a casual gait. Didn’t want to spook her. Despite the cold, sweat soaked his shirt collar.

  As Ashlee and her friend approached her friend’s old red Corolla, First Time quickened his pace and angled toward a nearby car, fumbling in his pocket as if he were searching for his keys. Twenty feet to his right he heard Ashlee say, “Bye, Mira. See ya tomorrow.” Then Mira climbed in and started her car while Ashlee walked toward hers, head up, boots clattering on the asphalt.

  First Time moved around the side of the Taurus and hustled after her, not quite running. Didn’t want to alarm the few other employees walking to their cars.

  He’d closed the gap to about fifteen feet as Ashlee reached her car. He flipped his hood off and called out, “Excuse me.”

  Ashlee’s head whipped around, and First Time detected pan
ic in her eyes. He willed himself to remain calm, not wanting to let his glee ruin things. “It’s Ashlee, right?”

  Ashlee seemed puzzled, then her eyes darted around frantically, looking for someone to help her. Her mouth opened.

  “It’s me, Chris. From the radio station. Remember? At the chicken contest?” First Time had used a fake name when they’d met. Planning was everything.

  Her mouth closed as recognition clicked in Ashlee’s memory. The fear drained, letting her pretty face shine. Pretty, but still wary. “Right. Sorry. Took me a minute.”

  “I need a favor. My car won’t start,” First Time said, gesturing over his shoulder. “Could you help me out?”

  Ashlee glanced around the parking lot. First Time knew she was evaluating the situation. Still a few people milling about and a fair number of parked cars.

  “Please?” First Time held his hands out, empty. Pleading. Tilted his head like he’d seen George Clooney do in some movie where he ended up with the hot chick.

  Ashlee stared at him for a second, then shrugged. “Sure.” She dug in her purse. “You can use my phone.”

  “Oh, thanks. But I think I saw one of the mall security cars go by a couple of minutes ago.” He pointed to his left, around the back corner of the mall. “Why don’t you just run me over there on your way out? It’ll just take a minute, and it will save me a lot of walking.” Without waiting for an answer, First Time rounded the car to the passenger’s side. When he reached the door, Ashlee eyed him over the top of the car. He felt the knife in his pocket and smiled the most innocent, innocuous, ingratiating smile he could muster.

  It worked.

  “Hop in,” she said. “Let’s go find mall security.”

  The smile never failed.

  First Time buckled his seat belt. You could never be too careful. “Man, what a coincidence. Bumping into you there. You saved me.”