First Time Killer

by Alan Orloff

  Ashlee started the engine. “Hey, don’t mention it. Just glad I can help.” She backed out of the space and drove to the end of the row. “You said he was to the left?” A quick glance at First Time.

  “Yep. Shouldn’t be too far.” He turned in his seat to face Ashlee. “I loved your appearance on the show. You really gave it to First Time. You’re quite the poet.”

  Ashlee waited to turn left as a steady stream of cars rolled by. In ten minutes, the lots would be deserted. “First Time is a scumbag, plain and simple. He should be castrated and then made to eat his balls.”

  First Time had to give her credit—she had spunk. But she was a bitch nonetheless. “Isn’t that a bit harsh?” He patted his coat pocket. Still there. Waiting to come out and play. To meet Ashlee face-to-face.

  “Harsh? He fucking killed someone. What a limp dick.” Ashlee hit the gas, shooting the gap in traffic perfectly. They were now on the service road that circled the entire mall.

  First Time swallowed. “I thought maybe it was all just an act. So you could win the money.”

  Ashlee laughed, raw and honest. The sound burned First Time’s ears. “Oh, I wanted to win. That was my skimpiest bikini. But I meant every word I said. I’d bite off that prick’s prick, if I could.” Defiant and challenging. She stopped talking abruptly and slowed down, head working back and forth as she scanned the parking lot for the mall security car.

  First Time’s anger intensified. What had started out as excitement was morphing into something darker, more sinister. Who was she to pass judgment? What did she know about him? About his past? About his future? His breathing became more rapid, and his nose twitched. Her perfume—reminiscent of lilacs—had triggered some bad memories. She was ruining his night.

  “Up ahead. There. To the right.” First Time pointed.

  Ashlee leaned forward, trying to see what First Time saw. “Where?”

  “Over there. See? Oh, drat. He just went around the corner.” First Time pointed again. “Make your next right.”

  She did as she was told and turned right onto a narrow access road serving a small office building, one of a half dozen such buildings surrounding the mall.

  “I don’t see him.” The sharp, confident edge had eroded from Ashlee’s tone. The rear of the office building was on their right, a small copse of woods stood on their left. A narrow, but deep, rock-covered ravine cut through the trees. The ravine was hidden in the dark, but First Time had done a thorough job with his advance scouting. Their car cruised up the lane, slowly approaching two large green Dumpsters. No other cars were visible.

  “He must have just turned off. He was right there.” First Time unbuckled his seat belt and leaned forward, peering into the night. A single security lamp illuminated the Dumpsters, reflecting some light into the car.

  Ashlee braked to a stop. “Look. Why don’t we call someone, like AAA or something?” First Time detected a note of uncertainty in her voice. He could smell her fear festering. He was an expert in such things. “I’ll drive you back to your car.” Now her voice quavered.

  She reached for the gearshift, but First Time beat her to it. Forced the car into Park and grabbed a big handful of blond hair. Faster than he looked. Ashlee fought back, then ceased when First Time brought his knife out with his free hand and brandished it in front of her face. The meager light glinted off the silvery steel blade. He tightened his hold on her hair and yanked until she whimpered. “As quiet as a mouse, Ashlee.” He spat out the words. “If you scream or try to fight me, I’ll slash your tender throat.” She was a wisp of a girl and he was a hefty brute, but she did have that spunk. “Unbuckle your seat belt.”

  First Time felt Ashlee trembling as she complied. Then the sobbing began. He opened his door and pulled Ashlee across the center console, gripping her hair tightly through his thin glove. “Shhh. Shhh. Don’t say a word.” Once she was standing, he turned her around slightly to face him, making sure to position her face in as much light as possible. He wanted—needed—to see the expression on her perfect Barbie-doll face.

  First Time grinned. “By the way, my name isn’t really Chris.” He paused, reveling as Ashlee’s face contorted. First into confusion, then into understanding. Then into terror. “My name is First Time.”

  Ashlee started to scream and flail, but he pulled back on her hair and brought the knife up to her neck. She tensed, but remained quiet.

  First Time motioned toward the woods. “Everything will be all right. Don’t worry. We’re going to visit my arboreal abattoir.” He suppressed a smile, thinking she wasn’t the only one with poetic aptitude. Not that he really considered limericks poetry.

  As he dragged Ashlee down into the ravine, he wondered what his collaborator would think of his latest handiwork.

  CHAPTER 36

  IT WAS A sunny day, warm for early February, and the bitter winds of the arctic jet stream had abated. All the snow they’d gotten a few weeks earlier had melted, leaving only a sediment of dirty grit in the gutters, where it would stay until the soaking showers of spring came and washed it away, down the drains and out to the Chesapeake bay, miles and miles and miles to the east.

  Rick lagged behind the mass of co-workers as the procession from WTLK snaked along the sidewalk on the four-block walk to their destination. He avoided the others, not wanting to make small talk, not wanting to voice his own thoughts about what was happening. Not wanting to speculate about what might happen next. Whatever vibes radiated from his core were doing the trick; no one approached him.

  The walk gave him some time to sort things out. As if he needed more time—he hadn’t slept soundly in more than a week, and his insomnia had been compounded by Barb and Livvy moving out. It was hard having your work meld with your personal life. There was no escape.

  It was obvious First Time felt some kind of perverse connection with the Circus, and Rick scoured his memory, trying to identify anyone from his past with something against him or the show. He mentally sifted through co-workers, crazy callers, show regulars, hoping the bad apple would bob to the top. Nobody stuck out. He refused to believe Dr. Caldwell was right, that he knew First Time. He’d consider it, then dismiss it, always coming back to the same thought. First Time was most likely a faceless listener who had a severe mental problem. Impossible for him to identify. True or not, it made him feel better, thinking he didn’t know the twisted soul responsible for the killings. And for throwing the whole region into a tizzy.

  Rick followed the group into the shopping center parking lot, passing a Barnes & Noble bookstore. Too early to be open, he saw a couple of clerks inside stacking the newest bestseller into some kind of aesthetic 3-D structure. Very arty.

  The raggedy parade cut across the lot diagonally, toward the back left, where the multiplex was located. In the evenings, this shopping center bustled with activity, shops and trendy restaurants brimming. Now, before ten in the morning, it was a depressing monument to cement, asphalt, and consumerism. Even on a warm sunny day in February.

  Rick considered dashing into the Safeway to grab a cup of coffee, but decided to forego his jolt of caffeine for now. He didn’t want to be the last one to the party. Bad form.

  The Fairfax Fifteen Cineplex marquee listed plenty of movies, some Rick had heard of, others unknown to him. One thing it didn’t list was Garth Vetter’s prayer service. This time, like the previous all-hands meeting, no buzz of excitement filled the air. No hope of some great deal being settled. Only sadness. Shock. And plenty of fear.

  Rick walked through the lobby, past closed concession counters brimming with brightly-colored candy packages. Large, glass-enclosed popcorn machines stood silent. Soda machines waited patiently for the thirsty evening crowds.

  After Rick entered theater number three, it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Down in front of the screen, Celia, Marty, Brewster, and a man he didn’t recognize sat stiffly in chairs with tall backs, which must have been brought in for the special occasion. Since Gart
h’s body hadn’t been found yet, no one wanted to come out and officially declare Garth dead. So the gathering was being billed as a prayer vigil. Despite what it was called, Rick—along with the majority of his co-workers—recognized it for what it was. A memorial service.

  Rick noticed the way upper management whispered quietly to each other. Careful to always maintain an expression of solemn concern. He knew better. Most likely, they were talking about how to use Garth’s death to goose the ratings.

  To their left, Linc Vetter sat slightly apart from the management cabal. His pretty-boy face was impassive; he simply stared out at those gathered, a study in grief. He reminded Rick of an Annie Leibovitz subject. Rick still found it hard to believe Linc and Garth had been related. The Glam and the Goth.

  J.T. and a gaggle of interns filled the front row, on the left, and Damon Oh sat behind them, chatting up the new receptionist. Oh was always on the make, and Winn had finally gotten so fed up he’d specifically prohibited Oh from hitting on any of the interns.

  Members of the dark-business-suited sales staff comprised the first few rows of the other side of the theater. Lassita, their fearless leader, sat on the aisle, watching over her charges like a mother hen.

  Rick made his way down the carpeted aisle and slid in next to Winn, a few rows behind the contingent of sales reps. “Hey. This seat taken?”

  “Was saving it for Celia, but you can have it.”

  “Missed you this morning,” Rick said. “Thought we were going to drive in together.”

  “I’m an early riser. Wanted to get going. Sorry.” A small belch escaped Winn’s mouth.

  A cloud of 100-proof breath drifted by. Nine-thirty in the morning and he was already at it. Things were getting out of control. As much as Rick wanted to berate Winn right there, he held his tongue in check. The middle of a memorial service wasn’t the place—he’d have to find a better time to confront Winn about his drinking. Maybe tonight at dinner.

  Rick took a deep breath and forced himself to switch gears. “Have any good conversations on the walk over?” Garth’s death had been the only topic of conversation around the station since it happened.

  Winn slumped down in his seat. “No. I drove. Alone.”

  Just what the station needed on top of First Time. An employee getting tagged for DUI on the way to a memorial service. He definitely needed to have that talk.

  “Sleep okay last night?” Winn asked. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “I slept all right.” Rick stifled a yawn. At about 2:30, he was awakened by Winn hacking and coughing. Kept him up until four. He leaned over. “Hey, you’re the news guy. Unearthed any good information? Talked to anyone who knows anything?”

  “Naw. Most of the people were wondering who’d be next.” Winn chuckled, a hollow, mirthless sound. “If First Time’s taking requests, I’ve got a few.”

  Rick shot him a look. The more people talked about it, the more nervous they became. Despite reassurances from Marty and Celia—and the security guard who camped in the lobby—a couple of the interns had quit. One said the job “wasn’t what he expected.” The other was more truthful. She claimed her mother threatened to cut off her allowance if she went one more day to “that den of murder disguised as a radio station.”

  Winn leaned over, patted the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’m prepared.” He winked at Rick.

  “What?”

  “Pistol. First Time comes near me, he’s Last Time.”

  Rick shook his head. Winn packing heat? Was the whole world going crazy? “Why don’t you lock that thing up? Everybody’ll be a lot safer that way. Yourself included.”

  “Got a right, you know,” Winn grumbled.

  “Listen to me. You need to ditch that thing. I can just see you now. Getting awakened by a squirrel, and you’ll come up shooting.” Rick reached over and grabbed Winn’s forearm. “Please?”

  Winn didn’t respond to Rick’s plea, just nodded at the front of the theater. “I guess there aren’t any previews today. Showtime.”

  The man sitting next to Brewster had risen and was making his way to a podium. He was a large man, with gray-white hair cropped close to the scalp. He wore a dull dark suit with a dull blue tie. Double dully-dullsville, as Barb would say. The way he held his head and took in the gathered mourners hinted to Rick the dullness would vanish once he opened his mouth.

  “Welcome,” the man said, as he placed the book he was holding on the podium. “My name is Preston Delp.” His deep voice reverberated in the room, echoing back at Rick from all angles. Dolby Surround Sound, in person. To Rick, he sounded like another radio man blessed with great pipes. A kindred spirit. Rick could tell from how the man captured everyone’s attention on an intimate level he was used to performing before a crowd.

  Delp’s eyes roamed the hall, seeming to search out a specific person as he made contact with many. The personal touch. “I’m a spiritual counselor.” He turned back and swept his arm in Linc Vetter’s direction. “Linc asked me to come and lead you today. In a difficult time like this, it’s important to seek solace in each other. And in the Lord. Let us pray.”

  The voices grew in number and intensity while Rick tuned out, unfamiliar with the prayers. He wasn’t a regular churchgoer, saving his visits for the happy times around Christmas or the sad times of those passing. No in-between when it came to talking with God.

  After a couple of hymns, everyone settled down as Delp pulled a piece of paper from his prayer book. He pushed aside the microphone and cleared his throat. “We have come today to pray for the soul of Garth Vetter. And to help his cousin, Linc, through this time of distress.” Once again, he gestured to his right, to Linc, and bowed his head. The air inside the theater was still. Stuffy. A faint odor of popcorn lingered. “I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing Garth, but I have known Linc for a few years now. We share your loss, Linc. All of us.” He bowed his head once more.

  Across the theater, Rick noticed a few people he didn’t recognize. They didn’t look like temps. Probably some of Garth’s personal friends. He hadn’t given it much thought, but it only made sense Garth had a life outside the station. After his death, the gossip mill had churned out the basics of Garth’s life. Parents died when Garth was young, no brothers or sisters. Linc was the only family member anyone knew about. And Linc hadn’t been very forthcoming about Garth’s personal life, according to Joy, the receptionist, who’d been informally assigned to question him as delicately as possible.

  Most of the “outsiders” were young; all dressed in black. From his angle, Rick couldn’t tell whether it was the black of mourning or the black of the Goth uniform. Figures Garth’s friends would be Goth-like. The Goths probably think he dresses weird.

  Delp’s voice drowned out the audience’s as they finished up a hymn. Next to Rick, Winn’s closed eyes cracked open. “We done yet?”

  “Shh.” Rick turned his attention back to Delp, who rifled through some more papers he’d removed from his prayer book, appearing properly solemn.

  He found what he was searching for and faced the crowd. “Thank you all for your prayers. May Garth rest in peace.” Delp was able to voice what the others couldn’t, in their political correctness posturing. Garth wasn’t coming back. As before, Delp bowed his head and closed his eyes, this time for only a second or two. Then he straightened and extended his arm. He seemed spent, as if praying for the dead consumed every last ounce of energy he possessed. “Mr. Landis will say a few words now.”

  Brewster stood and strode to the podium, a brisk walk for a busy man. Eulogy or corporate pep talk, he exhibited the same no-nonsense manner. “Good morning.” He coughed once and scanned the audience. Forged ahead. “What happened to Garth was abominable. Heinous. Unthinkable. Yet it happened. We must all be vigilant and look out for each other as well as look out for ourselves. If someone had been looking out for Garth, this might not have happened.”

  A rumbling noise shook the theater, and Rick guessed Luke Skywalker must b
e taking off in the matinee next door. Still early, though. Maybe the projectionists were having a private party. After a short pause, Brewster took a deep breath and continued. “When Garth first came to work for us, he was willing to do whatever we needed him to. Overnight. Weekends. Appearances at car dealerships.” Brewster stopped to catch his breath and make sure his followers were still paying attention.

  Satisfied he still had everyone, he went on. “And, as he got more established, he still did whatever it took to get the job done. Came in early, stayed late. Worked all weekend. Filled in for whoever was sick. Didn’t go along with the crowd, either. Marched to his own drummer. Very independent. Exactly what we were looking for.”

  Brewster’s head came up and a confused expression flashed across his face, like he’d lost his spot for a moment. Then he snapped back into place. “I’d like to remember that kid. Smart, energetic, dependable.” Brewster smiled, a knowing grin. “Of course, he could be stubborn and ornery. And a little short with people. If you pissed him off—pardon my French—he’d find a way to get back at you. But that all added to his charm. I know I speak for everyone when I say Garth Vetter will be missed at WTLK.” A sharp nod ended his remarks. He wheeled to his right and returned to his seat as a few people clapped, mostly sales reps.

  “He doesn’t speak for me,” Winn said, whispering through his moustache to Rick. Somehow, the aroma of single malt made it through the thick hair. “I won’t miss that guy at all.” His face flushed a bit. “What happened to him was terrible. But he was a dick.”

  Rick wasn’t sure which he disliked more: the fake sentiment surrounding the death of someone you didn’t care for, or the stark truth as delivered by his friend nursing a buzz.

  Delp didn’t bother going to the podium to announce the next eulogist. “Linc. Would you like to say a few words about your cousin?” His voice seemed diminished.

  Linc Vetter rose slowly. Glanced around and stepped to the podium. Dressed in a designer-cut suit and cream-colored shirt, he was as fashionable as his cousin was counter-culture. Movie-star handsome, he moved with the grace and undeniable assurance of a true salesman. No wonder he was the top revenue generator for the station. As he had in the past, Rick wondered what quirk of genetics had tossed Linc and Garth into the same basket.