by Alan Orloff
“Go ahead, Diana. You have a question for Detective Adams?”
“Yes, I do. Why haven’t you caught this guy yet? How many more people will he kill before you get him?”
Rick nodded at Adams. All yours.
“Well, Diana, we’re working our hardest and we’ve come up with some good leads. A lot of very capable people are working long hours on this case. I can assure you, we’ll get him.”
“Thank you, Diana.” Rick cut her off, anxious to keep the show moving. All it took was a single bad call to dampen the momentum. “Detective, can you give us some more specific information about the case? Maybe describe a lead you have?”
Adams’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, Rick. But this is an on-going investigation. I’m sure you understand.”
A message popped up on Rick’s screen, from Celia. Keep trying. Don’t let him off easy. Rick shook his head and avoided looking up at her. He’d run his show how he pleased, thank you. “Okay, Detective. But if you change your mind…”
Line 2, Dimitri. Rick opened the line. “You are live, Dimitri. Speak to me.”
“Hello my friend Rick. Trust you are well.”
“Doing fine. What’s on your mind today?”
“What’s on my mind today is what’s been on my mind for weeks. First Time, baby. First Time. And you know, it’s not just me. It’s everyone. The chat room is blistering with talk of First Time.”
Rick interrupted. “Dimitri here maintains an Afternoon Circus website—unauthorized, I might add. He’s referring to the chat room he hosts.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with it,” Adams said. “We’ve been monitoring it.”
Of course. Adams didn’t miss much.
“As I was saying, lots of opinions. Lots of anger and frustration,” Dimitri said.
Rick didn’t really understand how listeners—scores of them, in fact—could spend hours upon hours in a chat room discussing his show. In his mind, it just wasn’t that compelling. Lots of lonely people out there. Rick hadn’t been back to Dimitri’s website since the night he chatted with Dimitri and PRETTYGRL. Didn’t want to be polluted. “So, Dimitri, stop beating around the bush. What are the people saying?
Dimitri said, “The people, the people. Your devoted listeners. You should treat them with more respect, my friend. They keep you in imported caviar and your wife in furs.”
Rick couldn’t stomach fish eggs, and Barb would rather jog naked in Alaska than wear a real fur from one of God’s creatures. “I respect everyone, Dimitri. So what do they say?”
“Some can’t believe what you’re doing. They think you’re egging him on. Getting him so angry that he must kill someone.” Dimitri chuckled. “I’ve got to say, though, most of the ill-will is directed at that bozo Tin Man and his partner.”
From past discussions with Dimitri, Rick knew most of the fans adored him, but were somewhat less enamored with the shock jocks. “Never mind the show. What do the listeners think of First Time?”
“They’re scared. And really PO’ed. Some of ’em are talking about forming a vigilante squad and doing a little hunting.”
At the mention of vigilantes, Rick saw Adams stiffen. Then the detective quickly leaned forward. “That’s exactly what we don’t need. More angry, violent people. Let me and my department handle this. It’s our job. It’s what we do,” Adams said, lips grazing the windscreen.
“You’re doing a crappy job, Detective,” Dimitri said, words dripping with condescension. “There’s a guy killing people and you’re yakking on the radio. Way to go.” Dimitri hung up.
An awkward silence filled the studio. Then Rick spoke up. “Detective, you’ll have to excuse some of our listeners. In the great big public forum that is radio, there are plenty of rude, uncaring people. Let’s take the next caller, shall we?” Rick made a mental note to tell J.T. to punish Dimitri. No on-air phone calls for a month, at least.
Rick moved on. “Speak to me. You are live!” A low droning noise filled the air. “Hello? Speak to me. You are on the air.”
“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t hear you clearly.”
To Rick, the voice sounded distant, metallic. “Go ahead.” He read the name from the monitor. “Go ahead, Aki.”
“Aki isn’t my real name,” the caller said. “But I think you know that. Don’t you Rick? You know who I really am.”
Adams jumped up; his chair tipped over backward. Rick saw him point at the police tech in master control, then whip out his cell phone. Rick tried to remain calm, remembering his assignment. “No, I don’t know who you are. Why don’t you tell me?” Behind the glass partition, both J.T. and Celia were on their feet, pointing and gesturing.
“I’m the man of the hour. The celebrity du…Hey, how do you say month in French? Forget Stern, I am the King of All Media.” A strangled laugh.
“How do I know it’s you? You could be just another crackpot calling in, jerking our chain,” Rick said. Next to him, Adams made a stretching motion with his hands. He flexed his jaw, sending the muscles in his cheeks rippling.
“It’s me. Shall I describe how I sawed off that dude’s arm? Or your buddy’s ear? How about that little chickadee’s flaying? I could tell you all about that, if you wanted.”
“Spare me the details. Where are you calling from?” Rick licked his lips, looked around. Everyone’s eyes were on him. What did they want him to do, reach through the telephone lines and grab First Time’s throat?
“You’d like me to tell you that, wouldn’t you? What do you think, I’m stupid?”
“No, not stupid.” Rick closed his eyes. Tried to remember what he could from his Psych 100 class. Thought back to Dr. Caldwell’s pronouncements. “I think you’re frustrated. Angry. I think you’re looking for someone to talk to. Someone who will really listen. I think you’ve got something really important to say, and I’d like to hear it.” Just you and me, buddy, having a cold one.
“You’re already listening. You and your listeners. How many have you got these days? Two million? Three? Right now, three million people are listening to you kiss my ass. What do you think of that?”
Adams nodded at Rick, phone still at his ear. Then he broke into a wide grin. Gave Rick the thumbs up. They must have traced the call. Rick exhaled, but tensed up again as Adams mouthed something to him. Keep going.
Had something gone wrong, or did Adams want to make sure First Time was still at the same location when his men arrived? Rick tried to shut out the bustle in the studio and the control room. He needed to focus. Concentrate. If he could keep First Time going, maybe this nightmare would end. “Um, listen. First Time. Don’t you have something you’d like to say? Tell people why you’re doing what you’re doing?”
“I’m getting bored, Rick. I think it’s time for me to go.” He laughed, a harsh grating sound.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Rick saw Adams waving frantically. Rick turned away. “Hold on. Hold on. I think you’re a coward.” Rick swallowed, hoping his ploy wouldn’t result in disaster.
“What? A coward? F-you! You sit behind the mic all day, spouting whatever b.s. pops into your head. Then you go home to your loving—and might I add attractive—wife. At least I have the strength to act upon my convictions.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tyranny. The oppressed. Hunger. Illegal arms dealing. Petro-politics gone amuck. The mistreatment of endangered species. Elimination of inferior races. Reruns of The Dukes of Hazard.”
Was First Time high? This was a side of the sicko’s personality he hadn’t seen before. Caldwell had to be wrong—no way did he know anybody so twisted. “What does any of that have to do with killing people?”
“You are a very narrow-minded person. Very parochial.”
“Look, you’ve got a huge audience. Why don’t you explain yourself? What do you want?” He knew the exasperation echoed in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. The seconds ticked by.
“Rick. It’s been nice talking with you. But my head is beginning to
hurt. So I think I’ll say good-bye.”
“Wait!” Rick’s heart banged in his chest.
“No, really. I must go.” First Time paused. “Besides, I’ve got some more business to take care of.” Click.
Rick felt like he’d run five miles. Sweat soaked into his shirt, at the collar, and under his arms. He was afraid to get up, afraid his rubbery legs wouldn’t support him.
“Rick.”
It was Adams. Rick swiveled his head in the detective’s direction.
He was met by Adams’s toothy smile. “We got him pinpointed. It won’t be long now.”
CHAPTER 43
OVER THE INTERCOM, Rick heard a cheer go up. The few people gathered in master control were jumping up and down, hugging each other. Through the glass, J.T. caught Rick’s attention with waving arms and gave him the slash across the throat signal indicating they’d gone to break.
“First Time is ours,” Adams said, addressing Rick. “I’ve got to run. Thanks for your help.” He held out his hand. Rick pumped it twice and watched as the lanky detective rushed away.
First Time was in custody. Things could get back to normal. The celebration in master control continued, but Celia stopped carrying on long enough to speak to him over the intercom. “Way to go, Rick. Outstanding. After the break, turn the show right over to news. They’ll follow the events from here. You can call it a day. A great day. Go home. Celebrate. You earned it.” She gazed out at him, a wild, feral look on her face. “Take tomorrow off, too. That’s an order.”
Rick felt relief, not excitement. Not euphoria. People were dead, Garth among them. The last few weeks would never be forgotten, like a fiery car crash or a deadly terrorist strike. Maybe he’d take a nice long vacation. To the islands. Barb would like that. And when they returned, the SatRad deal would be completed, signed, sealed, delivered. He could cash out and ditch the day-to-day radio gig. Maybe do specials. Or even TV. Take a crack at writing a book. The sky was the limit.
“Sixty seconds, Rick,” J.T. said. “Then hand it off to Damon. Some of us still have a show to do, you know.”
Rick did know. The daydreams could wait. The vacations, the sun, the beach, all nice. But who was he kidding? He loved his work. He’d probably be on the air until the day he died.
His first call was to Barb to tell her he was picking her and Livvy up. They were all coming home.
Later that evening on a WTLK Special News Report, Rick heard Damon rehashing the events of the day. According to “unnamed sources,” First Time had been identified as Anthony “Lap Dog” Lazzeri, age 28. Caucasian male. One of the show’s regular callers. Rick knew he should be shocked, but part of him always feared one of the rejects obsessed with the show was involved. During their meeting, that feeling had lessened somewhat because they all seemed so juvenile. But on some level, he’d been prepared for the worst. He took no solace knowing his inkling had been correct.
Every few minutes, Damon would repeat the facts “as he knew them,” using the fake, deep-throated newscaster voice Rick knew he reserved for the most salacious stories. The grandstanding persisted although there weren’t any new facts—it was too soon for any other details to have been released. But that didn’t stop the rookie from adding his own speculation. Some impartial news operation. Where was an old-timer like Winn when you needed him? Rick knew the answer. Behind the scenes. Celia, on orders from Brewster no doubt, had relegated Winn to the background, while she gunned for the younger demographic. At the expense of real journalism.
So Caldwell had been in the right ballpark when he said the killer knew him. More like the killer thought he knew him. Ever since he started on-air, Rick had been fascinated by the types of relationships his listeners developed with him. He’d even gone so far as to categorize them. The bulk of his audience comprised regular, ordinary listeners. Listened frequently, but to them, the Afternoon Circus wasn’t a daily “event.” The next, smaller, group were those listeners Rick labeled “fans.” They listened every day, called in periodically, some might even check out the website from time to time. These fans were the ones who came to the appearances and bought their Circus crap from the station’s website store.
And then there were the “fanatics.” Rabid, infatuated listeners, hanging on every word Rick uttered. He imagined them sitting at home in the dark, glued to the show, taking notes. Discussing the show’s topics with other fanatics. Cutting out pictures from trade magazines and pinning them to the walls. Rick wouldn’t be surprised if some of these whackjobs created elaborate fantasies about him, complete with details on how they could become part of his life.
Those were the ones who scared him, to the point where he’d sometimes give a fake name for restaurant and hotel reservations. Once in a while, if he’d see a strange car in front of his house, he’d watch it for hours, certain it contained a stalker. Rick was extremely careful never to give out his address, but people had a way of digging up stuff like that.
He never understood how listeners could think they knew him, just because they were fans of the show. He spoke to them, but there was no personal connection, no dialogue. With the exception of the small percentage of people who actually called in, it was a one-way street. How lonely and starved for friendship must those people be? He often wanted to shout at his listeners that it was a harmless little show. That they should get a life.
Get a life like his life. Anchored in reality. Wonderful wife, fantastic daughter. Good job. Plenty of friends. He wanted to tell them to leave the radio behind and venture out into the world. Interact with real, live people on a daily basis. Forget the Internet and the chat rooms. Life was for the living. The inspirational platitudes bounced around in his brain. What his lonely listeners really needed was just a little attention.
A terrible question that had been gnawing at him finally gained traction: Was Lap Dog Lazzeri’s infatuation with him somehow responsible for the deaths of three—or more—people?
Lap Dog. Talked to him on the phone plenty, heard stories about him from J.T., but he’d only met him once, at the station during Adams’s meeting. From their phone conversations, Lap Dog didn’t sound like the sharpest arrow in the quiver. And yet First Time seemed so…intelligent. So formidable. Nabbing him had really been a tremendous stroke of luck. He’d finally made a mistake and Adams and his men had pounced. An odd sensation started in Rick’s stomach and filled his chest. Made his heart skip a beat. Worked its way up the spine into his brain, quashing the emotional euphoria spawned by Lap Dog’s capture. Why would First Time, who’d been so cautious, so elusive, be so careless all of a sudden? Strange, inexplicable things happened every day, but Rick felt uneasy.
Did they have the right guy?
The next morning at the crack of dawn, Rick was awakened by Livvy crawling over his legs. Trying to be quiet and unobtrusive, she elbowed Rick in the gut as she burrowed her way under the covers between Rick and Barb. Finally, she settled under Barb’s chin, mother and daughter facing him, both with eyes closed. Enough light sliced in through the slits in the blinds to give Rick a good view of their faces. Every day, Livvy looked more and more like Barb. Gorgeous. God, it was great to all be back together, in their own home, in their own beds. Two out of three, anyway.
An hour and a half later, Livvy had been delivered to school and Barb had gone to pick up some groceries. Rick pored over the paper as he picked at his blueberry muffin.
The Post had devoted the entire first page to the capture of First Time. Their crack crime reporters had uncovered a good deal of Lazzeri’s history. Had several assault and battery priors. Did time for drug possession. Suffered from undisclosed mental disorders. The cops had seized a computer from his run-down apartment and examined the history of his Internet browsing. Every day for the past two years, he’d visited the Afternoon Circus website operated by Dimitri. The cops had discovered scores of emails to and from Dimitri, but they refused to divulge any details, citing the “on-going criminal investigation.”
The of
ficial department spokesperson issued all the official police statements. The reporters had attributed other information to unnamed sources within the Fairfax Police Department. Rick made a mental note that Detective Tarver Adams wasn’t quoted, nor was he singled out by name.
Rick read and re-read the articles, searching for some understanding of why. Why First Time targeted their show. Why First Time killed. But it all remained a mystery.
After breakfast, he considered going to the gym and doing a few miles on the treadmill, but decided he didn’t want to go out in public. Didn’t want to answer questions or describe his role in the capture. Celia was right, he should take it easy today. He deserved that much.
CHAPTER 44
IN THE STUDIO, the acrid stench of lighter fluid and burnt cloth hung in the air, irritating the nostrils. Tin Man sipped from his coffee, trying to soothe his throat. Thought about switching to tea and honey like some of the other deejays, but nixed the idea quickly. Didn’t want to seem too much like a woman.
During the last segment, Tin Man had taken a rag doll and given him a beard. Using a black Sharpie and the front page picture from the Post as a model, he’d done a surprisingly good job of making the doll resemble Lap Dog Lazzeri, Mr. First Time Killer. Then he’d tied a noose around the doll’s neck with a clothesline and strung him up, right in the studio, all while entertaining the listeners with a step-by-step description. Tubby had been sure to interject a few salient comments, just to let the radio audience know he was still alive and well.
After Dolly Lazzeri had swung for a while, Tin Man took an aluminum baseball bat to him, piñata-style. Forty or fifty whacks later, he was amazed there was anything left. Then he’d moved on to the next phase, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a book of matches. After a few squirts of lighter fluid, he set their little rag doppelganger ablaze and watched him burn in effigy in a metal wastebasket as The Star Spangled Banner played in the background.
