First Time Killer

by Alan Orloff

  A voice sounded from the walkie-talkie in Rick’s hand. “You fucker! I knew you couldn’t be trusted.” First Time’s robotic voice cracked slightly with emotion.

  Rick’s jaw opened to reply, but no sound came out. What was going on? Who was the man lying on his face, handcuffed, getting roughed up by the cops? And where the hell was First Time? He tried again to speak. This time, his words sounded like someone else was uttering them. “Where are you? Who do they have?”

  “BETRAYERS,” First Time bellowed. “You will all pay for this. Let death and destruction be on your heads.” He paused, and continued, less violently, almost compassionately. “Goodbye, Ringmaster Rick Jennings.” Then First Time clicked off.

  Rick sprinted toward Adams and the group holding their suspect. When he got within ten feet, Adams held up his hand. The universal stop sign. “We know, we know. We’ve been duped.” Adams wiped his face with his hand, letting it linger an extra few seconds, then removed it. “Shit.”

  Rick couldn’t sleep. Too much adrenaline in his system, too much regret on his mind. If he could have figured out First Time’s scheme a little sooner, maybe Adams’s men would have been able to nab him. It wasn’t quite seven, and Barb was still sleeping. She hadn’t awakened when Rick climbed into bed about an hour and a half ago. She was going to be royally pissed he was shipping her and Livvy back to Ray’s. And he didn’t blame her one bit.

  He climbed out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. Took a long, hot shower, trying to scrub away the events of the night. When his skin was raw, he gave up.

  Barb was plenty pissed, but the anger gave way to fear, and the conversation quickly deteriorated into sobbing. The tears segued into a lot of hugging and many promises. Rick hoped the promises wouldn’t turn out to be empty ones.

  In the end, though, Barb didn’t even argue about returning to Ray’s.

  Thirty minutes after dropping them at Ray’s, Rick arrived at work, bleary-eyed and defeated. He managed to avoid meaningful conversation with anyone as he made his way to his office. He plopped down into his chair and unwrapped the energy bar he’d gotten for breakfast at 7-Eleven. Before he could take a bite, the phone rang. It was Adams.

  “Yes, Detective?” The last thing he wanted to do was rehash last night’s fiasco.

  “I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes.” Polite, but determined.

  Might as well get it over with. “Sure. I can spare a few minutes.”

  “About last night,” Adams said, then paused. Rick wondered if he’d gotten any sleep.

  “What about it?”

  “First, thanks for calling me and tipping me off yesterday. It was the smart thing to do, even though we didn’t catch him. No telling what he might have done to you. And we don’t need any more bodies. Don’t need the public afraid to leave their homes.”

  Rick didn’t respond, the weight of the past twenty-four hours heavy on his shoulders.

  “Anyway, the guy we took down last night wasn’t much help. Said a man approached him about midnight. Rousted him from his sleep. Didn’t get a look at his face, but said he was a big guy.” Adams clucked. “A big guy. Of course, anyone looks big all bundled up in a parka.”

  “So?”

  “So, we had a guy watching Dimitri Papadoukas’s apartment last night. Stayed in all night. Just to make sure, right after it went down, our guy knocked on Dimitri’s door. The little guy answered it. And he was kinda grumpy, too.”

  “You thought Dimitri was First Time? He’s only about five feet tall. He couldn’t kill a rodent.”

  “Well, we had our doubts about Lazzeri after we questioned him. And after you told us First Time called you again, we pretty much ruled him out. Kicked him loose, in fact. Too unbalanced to plot things out.” Adams paused. “So we thought it would be prudent to watch another ‘person of interest’ last night. Dimitri.”

  “You guys are unbelievable. Truly. Next you’ll be watching my eighty-year-old mother in Boston.”

  Adams responded quickly. “Your mother obsessed with your show, too? She run a crazed-fan website? Does she eat, drink, and breathe Afternoon Circus?” An edge had crept into his voice. “You should be grateful we’re being thorough.”

  Rick took a deep breath. “Sorry. Didn’t sleep, as you might imagine. Anything else, Detective?”

  “Actually, yes. We’ve done some additional tests with voice disguising hardware, similar to the kind we think First Time is using.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s a tough nut to crack. You can alter the pitch so a man sounds like a woman, and vice versa. We had a difficult time telling one speaker from another.”

  Things were getting worse and worse. “In other words, Detective, it really could be my mother calling in.” Rick closed his eyes and inhaled. Exhaled slowly. “Do me a favor. Catch this asshole. Quickly, before he kills someone else.”

  Around ten o’clock, Rick needed two things. To stretch his legs and refill his coffee mug. Tough operating on zero sleep. He hit the break room for his coffee, then wandered out into the lobby. Things seemed off somehow. He wasn’t used to being at the station so early.

  He got an odd look from the young lady at the front desk—another new receptionist, they’d been going through them at an alarming rate—but he ignored it. He thought about taking a little walk on the streets of Fairfax to clear his head, but decided to let the coffee do the job instead. Besides, he needed to fill Winn in about what had transpired. He nodded to the receptionist as he made his way back up to Winn’s office. She didn’t return the greeting.

  Rick hadn’t heard anything about last night’s adventure on the radio, and he figured Adams had put a clamp on any leaks. Didn’t want to give the department a bad name if he could help it. Strangely, Adams hadn’t said anything to him about not running with the news. Maybe he figured it would give Rick a bad name too, being involved in a debacle. Whatever, he’d talk it over with Winn.

  Winn’s office door was closed, so Rick gave it a quick rap and pushed it open without waiting for a reply. Winn hunched over his desk, searching for something in his file drawer. His head jerked up, and he slammed the drawer shut. The clang reverberated in the small office.

  “Didn’t your mama tell you it was polite to knock first, before barging in?” Winn asked, without his usual smirk.

  “I did knock,” Rick said, as he lowered himself into the metal chair in front of the desk. “You just didn’t answer quick enough.” He smiled, trying to goad Winn into smiling himself. No luck. “Something wrong?”

  Winn reached for a small plastic container on his desk and flipped the top up. Shook a few Tic-Tacs into his mouth. “No. I’m fine.” Still no smile.

  “You don’t seem fine.”

  “Can’t you just leave an old fart alone?”

  Rick smelled mint on Winn’s breath, along with something else. Something fermented. “Shit, Winn. Have you been drinking? So early?”

  “It’s after five somewhere in the world. Why should they have all the fun?” He glanced at Rick uncertainly. “Just a little nip. Hair of the dog, and all that.”

  Rick didn’t let him off the hook. “I’m concerned about you. And so is Barb. She—”

  “Come on, don’t drag her into this. She didn’t lose her spouse. At least not yet.” Winn didn’t meet Rick’s gaze, instead casting his eyes down at his desk blotter. Then he swiveled to his computer and started tapping keys. “Look, I’m busy.”

  Rick let the drinking drop—for now. He’d return to it when Winn was in a more receptive frame of mind. It would be noise on deaf ears unless Winn was ready to listen. “Want an exclusive? From an eyewitness? An eyewitness involved with First Time?”

  Winn broke away from the computer, fixed Rick with his stare. “This more bullshit?”

  “No. Serious. You wouldn’t believe what happened last night,” Rick said, then recapped the incident. When he was through, he sat back and waited for the newshound to pepper him with questions.


  “Why didn’t the cops search the area behind the rest rooms as soon as you told them where the meet was going to be?” Winn had drawn a notepad from his desk and was jotting down notes.

  “They had a guy watching it, from the trees, but they didn’t want to be seen scouring the area, just in case First Time was watching, too. Didn’t want to give themselves away.” Rick cleared his throat. “Evidently, First Time buried the walkie-talkie before he called me.”

  “Who was the guy they nabbed?”

  “Some homeless dude. First Time paid him twenty bucks to sit at the bench and hold a walkie-talkie up to his ear. When he saw me, he was supposed to wave. Friendly-like.” Rick waved to Winn, like the guy had waved to him.

  “Did the homeless guy give the cops a description?” Winn’s eyebrows arched.

  “Nothing worth anything. Said First Time was a big guy bundled up in a parka with a ski mask on. Plus the homeless guy was a few sheets to the wind. Antifreeze for a cold night.” Rick shot a glance at Winn’s lower drawer. “Even as the cops held him down on the ground and searched him, he was screaming for his money. First Time told him the man who he waved to would give him another twenty bucks.”

  Winn shook his head. “So, what, First Time was hiding somewhere in the surrounding woods, watching everything? Talking to you as they cuffed the imposter?”

  “Something like that. As soon as they figured out they were duped, the cops dashed off into the woods, searching for any sign of him. Probably still there, combing through the leaves and branches, looking for footprints or candy wrappers or whatever else madmen leave behind in the woods.”

  “This is fucking unbelievable. Lap Dog is innocent? The cops arrested the wrong guy and we went bonkers like lunatics. Tin Man burning him in effigy. Man.” Again, Winn arched his eyebrows at Rick. “How did Barb take it?”

  “About like you’d expect. Scared. Worried. I sent her and Livvy back to Ray’s.”

  “I don’t blame her for being upset. She’ll pull through. She’s tough.” Winn kept shaking his head, back and forth. Like he was having a hard time digesting the story.

  “What?” Rick asked.

  “Celia will go ga-ga. She’s got First Time to kick around some more. Un-fucking-believable. She’ll probably want to wait for the Circus to begin before breaking the news. Makes for better ratings. She seems to think we’ve almost got the SatRad deal wrapped up, what with our performance over the past few weeks. She can’t wait to have such a big stage upon which to perform her magic.” Winn checked his watch. “I should probably get this on the air, ASAP. Don’t you think?”

  “Well, you’re the news guy. It’s your call, I suppose.”

  Winn bit his lower lip. “Maybe I should talk it over with Celia and Marty. They seem to be running this whole First Time thing.”

  “Like I said, it’s not my call.” Rick got up to leave. “One thing, though. If you could manage to leave my name out of things, I’d appreciate it. I don’t need the added attention.” He started for the door, then turned back to Winn. Examined him as objectively as he could. His friend seemed weak and indecisive. The creases on his face seemed deeper, the moustache seemed thinner and droopier. Winn Hummel was aging as he watched. Was the stress of losing Bette finally catching up to him? Was it the drinking? All of the above, combined with the tension due to First Time? Rick did an about-face and plopped back down into the chair.

  “What?” Winn asked. “Forget something?” He grabbed for his pen.

  “No. Nothing like that.” He cocked his head. “You getting enough sleep? You really don’t look too good today.”

  “You should talk. You look like shit yourself.” Winn tossed his pen down on the desk, rolled his chair back a few inches. “Rick, my boy. I’m tired. Been tired for months now. I’m tired of all the bullshit, all the stuff radio’s become. I think I want out.” He stared at Rick, set his jaw. “I know I’ve teased about it in the past, but this time I’m serious. I’m going to hang in there to see if we can seal the deal with SatRad, then I’m going to retire.”

  Rick didn’t know what to say. Winn had weathered the inevitable storms over a long and successful career. Who was he to try to talk his friend out of retiring? Yet… “Maybe you should take a vacation. Take some time to evaluate things. It’s been crazy around here since the Rhino died. Things’ll calm down. You’ll see.”

  “I’m too old. Too depressed. Time to relax. The only question is: will I be relaxing in high style, or will I have to buy a double-wide and spend my remaining days in a trailer park eating Spaghetti-O’s from a can with a plastic spoon?” He snorted. “I really hope the SatRad deal comes through and I can cash out big time. Livvy deserves a godfather who can afford to take her to the arcade once in a while.”

  CHAPTER 49

  RICK TOOK THE long way to his office, purposely detouring through the bullpen where the interns camped out. No matter what time it was, there were always a few around. Beat going to class or working some dead-end job at the mall. He stopped to say hi and to take the pulse of those not yet beaten down by the business. Spirits seemed pretty high, considering the latest events. Rick muttered a few obligatory comments about First Time, then excused himself, grateful he hadn’t cracked about last night’s park escapade. He’d let Winn handle the news flashes; he was going to concentrate on connecting with his listeners, like he did before the whole First Time thing began.

  He reached his office, glanced at a few “urgent” memo slips on his desk—none of which was truly urgent—and turned the ringer off on his phone. Needed some quiet to mull things over. He crossed the small office and flopped down on a ratty couch he’d claimed just as the maintenance men were hauling it off to the landfill. Stuffing leaked from three of the four cushions and the whole thing smelled a little funky, but it was damn comfortable. And Rick liked to think he prized functionality over appearance every day of the week. After all, you couldn’t just throw something aside because it didn’t age well.

  The interns’ bright young faces, eager to impress, reminded him of his early days. When the fire burned within, and he couldn’t wait to get to the station. His first boss at WNHR called him a radio rat—an entirely complimentary nickname. Like the gym rat who lived to play ball around the clock, Rick was at the station more than he was elsewhere. Hanging out, doing favors for the deejays, sucking up to the PD and GM. Keeping the receptionist company. Checking out the booty in the prize closet. Going out on remotes and toting equipment for the engineers. No job was too small, no task too menial. He loved every minute of it.

  Things were exciting back then. New. Boundless possibilities. The whole business had a different aura. Ratings were important, sure, but they weren’t the only thing. The station was a family. One for all, all for one. Rick missed the camaraderie. He had friends now, but things just weren’t the same.

  Rick’s thoughts drifted back to his good friend, Winn. And the events at WNHR. Things sure seemed different when viewed through the filter of time. Would he take the fall now for someone? Doubtful. Would one of the young bucks around here—J.T., for instance—fall on a grenade for him? Very doubtful. The entire world of radio was a different place now. And with satellite, it was about to change yet again.

  But some things—and people—were slower to change, and Rick always thought Winn was one of them. Up until Bette died, Rick believed Winn’s drinking had been under control. But what started out as a few drinks to weather the grief right after her death had gotten progressively worse. Now he was drinking a few at lunch, attending happy hours more than on Fridays, and drinking in the morning.

  What should he do about it? What were you supposed to do when someone you cared about was being self-destructive? The words of his father echoed in his head. Loyalty is golden. If they’re your friends, you help them. Simple words. Not so simple to put into action.

  This morning wasn’t the first time he’d spoken to Winn about his drinking. He’d brought it up several times over the past few months. Each
time Winn assured him it was “under control.” Rick had gone along, not wanting to create a scene or cause a rift between them, but it was clear now things weren’t under control. It seemed to him that secret drinking at ten o’clock in the morning wasn’t “under control” by anyone’s definition.

  Rick imagined an intervention. He, Barb, and a half-dozen station employees gathered in the conference room, each telling Winn how much they cared about him. In his mental picture, though, Winn wasn’t listening. He was sound asleep, chin flopped down on his chest, snoring loudly. No one seemed to notice; everyone kept on talking, warning Winn of the dangers of excessive drinking.

  If Bette were still alive, he knew he’d have an ally. She’d been a strong woman, and she’d kept Winn on the straight and narrow for close to forty years. Without her love—and support and guidance and wisdom—it was easy for Rick to understand why Winn felt so rudderless. And alone. Why he’d turned to his friends Johnnie Walker and Jim Beam for companionship.

  What about AA? Could he possibly persuade Winn to attend a few meetings? Unlikely. Too set in his ways, denial too loud a voice on his shoulder. If you asked Winn, he was simply a social drinker under a little extra stress. As soon as things settled down, he’d cut back.

  Rick wondered what would happen if he unleashed Barb on Winn. He hadn’t expressed his concerns to her yet, hoping Winn would pull out of the funk on his own. He knew she thought of Winn as a hipper version of her own father. She’d probably have some good ideas about how to handle things.

  One thing had become crystal clear. Winn couldn’t be allowed to take Livvy out on their “dates” anymore. The niggling thought that had been festering in the recesses of Rick’s brain for the past two weeks had finally crystallized. Last week, Livvy went to a birthday party instead of going out with Winn, so his drinking hadn’t been an issue. But there was no way Rick was going to take a chance with his daughter’s safety. No fucking way. And that clarified his course of action. He’d have to tell Barb about Winn’s daytime drinking. Tonight, before tomorrow’s standing date.