FM for Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  “That’s good.”

  “Good? That’s later than I think she should get home. Don’t you think?”

  “Rocky, she’s in college. If she’d gone away to school, she’d probably be staying out all night.”

  “Not if I had anything to say about it.” He headed off around the corner, followed by Candide, and into the kitchen where Pamela soon heard doors and drawers slamming open and shut, and pots and pans crashing. Being a father of a girl, she thought, was obviously much harder on Rocky than it was on her. Their only child, Angela, was now a sophomore in college and lived at home while she studied at the local college, Grace University, where both Pamela and Rocky taught. As their child, Angela received reduced tuition which helped greatly with expenses. Small town college teachers did not make huge salaries.

  “She’s a good girl,” Pamela shouted at him from the bedroom. All she heard in return were mumbles and grunts. Time to get out of bed, she said to herself, whether I want to or not. She reluctantly shoved back the covers and plopped her feet over the edge and into her waiting slippers. Grabbing her robe from her nearby armchair, she wrapped it around herself as she headed for the kitchen to provide assistance. She realized that it would probably only be moral support because her kitchen skills were nominal at best. Rocky was the kitchen guru in the family. In fact, he was probably the best chef in the neighborhood having perfected his craft throughout his twenty years as an Army cook.

  “Hey,” she said, smiling at him as she entered their spotless, gleaming kitchen—the only room in the house that could claim that honor. Rocky was proud of his work—and his workplace. The rest of the house was her domain and as long as she didn’t trip over any clutter, it was clean enough for her. “Can I help?”

  “Unlikely,” he snorted.

  “You’re mad at me?” she asked, pouting sweetly. “I’m sorry about Candide waking us up.”

  “Nah, I’m just remembering about Angie getting in so late. I’m not sure I like this business of her growing up.”

  “No father does.”

  “Or that hoodlum she’s dating….”

  “Rocky, that hoodlum is my graduate assistant, Kent. He’s a very conscientious young man.”

  “Yeah, I know,” responded her husband. “But he looks like a weirdo. What’s with his hair anyway?”

  “I don’t know. It’s how lots of them wear it. Some kind of strange gel.”

  “It’s purple.”

  “Well, there’s that too.” She shrugged.

  During this conversation, Rocky had set out the ingredients for his special homemade pancakes. He now had the thin batter prepared and the griddle heated and sizzling. Candide was waiting patiently and quietly by his feet, in anticipation of receiving some sort of edible treat.

  “Here,” he called to his wife, “you can flip these when they’re ready.” He motioned her to the stove and handed her a spatula.

  “Rocky, I don’t know,” she replied, pulling her hand back hesitantly. “I’m not very good at frying things. You know what happened the last time.”

  “Yeah, Mom, you almost burned the house down,” interjected their daughter Angela, who had appeared at the kitchen doorway, wrapped in a small bedspread, her long auburn hair, hanging in her face, her eyes barely open. She yawned.

  “Sorry, Angie,” said Pamela, turning towards her daughter. “Did we wake you?”

  “No, I smelled Dad’s pancakes,” replied Angie and scooted her bedspread-clad body towards the stove where she reached her hand out and grabbed the spatula from her father. “I can flip, Dad. Better eye-hand coordination than Mom.” She yawned again and leaned against the counter. Candide scrunched up close to his young mistress, hiding within the folds of her bedspread, his face skyward towards the griddle.

  “Did you have a nice time last night?” asked Pamela, sitting down on a kitchen stool.

  “Yeah, fine,” responded Angela, focusing on the griddle.

  “What time did you get in?” asked Rocky, stirring the mixture, and adding cinnamon and nutmeg.

  “After midnight,” answered Angela. “Oh, and Mom, a weird thing happened.” Rocky paused scooping cupfuls of the mixture onto the griddle.

  “Weird?” asked Rocky, “Weird how?” He peered at his daughter with a worried frown.

  “On the radio,” said Angela. “Kent and I were at Pookie’s after the movie. We were just sitting there having slushies and listening to KRDN—this show that plays alternative music on Saturday night. The deejay was talking and introducing songs and stuff and somebody came into the studio and this whoever it was evidently had a gun and we heard a gunshot and then nothing.” She carefully flipped pancakes as she spoke.

  “What?” bellowed her father. He had now proceeded to whipping up home made syrup and frying bacon.

  “You heard a gunshot?” asked Pamela.

  “Yeah, that’s what it sounded like,” said Angela. “We weren’t sure. After we heard the shot, there was no more talking. Then it sounded like the mike was turned off and that was it. We didn’t know what to think.”

  “Oh my God,” said Pamela, leaning her elbows on the counter. “You must have been shocked.”

  “You’re sure it was a gunshot? Maybe it was part of the music? I mean, some of that music is very strange.” Rocky questioned her, as he stirred his special syrup on the burner next to the griddle.

  “No, Dad, believe me. It was a gunshot. Besides, the deejay said the person who came into the studio had a gun. I think the person came into the studio with a gun and shot the deejay.” Angela was bleery-eyed but still clear-headed enough to report the facts.

  “Oh my God,” repeated Pamela. “This was a local station?”

  “Yeah,” answered her daughter, “KRDN, FM 933. I always listen to that show late on Saturday because it has music they don’t play on any other station. Kent too.” She flipped a little brown circle on the skillet.

  “So,” said Rocky, continuing to stir his syrup and staring at his daughter, “you heard this shot and then just nothing. Dead air?”

  “And maybe a dead deejay,” responded Angela. She looked at her parents and shrugged.

  “Surely,” said Pamela, standing and getting plates and silverware from the cupboards, “someone must have reported this.”

  “We did,” said Angela. “Kent called the station first and all he got was a recording. Then, he called the local police and reported to them that we had heard a shooting on KRDN and the time. Evidently, we weren’t the first. They’d already received a few other calls with the same report.”

  “So,” continued Rocky, nodding, “I suppose they must have sent an officer to the studio to check on this deejay to see if he was hurt or if it was a prank or what?” He finished stirring the syrup and turned off the burner under the bacon.

  “I guess,” answered Angela, flipping the pancakes onto the waiting plates.

  “Good thing you didn’t call your mother or she’d have gone over there and solved the case with a whisk of her magic spectrograph before dawn. Just like the one she solved last year.” He directed his last comment and a pointed glare in Pamela’s direction.

  Pamela ignored her husband’s sarcasm. Her penchant for getting involved in things she had no business getting involved in—such as murder investigations--had caused one of the few rifts in their otherwise happy marriage. As Rocky topped each plate with copious amounts of his syrup, she continued “You know, maybe the station is reporting on it by now. It’s…” she looked at the kitchen clock, “nine o’clock. Maybe by now, they know what happened and will be reporting it—at least at KRDN. You said 933 FM?” Angela nodded as Pamela disappeared into the bedroom and quickly returned with a small transistor radio. She set the dial, turned the switch, and placed the radio in the center of the kitchen table. The family slurped up their pancakes and bacon as they listened intently to the local broadcast.

  “…so, the police don’t have a clue to the identity of the killer…” the announcer was saying.r />
  “Oh my God,” Pamela interjected.

  Angela sucked in her breath and Rocky froze.

  “But from the several calls received by the station last night and by replaying recordings of last night’s program, the police believe that the murder took place shortly after midnight—at KRDN—out on Highway 27. As I’ve been reporting, KRDN disc jockey, Theodore Ballard, known as The Black Vulture, host of our late Saturday night alternative rock program was shot and killed last night while he was on air. An unknown person entered the studio and shot him and then disappeared. Several listeners reported hearing the event as it occurred and immediately called the police. When the police arrived at the studio, they found Ballard’s body on the floor beside his microphone—shot in the head. Our station manager Roger Gallagher will be updating our listeners as he receives information from the police. In the mean time, KRDN will continue broadcasting its regular programming from our mobile unit until the police allow us back into the studio.”

  With that, Pamela switched off the radio and the three of them looked at each other with total surprise.

  “Somebody just walked into a radio station and shot this guy?” pondered Rocky, shaking his head.

  “Yeah,” said Angela, “KRDN is really isolated, Dad. It’s way out on the outskirts of town.”

  “And he was all alone?” asked Pamela.

  “Evidently,” responded his daughter.

  “Wait a minute,” said Rocky, holding up his hand, “His name is Theodore Ballard—Ted Ballard?”

  “Yeah,” said Angela, “he really knows alt music. Kent says he’s the best around here. Nobody knows goth like The Black Vulture.”

  “I know this guy,” said Rocky, his fork slowing on its way to his mouth.

  “How?” asked Pamela, her face a canvas of concern.

  “He’s one of our doctoral students—in the English department. I think Trudi’s his advisor.”

  “Trudi Muldoon?” asked his wife.

  “Yes,” Rocky replied. “I didn’t really know him, but I’ve seen him in her office—and of course he taught freshman comp—just like a lot of us. God, it makes me feel like I know him. He probably walked by my office door every day and I never even said ‘hello.’ God, how horrible.” He set his fork down on his plate.

  “Horrible,” seemed the perfect cue for the telephone to ring—which it did.

  “Hello,” answered Rocky, as he reached over and grabbed the receiver from the wall phone in the small kitchen. “Yeah, hi. We were just talking about you. Yeah, we just heard. My God, awful. They’re questioning you? Why? Awful. Yeah. Yeah.” Rocky listened patiently to the voice on the phone as Pamela waited impatiently and attempted to determine the gist of the conversation from her end. Angela seemed lost in her pancakes. When Rocky hung up, he looked stung.

  “That was Trudi,” he said to the two women. “She’s at the office. The police are there going through Ted’s office. They’ve questioned her a bit, but they’re planning on re-questioning her when they finish in Ted’s office. They told her to stay there and not go anywhere. She wants me to come down there and wait with her.”

  “I don’t mind if you go, Rocky,” said Pamela, clutching her husband’s arm tightly. “If that will help her, go. I know you and Trudi are friends.”

  “That’s not all,” he added, looking pointedly at Pamela, “she wants you to come down too.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “because of all your experience working with the police.” He said this last part between clenched teeth. “You’re the murder expert in the family, you know.”

  Chapter 4

  Previous week--Tuesday, December 11

  Daniel Bridgewater sat in his office on the second floor at the Bridgewater Carpet Company’s office building. He was at his large marble-topped desk but he was turned away, facing out a large bay window that overlooked the Bridgewater manufacturing plant across from the office parking lot and the circular entrance drive which surrounded it, the beautiful Bridgewater fountain still busily pumping water even though the December temperatures were hovering in the 40’s. It was good that the weather never really got cold enough this far south to freeze the water, thought Daniel. His father Charles had built the fountain for his mother years ago in memory of their honeymoon, and it was one of Daniel’s favorite parts of the office compound—an otherwise bland and stuffy structure.

  He clutched his coffee cup and held it to his lips even though he had finished the brew inside hours ago. He was trying to make sense of conflicting signals. His father had seemed so much better this morning—more talkative, more cheerful. Yet, when he had spoken to his father’s personal physician, Dr. Knowles, the prognosis seemed even bleaker than they had previously thought. Charles Bridgewater, 76, founder and head of Bridgewater Carpets, was suffering from congestive heart failure. Had been for quite a while. He’d been on numerous different medications which had seemed to be working—at least they had to Daniel. His father was in the office daily, and although Daniel had officially taken over the reins of the company several years ago, Charles still kept his hand in the pot and that was fine with Daniel. He enjoyed his father’s company and their regular sparring. Daniel was still learning the in’s and out’s of the carpet business—he probably would still be learning for years—the carpet manufacturing business was a world unto itself—at least in the United States. Most of it was centered in Dalton, Georgia, but several large companies—such as Bridgewater--had set up shop in neighboring states and were actually successful.

  How could his father seem so much better when Dr. Knowles seemed to think he was getting worse? And that was exactly what Knowles had said to Daniel when he left his father’s bedroom earlier in the morning. Tests showed that his heart capacity was declining. When Daniel mentioned this discrepancy to the doctor, the physician had replied that Charles was probably struggling to appear normal. Lord, thought Daniel, I don’t want him to overexert himself just to pretend to me that he’s feeling better. But what could he do about it? Daniel tipped his desk chair back and forth as he followed the bursts of water from the fountain. The three cupids in the center each held curved horns and the water jets shot from each in beautiful curves. The fountain was based on a fountain in Italy that Daniel’s mother had fallen in love with when she and Charles had gone there on their honeymoon. When Elinore had died 12 years ago in a car accident, the fountain had taken on even greater meaning. Now, it appeared Charles would follow his beloved wife in death. At least, according to Knowles, his father didn’t have much time left. How much time, Knowles wasn’t willing to say. Daniel knew he should be doing something constructive, but right now he was frozen with indecision. His father was dying. He didn’t know how long he had; it might be only a few weeks—even days. He wasn’t really worried about the business, because Bridgewater Carpets was doing well—even in the present poor economy. People still needed carpeting, at least enough people did. Theirs was a fairly stable business. Daniel had learned the ropes well and he had a support staff that helped him run the place so that he could concentrate on catering to his father at this difficult time. No one would miss him if he spent much or even all of his time at home by his father’s bedside.

  No, the business wasn’t his main worry now. That wasn’t what was causing Daniel to gnaw on the edge of his coffee cup and stare morosely out at the fountain in the circle. No. I probably should just go back and sit by his bedside, he thought. Forget anything else. Just let well enough alone. Why stir up a hornet’s nest? He turned his desk chair around and placed his coffee cup back on his desk. He picked up a large maroon and gold embossed photograph album that was lying on the left side of his desk. The album was thick and photographs were sticking out from the crinkled pages inside. Daniel placed the album in front of him and opened the cover. He slowly turned to the first page.

  A buzz sounded from the intercom to his right.

  “Yes, Bernice?”

  “Mr. Bridgewater, Mr. Vickers is her
e to see you.”

  “Fine. Send him in.” Drumming his fingers on the first page of the album, Daniel closed the cover and placed the large book to his left.

  “Daniel,” said a gray-haired man entering, “Bernice told me about Charles.” He grabbed Daniel’s hand in half shake and half embrace. Daniel motioned for him to be seated in one of the two green leather chairs situated in front of his desk.

  “I don’t understand it, Harold,” said Daniel to the man, “he seemed better to me this morning. Yet, Knowles said his heart is getting worse.”

  “If I know your father, Daniel,” replied Vickers, “he’ll fight to the end. He’d never want anyone to think he was hurting.” Vickers leaned back in his chair and unbuttoned his suit coat. The lawyer looked at home and well he should as he had served the position of family and company attorney since Charles had founded the business.

  “You think that’s it?”

  “I think he’s a fighter. I think he’ll hold on as long as he can.”

  “I wish I knew how long that was,” said Daniel, forming a tent of his fingers and leaning his chin on them.

  “Just enjoy being with him—and let him enjoy you for as long as you’ve got,” said Vickers, gesturing and sighing audibly. Vickers’ grey hair was worn slicked back. He looked elegant, but his manner was down to earth.

  “That’s not enough.”

  “What more can you do?

  “You know.”

  “God, you aren’t contemplating that fool idea again, are you?” Vickers’ chiseled features reddened.

  Daniel scowled at the man; he picked up the album and flipped through the first five or six pages, stopping at a page and focusing his attention on a small photograph on the left page.

  “This is the last picture we have of him.”

  “So?”

  “So, I want to find him.”

  “Why now?”

  “Because…” Daniel stared at the small photograph, seemingly lost in thought.

  “Because your father is dying?” Vickers asked. When Daniel failed to respond, Vickers stood and grabbed the album from his hands, closing it at the same time.