FM for Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  Chapter 6

  Previous week--Tuesday afternoon, December 11

  Daniel Bridgewater sat in a back booth at Sam’s Diner, a small eatery on the highway near the entrance to his carpet factory. His coffee cup was half-full and he was gazing at the photo that he had removed earlier from the album in his office. He hardly noticed when one of the waitresses popped up beside him, coffee pot in hand.

  “Refill, Mr. Bridgewater?”

  “Sure, warm ‘er up,” he replied, smiling at the young woman whose name tag proclaimed her as “Amy.” “Then have a seat.”

  “No can do, Mr. B,” replied the waitress, her pony tail flipping jauntily as she spoke. “Some of us have to work for a living.”

  Daniel peeked around the corner of the booth. He was the only customer in the small restaurant. A cashier sat at the entrance, totally engrossed in filing her nails. “Doesn’t look all that busy to me,” he said, smiling as he grabbed her wrist and gently tried to pull her into the booth.

  “Just a minute,” whispered Amy, and as quickly as she had appeared, she disappeared. Within another second, she had returned and slid into the booth across from Daniel. “Had to get rid of the coffee pot. Okay, I’m seated. What’s up?”

  “I just like to see your beautiful face,” he said, taking her hands and pulling her across the booth where he planted a quick kiss on her lips.

  “Dan,” said Amy, “please, someone may be watching.” She pulled away and slid far back into the bench of her side of the booth.

  “So what?”

  “If you remember, all this secrecy was your idea,” replied Amy, brushing some crumbs off of her otherwise spotless chiffon apron. Her eyes danced with a lively energy. “I’m not ashamed of you.”

  “And I’m not ashamed of you!” he exclaimed. “I’m trying to figure out how to handle everything that’s going on.” He bent over the table and spoke confidentially. “A lot is going on, you know.”

  “I know. I heard what you said on the phone.” Amy crossed her arms and glared at Daniel. “You really are in a pickle, aren’t you? What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the photo that Daniel was fingering.

  “It’s David,” he replied, turning the picture around and holding it up for Amy to see. “High school graduation.”

  “It’s him?” she asked, taking the picture from Daniel.

  He nodded. “Yeah, he graduated from Dexter Military Academy. Blue and gold were their colors. Father sent him there hoping it would improve his behavior and his attitude—but it just made him more resentful.”

  “I probably wouldn’t be able to tell….” She examined the photograph carefully.

  “I know,” Daniel said, cutting her off.

  “What’s with the photo?” she asked, handing it back to Daniel. “Did you show it to your father?”

  “No,” said Daniel. “I wanted to, but, Amy, he just wasn’t open to the idea. And what’s worse…” Daniel sighed and shook his head.

  “What’s worse?” she asked, her tiny mouth opening into a perfect “o,”

  “As I said, he’s worse,” replied Daniel. “God, Amy, he seemed better. He was talking up a storm, arguing, being his old obstreperous self. Then I talked with his physician and he says Father is worse. He says he has only a few months—maybe only a few weeks.” Daniel stared at her and let his words sink in.

  “No,” she said, her brow wrinkled in concern. “I just don’t understand how he can he seem better if he’s really getting worse.”

  “The doctor says…hell….Vickers says it’s because he’s rallying for me. For my benefit. He would do that.” He continued to slowly shake his head.

  “So…so…what are you going to do? How does this affect your plans regarding David?” she asked in a careful, slow voice.

  “I think it makes it even more important that I proceed with my plan—and right away.” He lifted his coffee cup to his mouth and peeked at her over the rim.

  “And us?”

  “I can’t tell him now. I told you about his plans for me and the neighborhood society belle, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, and I don’t like it at all.” She pushed her nose in the air and stuck out her chin, arms crossed.

  “Oh, Sweet,” he said, cajoling and grabbing her hand, which she removed from his grasp. “I have absolutely no interest in any other woman….” He let go of her when a man appeared at their table.

  “Amy, I hope you’re not bothering Mr. Bridgewater,” said the large bearded man, wearing all white—trousers, shoes, shirt, apron, and puffed chef’s cap. “Maybe, he’d like a piece of pie with his coffee.”

  “Sam,” said Daniel, greeting the cook and diner owner. “Amy’s actually keeping me company. She’s helping to get me motivated to get back to the plant and work on the payroll.”

  “Payroll!” spouted the large chef, “Ach! Worst part of owning a business!”

  “Don’t I know it!” answered Daniel, laughing with Sam.

  “I’ll bring you some pie, Mr. Bridgewater,” said Sam, “We have some nice peach and cherry. Would you like ice cream? On the house, Mr. Bridgewater. It’s an honor to have you eating here.”

  “Best food in the county, Sam,” said Daniel, beaming at the chef, “and best service too!” he added, smiling at Amy. “But actually, coffee is just fine. I’m not very hungry today.”

  “Amy, you work on him,” said her employer, “Nobody can resist our pie. You know it.”

  “I will, Sam,” answered Amy, smiling at the chef, who was heading back to the kitchen.

  “And don’t pester Mr. Bridgewater, Amy,” he yelled at her as he departed, “Let him eat in peace.”

  Amy and Daniel laughed and smiled as they watched Sam exit. Then they turned back to each other and returned to their earlier conversation.

  “You were saying about…other women?” asked Amy, eyebrow raised.

  “I was saying there are no other women for me,” he whispered and pulled her close to him across the table.

  “Okay, okay,” replied Amy, a reddish color flushing across her cheeks, “don’t get all mushy on me here at work.” She patted his cheeks with her hands and he pouted out his lips in a routine that had obviously occurred before. “So, what’s your next step, Mr. Bridgewater?” she asked grabbing her order book from her pocket along with her short pencil.

  “My next step is to find David,” he replied, placing the small photo in the middle of the table and placing his index finger on it like an arrow. “Wherever he is.”

  “You really think that will please your Father?”

  “I don’t know if it will please him, but I have to do it and I have to find him before Father dies.”

  “And, if what you tell me is true, that could be sooner rather than later,” she whispered gently.

  “Yes. Listen, I know this means delaying dealing with our situation—with Father. I hate leaving you in limbo like this. Oh, God, I wish Father weren’t so difficult. In so many ways, he’s a wonderful man. Truly. You’d love him, I think if you got to know him and he got to know you in a gradual, normal way. But to thrust this situation on him when he’s ill and when the situation with David is up in the air—I’m afraid it would push him over the edge. I’m afraid it would kill him.”

  “Believe me, Dan, I understand. I don’t want to be responsible for anything happening to your Father. I’m patient. After all, I waited—how long?—for you.”

  “You did, didn’t you? And I’m worth it, aren’t I? It will work out, Sweet. Just let me find David first.”

  “How are you going to find him? Where do you start?”

  “Vickers is going to help me. He’s got an investigator.”

  “Like a private investigator?” she asked, eyes widening in excitement.

  “Right. Just like a crime show. Surely, his trail can’t be that cold. Surely, if someone who knows what they’re doing starts looking, they can track David down.”

  “Where do you think he could be?”

  “Wh
o knows? Maybe overseas. Maybe in New York. I mean he was always interested in the arts. I guess he might go to an arts center.”

  “Maybe,” Amy said. She looked at Daniel. Her mind and heart were full of conflicting emotions. She was excited about the prospect of hunting down David. She was a very curious person and was always up for a challenge. She wanted to know where David was for Daniel’s sake more than for his father’s. Daniel seemed to really need to know his whereabouts. But she was worried too. She was worried about Daniel’s father. Of course he was old and old people died, but Daniel felt responsibility for his father and if he did anything—or revealed anything—to his father that upset him and precipitated his death, Daniel would probably never forgive himself. She couldn’t have that happen. Some things could be kept secret from Daniel’s father. But finding David and revealing his location to Daniel’s father—or even bringing him to Daniel’s father—that was a dangerous step. After all, David left under very unpleasant circumstances and had made no attempts to contact Daniel or Charles over the years. Trying to find him might not be the positive move that Daniel assumed it would be. It might backfire in ways that Daniel might not be able to anticipate at the moment. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much she could do about any of it, except support Daniel—and she would. And wait—and she would. But not forever.

  Chapter 7

  Present time--Sunday evening, December 16

  “Local disc jockey murdered on air. Our top story on Channel Three News Tonight—your earliest and best news of everything happening in Reardon.”

  “Rocky!” yelled Pamela into the kitchen as she stood in the couple’s living room staring at the photograph that filled the television screen. “Rocky! Come here! They’re talking about that disc jockey!”

  Rocky’s head popped out the kitchen door. He held a large wooden spoon in one hand and a dish towel in the other.

  The television screen cut to a close-up of a young anchor woman.

  “Local disc jockey Theodore Ballard of radio station KRDN was shot and killed on air early this morning—shortly after midnight, according to local authorities.”

  Rocky moved into the living room, closer to his wife as they both stared at the screen, which now showed an outside shot of the small radio station, standing alone in a field of grass, its call letters on a sign almost larger than the station itself.

  “Ballard was working alone at the KRDN studio on Highway 27, south of Reardon, when an unknown assailant entered the studio and shot him in the head,” continued the anchor in voice-over mode. The screen changed to a poor quality shot of Ballard, obviously cropped from a group picture. “Ballard’s body was discovered this morning around 12:30 a.m. when station manager Roger Gallagher and local police entered the unlocked studio.”

  “That photograph is probably pretty old,” said Rocky, “he doesn’t look very goth there.”

  “No,” said Pamela, “no eye liner or weird hair.” In truth, Pamela was amazed with how totally ordinary Theodore Ballard looked. A bland, sort of round face. No particularly striking features. Certainly, he wasn’t ugly—just not very memorable.

  The anchor then cut to a field reporter standing outside the radio station who reported on police efforts to solve the baffling crime, then conducted a quick interview with the aforesaid station manager Roger Gallagher.

  “Mr. Gallagher, you found Ballard’s body?”

  “Yes, I was asleep. The police called me shortly after midnight and asked me to meet them at the station. When I got here, the studio was unlocked. When we went inside, we found Ted lying on the floor beside the mike.”

  “Mr. Gallagher, do you have any idea who might have done this?

  “None, but it’s very scary. I always thought, we always thought our dj’s were perfectly safe working here alone—at night. We’re obviously going to have to rethink our policy now.” The camera panned to Gallagher’s distraught face.

  The story ended with a plea to viewers to call the Reardon police if they had any information that might lead to the apprehension of the killer or killers of Theodore Ballard.

  When the story was over, Rocky flipped off the TV and headed back to the kitchen, followed by his wife. As he worked preparing their Sunday evening meal, she assisted by setting the table.

  “So,” she said to him, “after everything we’ve learned today from Trudi, and from that TV report, do you have any thoughts?”

  “What about?” he said, turning to her as he continued to stir a mixture on the stove. “You mean, am I trying to ferret out the killer? I leave that to you, my dear.”

  “I’m thinking,” she mused, as she distributed silverware around their dining room table, “of the likelihood of this being some random killing? You know, someone just going crazy and stopping by the radio station and shooting the first person they see. When Charlotte was killed last year, everyone thought that was what happened at first. They couldn’t imagine anyone intentionally killing her. Now this killing, to me seems even less like a random shooting. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered, “I’m not really thinking about it—other than it’s awful.” He reached in the cupboard and brought out several bottles of spices.

  “It seems quite premeditated to me,” she said, stopping at the table and staring out the dining room window. The leaves outside were swirling and the wind was whipping up. This was about as much winter as they got this far south. She often wished they would just once in a while get a little bit of snow. It would make December seem truly Christmas-y.

  “How so?”

  “If a madman goes crazy, he’s more likely to go someplace where there’s lots of people. This killer went to an out of the way radio station where only one person was working late on a Saturday night. For all he knew, nobody would be there.”

  “Not true,” answered her husband, reaching into the oven and peeking at his peach cobbler that had been bubbling and sending out a heavenly aroma now for at least an hour. “If the killer followed the station’s programming schedule, he would know exactly what time people would be there.”

  “Which would mean premeditation, right?” she asked, continuing to place plates and glasses at the three spots around the table.

  “I suppose,” responded Rocky, now plating items in serving bowls. “Can you get Angie? I’ve about got this all ready.”

  “I’m here,” announced their sleepy daughter, stretching her arms and yawning as she sauntered down the hallway, followed by Candide.

  “Homework?” asked her mother, placing salt and pepper shakers in the center of the table.

  “Done. One two-page essay for English. Twenty-four boring problems for Math, and a fill-in-the blank conversation about railroad stations for French: ‘Est-ce que le train pour Rouen départ a dix heures?’ Doesn’t that all sound exciting?” asked Angie, wearing jeans and a neatly pressed t-shirt and her newest pair of sneakers. Her hair was combed and clean.

  “Your timing is perfect,” said Rocky, bringing the serving dishes to the dining room. “Dinner is served. Have a seat.” He placed the dishes on the table. There was a glistening pork roast with a raisin sauce, broccoli almondine, mashed potatoes with garlic, and, of course, the cobbler for dessert. Yes, thought Pamela, she could not skip the gym tomorrow.

  “You’re rather dressed up for a Sunday dinner at home,” said Pamela to her daughter.

  “I’m going out later,” responded Angela, piling food on her plate. It annoyed Pamela (although she would never say it) how her thin daughter could eat anything and never gain an ounce of fat. Candide sat expectantly by Angela’s chair, primed for any falling morsels.

  “Where are you going?” asked Rocky. “It’s a school night.”

  “Just to the library,” answered Angela. “Kent’s picking me up in a little bit.”

  “The purple-haired kid?” prodded her father, an annoyed sharpness to his voice. “The one who takes you to murder scenes?”

  “Dad!” said Angela, sneering. “I th
ought we went over all of this.”

  “We did, Angie,” said Pamela, placing her hand on Rocky’s arm and giving him a stern look. “Remember, dear, Kent is my graduate assistant. He’s very responsible and conscientious. We agreed to that I thought.”

  “All right. All right,” Rocky answered, sighing and tearing into his pork with gusto.

  “Did they find the guy who killed Black Vulture?” asked his daughter.

  “Who?” asked Rocky, almost choking on his food.

  “Black Vulture,” repeated Angela, “Ted Ballard, the disc jockey. Did they find the person who killed him?”

  “Black Vulture? That’s his name?”

  “His goth name,” replied Angela.

  “Not yet,” said Pamela, “but it’s been on the news. Hopefully, anyone with any information will come forward.”

  “I hope so,” said Angela, nibbling on the broccoli without much enthusiasm. “He was a good dj. I really liked his program. It was the only radio show that played any good alternative music.”

  “Really?” asked Pamela. “There weren’t any other stations that played this—what do you call the type of music he played?”

  “Some people call it goth,” answered Angela, “some, alternative rock. There are lots of names and really lots of different styles. But Black Vulture—I mean Theodore—knew them all. He really investigated the different bands and introduced a lot of new groups on air. Kent liked him too.”

  “Why did they call him Black Vulture?” asked Rocky.

  “I don’t know,” said Angela. “A lot of people in alternative music have alternative names.” She was moving the broccoli around on her plate, possibly in hopes that it would disappear by itself.

  “Did you ever see this Black Vulture, Angie?” asked Pamela, eyeing her daughter’s food machinations.

  “No, Mom, I’ve just heard him on the radio,” answered her daughter, “but Kent’s seen him. He’s seen him at the Blue Poppy.”