FM for Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  As she passed the outskirts of town, she turned right onto Highway 27, a few blocks before the turn-off to her own home. A mile or two down this country highway was where radio station KRDN had its small building. She saw the transmitter in the distance as she rounded a bend in the road. It was starting to get dark early now and the transmitter lights high up on the tower were twinkling red—on and off. Obviously KRDN had not let the murder of one of its employees stand in the way of its broadcasting schedule. She pulled into the small gravel lot in front of the little brick building. The KRDN sign on top was almost bigger than the building itself. Several cars were parked in front. She guessed that the old grey sedan belonged to Shoop. She locked her car and entered the glass door in front. Immediately she was in the studio proper. The studio was wood-paneled with large plate glass windows fronting on the parking lot. Below the windows were a row of straight back chairs. Pamela spotted Shoop and a man standing to the side, talking quietly. Another man, obviously a disc jockey, was seated behind a long console desk near the far wall that contained a computer, several telephones, and a large microphone. Behind the disc jockey were shelves of computer discs. The jockey wore headphones and was oblivious to—or ignoring Shoop and the man. Shoop motioned to Pamela to join him and she walked over to the two men.

  “Dr. Barnes,” he said, “this is the station manager, Roger Gallagher.” Greetings were exchanged. “Mr. Gallagher, Dr. Barnes is assisting us with this investigation; she does acoustic analysis of sound and is analyzing the recording of Ballard’s murder. She said she might need to ask you some questions and also, take some measurements in the studio if you don’t mind…”

  “No, of course not,” replied Gallagher, “anything we can do. We want to find the person who did this.”

  “Mr. Gallagher,” began Pamela, “several things. First, anything you can tell me about Ted Ballard—what type of person he was—his background—his friends—anything.”

  “That will be difficult,” replied Gallagher, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater, “I hardly ever interacted with him. I was here at the station mostly during the day. Ted, as you know, had his show late on Saturday night—Sunday morning actually.”

  “Was he friends with anyone at the studio?”

  “Not that I know,” said Gallagher, “but you can ask Carl here when he gets a break. Their shifts overlapped.”

  “Dr. Barnes,” interjected Shoop, “we’ve questioned all the disc jockeys about Ballard—his friends—and more specifically his enemies. I’ll be glad to fill you in.”

  “Great,” she said, “Mr. Gallagher, would it be possible to get another recording of Ballard? One from an earlier program possibly and not the night of the murder? I’d just like to compare his voice from one recording to another.”

  “No problem,” answered Gallagher, “I’ll go get one for you now. Something very early? When he first started perhaps?”

  “That would be great,” she said. Gallagher strode off through a wooden door in the far back wall, obviously happy to be out of there. At that moment, the disc jockey who had been reciting commercials and making on-air patter over the microphone, started playing a familiar Christmas song. The strains of the carol filled the studio and as Pamela looked over to the desk, the disc jockey removed his headset, rose, and ambled over to the twosome.

  “Carl Edwards,” he grinned, holding out his hand, “Nine to five. Almost done for the day.”

  “How do you do?” said Pamela, shaking his hand. Shoop greeted Edwards and asked if he would mind if they took a few measurements.

  “Not a bit,” said Edwards. “Measure away!”

  “Have you thought of anything else, Mr. Edwards, about Ballard that you didn’t mention when we interviewed you the other day?” asked Shoop.

  “Could I sit at the console?” asked Pamela.

  “Sure,” replied Edwards to Pamela, “If you’re game. I’m still freaked out a bit by sitting in that chair! Glad to have a few people around. Makes me feel safer.” He sat in a chair against the wall and watched their efforts. Pamela brought out a small notebook and pen from her pocketbook and placed her jacket and purse on one of the chairs against the side wall. Then she began tabulating distances in the small studio. Shoop brought out a roll-up tape measure and helped her record the distance from microphone to desktop, desktop to door, and various other measurements. Pamela not only observed the actual numbers of each distance, but she also recorded a mental picture of the studio, the disc jockey’s desk, the microphone, and everything in its vicinity.

  “You know, Detective,” said Edwards as he waited while the song he had introduced on air played over the intercom, “now that I’m thinking about Ted, I remember that he had just got a haircut.”

  “You noticed he got his hair cut?” asked Shoop, stopping in his assistant measuring duties.

  “Yeah,” replied Edwards from his chair by the window wall, “Ted was pretty scruffy—not that that makes any difference on air, but when he cleaned up, like getting an actual trim of all that long hair, I noticed. It didn’t happen very often.”

  With the measurements completed, Pamela pulled out the disc jockey’s chair and carefully sat down. Shoop wandered over to Edwards and continued questioning him about the haircut. The large, old-fashioned free-standing microphone before Pamela reminded her of a by-gone era. It was metal and the base was attached to the console. The microphone itself could be turned sideways and forward and backwards at the base. On its base in front was an on/off switch clearly labeled. To the right of the mic was a computer hard drive with four ports for CDs each labeled--#1 to #4. On the left of the console was a small switchboard with a landline phone. All around were piles of CDs and papers. Pamela reasoned that this was where the murder had occurred and she needed to be aware of each part of it. She measured distances from mic to floor and various other things she wanted to remember. When she believed she had all the data she might need—probably much more than she would need, she had Shoop roll up the tape and she tucked her small notebook in her purse. The station manager Gallagher returned through the door in the back wall, obviously a storage room.

  “I found several of Ted’s early shows,” he said, wiping dust off the plastic covers of some hand-labeled CD’s and handing them to Pamela.

  “Thank you,” she said, “I’ll make copies and get these back…”

  “Don’t bother,” said Gallagher, wiping his hands and smiling. “I have no use for them now.”

  “If you insist,” Pamela replied, tucking the CD’s into her pocketbook and slipping her jacket back on. “I believe that’s all I need….”

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” said Shoop, grabbing his coat. The two turned to go, leaving Gallagher and Edwards alone in the studio. As Shoop escorted Pamela out the front door of the little station, he stopped briefly, hands in pockets, wind blowing in the darkening sky.

  “Dr. Barnes,” he said, “I certainly hope you can help us. I just got the preliminary autopsy report on Mr. Ballard and there’s very little information to go on.”

  “The autopsy report?” she asked.

  “Pretty much what we already knew,” he said, cringing as the wind pummeled his face. “One shot to the head with a handgun—a 38 caliber revolver. Unfortunately, no trace evidence of our killer at all. He evidently just walked in the door, shot Ballard, and left—never to be seen again.”

  “That’s all you have?”

  “Seems Ballard had no enemies. He actually had no friends either—some acquaintances, but no one with whom he was close. Oh, lots of people knew him—or knew of him. At least, they knew of his alter-ego—this Black Vulture, but Ted Ballard, lowly doctoral student in English—not so much. Can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him.”

  “Then, maybe,” she said, “what I have might be helpful.”

  “What?” he asked, turning to look at her with anticipation.

  “I believe I have found—or we have found—my colleague Willard Swinton and I—think
we hear another voice on the murder tape. It appears to overlap Ballard’s voice—softly from a distance. About the time the murder weapon would have been exposed—like an “ah” or “oh” or some sort of gasp.”

  “No words?”

  “No, unfortunately, no ‘I’m going to shoot you, Ballard’ sort of confession,” she sighed.

  “That’s better than anything we’ve got so far.”

  “We’re working on analyzing this segment now. I really don’t want to make any definitive claims but we suspect that it’s male—probably from the south. I know, that’s not much. I suppose most killers who use handguns are male and most people who kill people in the south probably are from the south themselves.”

  “It’s still better than I had an hour ago,” he said, nodding. “Thanks. Keep me updated on your work, Dr. Barnes.”

  “I will, Detective,” she said, “but please, let’s just keep this between the two of us. My husband doesn’t really need to know, does he?”

  “Just consider yourself a consultant,” he replied, smiling and headed for his car.

  “A consultant?” she said to herself, as she quickly climbed into her Civic. “I wonder if the Reardon Police Department would consider paying me consulting fees?”

  Chapter 16

  Previous week--Friday, December 14

  “Daniel,” the old man whispered, his voice dry and halting, “is that you?”

  “Yes, father,” replied Daniel, sitting on his father’s bed, clutching the old gaunt hands, “I’m here.”

  “How is the plant?”

  Daniel laughed and placed his palm on Charles Bridgewater’s wrinkled cheek. “Leave it to you, Father, to be worrying about business. If you must know, I single-handedly repaired one of the old looms the other day. I climbed up to the top and yanked out a piece of stuck carpet. It’s working fine now.”

  “Way to go, Tarzan,” sputtered Charles, patting Daniel’s other hand.

  “You should be concentrating on getting better,” said Daniel, squeezing the old man’s hands with his own.

  “I am,” replied Charles, “I am better—much better now that you’re here.” He nodded in emphasis. Then slowly his eyes lost focus and his lids began to close.

  “Yes, get some sleep,” whispered Daniel in his ear as he placed the wizened hands on the old man’s chest and pulled the coverlet up under his chin. He could see that his father was breathing steadily but weakly. With a sigh, he rose and turned towards the bedroom door. Upon exiting, he turned and gently pulled the large oaken door shut as silently as possible. When he turned towards the hallway, he found his father’s nurse, Katherine, sitting patiently on a chair near the bedroom door, an embroidery hoop occupying her hands.

  “He’s sleeping, Katherine,” Daniel reported to the woman, “Is Dr. Knowles around?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, “He’s waiting for you in the kitchen.”

  “The kitchen?”

  “I believe he wanted some coffee, sir,” she said, rising with a polite bow, and quickly entered the old man’s bedroom.

  Daniel followed her exit with his eyes and when he turned around, he saw Dr. Knowles striding down the hallway, mug of coffee in one hand and his doctor’s bag in the other.

  “Daniel,” announced Knowles as he neared the young man, “glad I caught you before you headed over to the plant.” He took a quick sip from the mug and set down his case at his feet. “I know you like to keep updated.”

  “I do,” replied Daniel, “How’s he doing, Doctor?”

  “Truthfully,” answered Knowles, “about the same. Actually, I had expected greater decline. Usually in these cases, the decline is fairly steady—often rapid, but your father is holding his own. I don’t know whether to upgrade his condition, keep it the same—or what? It’s mystifying.”

  “A good mystery—as far as I’m concerned,” said Daniel, “I don’t suppose you would consider the possibility of a recovery?”

  “Unlikely, I’m sorry to say,” said Knowles, “About all we can hope for is more time. He’s weak, but lucid. Often, you don’t even have that.”

  Daniel restrained a soft smile, “He even was joking with me about the plant.”

  “A good sign,” said Knowles, taking another sip from his mug.

  “Doctor,” said Daniel, taking a deep breath and placing his hand on the man’s shoulder, “I need to take a trip, but I don’t want to upset father. I’d probably be gone a few days. Do you think that would be advisable given his condition?”

  “Truthfully, Daniel,” said Knowles, facing the younger man directly, “I’m not sure if he even has a full awareness of time. He probably wouldn’t even realize you were gone. I certainly wouldn’t mention your intention to leave because that would probably upset him more than your not being here.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” said Daniel, nodding. “I plan to leave today and hope to return in a few days.”

  “We can cover for you if he becomes agitated,” said the doctor. “We’ll just tell him you were just here and he forgot. In all likelihood, that will suffice.”

  “Good,” Daniel said, grabbing the man’s hand and shaking it profusely. “Thank you, Doctor. I’m counting on you to take good care of him while I’m gone.”

  “He is my top priority, Daniel,” replied Knowles. They shook hands and Daniel grabbed his outer coat from a side table and headed down the hallway.

  “Bernice,” he spoke into his iPhone that was in the pocket of his overcoat, “contact Harold and have him meet me at the house.” He continued down the long paneled hallway and turned at the end into a different wing of the large mansion. At the end of the new wing, he entered a large bedroom, decorated in a more modern style. He placed his overcoat on the king-sized bed and went to a large walk-in closet where he returned with a modern, navy and red suitcase with collapsible wheels and handle. He opened the case and placed it on the bed. Then he began opening drawers and closets and selecting items of clothing. Within a few minutes, he had filled the suitcase with several days worth of clothes, toiletries, and underwear—enough for a short trip. With this task complete, he closed the suitcase, set it on the floor and extended the handle. Putting on his overcoat and heading for the door, he pulled out his iPhone and again rang Bernice.

  “Did you get a hold of Harold?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, “He’s on his way. He’ll meet you at the house.”

  “Good.” He was tucking his iPhone back in his coat pocket as he strode down the long hallway that led back to the central foyer on the second floor. As he was heading down the mansion’s beautiful central staircase, he saw the lawyer’s car pull up to the front of the house through the tall glass windows on either side of the huge entrance doors. Vickers parked his BMW immediately behind Daniel’s Acura. It was incongruous, Daniel realized, that his lawyer’s car was so much more luxurious than his own. But, Daniel far preferred his little Acura. He pulled his luggage through the main door and greeted Harold between their two cars.

  “You taking a trip?” asked Vickers as he saw Daniel dragging the suitcase.

  “Just a short one,” replied Daniel as he unlocked his trunk and flung his luggage inside. Then, slamming down the trunk lid, he leaned against the back of his car. “Harold, I’m going to let you in on a secret.”

  “Great,” said Vickers, pulling a wool scarf tighter around his neck, “Is it juicy?”

  “I don’t know what you’d consider juicy,” replied Daniel, “and I don’t know if you’ll approve of what I’m going to do, but someone needs to know what I’m about to do and where I’m going. I figure it had better be you.”

  “Thanks,” replied Vickers, “I hope you don’t plan to get in any trouble, and implicate me, Daniel.” The older man leaned against the front bumper of his Mercedes and folded his arms with a slight sneer.

  “I hope not,” said Daniel. “Jax found David.” He waited as the news sunk in.

  “My god,” replied Vickers, his mouth and
head jutting forward in disbelief, “where?”

  “Not all that far actually,” said Daniel, “he’s been using an alias.”

  “Why?”

  “He obviously didn’t want to be found.”

  “And you’re going to go visit him?” Vickers’ face and voice showed his bewilderment.

  “I’m going to try to bring him back,” said Daniel, setting his chin in a determined rock-like firmness. “Hopefully, before father dies.”

  “Let me get this straight. David doesn’t want to see Charles and Charles surely doesn’t want to see him. So, you’re going to try to bring them together.”

  “Sometimes you have to force people to do what’s best for them.” Daniel shrugged dramatically.

  “This does not sound like a good idea, Daniel. In fact, it sounds potentially dangerous—at least unproductive. I wish you’d reconsider.” Vickers placed his hand on the young man’s arm and looked directly into his eyes. Harold was like an uncle to Daniel; he was certainly more than merely the family’s attorney. Daniel had received and followed much of his advice.

  “Harold, you’ve always gone along with father on ostracizing David, but I always felt that you never liked the idea.”

  “I’d like to see him return, of course,” said Vickers, “on his own, preferably. But Daniel, there’s a great deal of animosity between David and your father. All that agony over your mother—and her death. There was never any satisfactory closure about that. For all you know, even if you find David, he’ll still be horribly resentful.”

  “I know,” said Daniel, “but I hope I can overcome his doubts and bring him home. I have to try, Harold. I have to—for father.”

  “All right, I get it. I’m not thrilled, but I get it,” said Harold. “Can you tell me where you’re going?”

  “A little town called Reardon—across the state line to the west. David’s working on a graduate degree at the university there.”