First Time Killer (23 page)

“Friends and colleagues. Garth was the most…” Linc stepped back, removed his glasses and wiped at his eyes with his hands. Replaced his glasses and returned to the podium to try again. He stared at his speech, but didn’t read it aloud. After a moment or two of silence, he folded up the paper and stuffed it back into his pocket. “Let me make this short and sweet. Garth was too young to die. He didn’t deserve what that animal did to him. May God save him and thanks for your prayers.” Then Linc Vetter ran up the aisle and out of the theater as an astonished crowd watched.

“Poor guy,” Rick muttered, to no one in particular. The pain of losing EssEss wasn’t fresh and raw and biting, but he could call it up anytime he wished. By thinking of her smiling face, the smell of her hair after a bath, the way she used to say, “I love you, Daddy. I do, I do.” Some things stayed with you forever, no matter how far or how fast you ran.

Whenever he remembered how his little girl had died, he knew there was no God. Couldn’t be.

B
EING ON HIATUS
wasn’t exactly like being on vacation.

The past two days, Rick had come to the office, read the paper, caught up on his emails, and sketched out some show outlines for the future. For after First Time was caught and the
Circus
was back on the air. Whether or not Rick would have a show then wasn’t certain, but he thought if he planned for it, karma might intercede and make it so. Besides, he had nothing much else to do.

The station had been running repeats of the
Circus
, Best Of episodes, many going back to the Rhino days. Today’s episode featured a rant by the Rhino about legalized prostitution. Rick knew Celia was trying her hardest, going for the most titillating topics she could find, but they all paled compared to having a murderer call. In a feeble attempt at attracting listeners to the year-old rerun, Celia was interrupting the Best Of every fifteen minutes with news updates. He flipped down the screen of his laptop and turned up the volume on the clock radio on his desk. He closed his eyes, giving them a rest while he listened absently to Winn deliver the latest news.

Whatever “it” was, Winn had it. The authoritative voice, the expert delivery. He was one of the few radio guys Rick knew who really deserved the nickname, “Pipes.”

Rick had met Winn at WNHR in New Haven. The old guy—back then he was in his early forties, but that seemed old to a twenty-two-year-old newbie—took him under his wing. Looked out for him, made sure no one took advantage of him. That lasted for about a year and a half, until…

Rick picked up his bottle of water, took his time unscrewing the cap and taking a sip. Then he carefully replaced the top. He’d interrupted his train of thought on purpose. Asking himself the question he always did when the memory surfaced: Did he want to dwell on what happened? It was history. An ugly incident and a regrettable act of loyalty. But now, with all of the stresses mounting, the memories bubbled forth.

It had been a Sunday night in early September 1980, and Rick was scheduled to work the midnight-to-five slot, playing music and giving weather reports to insomniacs, like he’d been doing for months. But how rewarding was it to be on the air when only a few dozen people were listening? Besides, he hadn’t seen much long-term potential for his career at the station. It was a small station in a small market doing small, routine things. He had his eyes set on a larger prize.

What bothered him more was the idea he was getting down on radio, soured on the one thing he’d always wanted to do for as long as he could remember. So when Shauna’s mom offered to baby-sit Sarah Sue for the night so he and Shauna could have a little “alone” time, he’d called up Winn, asking—begging—him to take his shift.

After much wheedling and cajoling, Winn agreed, and it only cost Rick a few lunches and a complete detail job of Winn’s Celica. Winn claimed he would enjoy it; he rarely got the opportunity to do a “freewheeling” kind of show. Plus, it gave him the chance to bring his nephew—the troubled one who needed a little straightening out—to the station to see how it all worked. Rick could tell Winn viewed it as a chance to impress the lad a bit, while building some rapport at the same time. Besides, he told Rick, his sister would be glad to know where the kid was, at least for a few hours.

According to Winn, he’d let his nephew run the cart machine during one of the breaks. He’d given him the clearest of instructions: just press the buttons to play the spots. Nothing else. Winn went off to take a leak and grab a quick snack. When he came back, his nephew’s lips were on the windscreen, spouting white supremacist bullshit laced with generous helpings of profanity.

Winn yanked him off the air and kicked his ass out the door, but the damage had been done. Somehow, Winn tracked Rick down at his hotel. Rick smiled as he remembered Shauna’s reaction to the 3:30 a.m. wake-up call.

Winn wanted to give him a heads-up, sure both of their jobs were over. They’d fire him for letting his nephew run rampant in the studio, and they’d probably fire Rick too, for switching shifts without permission. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t have been a firing offense, but the PD at NHR was a jerk and he’d fired scores of people over the years for much less.

As Rick sat naked on the hotel bed in the dark that morning, he’d felt oddly liberated. He’d been too lazy or too complacent to search for a new, better job. One with a brighter future. Now he was getting a push out the door. But the despair in Winn’s voice brought him back down. It would be tougher for Winn to find another job with a black mark like this hanging over him. And Winn had been his guiding light.

So Rick and Winn had concocted a story that would exonerate Winn. They told management Winn and his nephew had swung by the station, and Rick persuaded Winn to drop his nephew off to see how things worked in the glamorous world of radio. That Rick had been the one to leave the 15-year old Hitler fan alone at the mic. To complete the fiction, Rick even paid the FCC fine. Of course, the money actually came from Winn, who had to sell the Celica to come up with the cash.

For some reason back then, falling on the sword seemed like the honorable thing to do. Things were different now. With Barb and Livvy depending on him, Rick wouldn’t be doing the martyr thing any more, no matter what the circumstance. Too much was at stake for him to jeopardize what he’d worked so hard to obtain.

Rick glanced at the clock, thought about calling Barb and Livvy at Ray’s and asking them to meet him for dinner somewhere. He’d kept in close phone contact with them, but it wasn’t the same as touching their skin, or seeing the lights in their eyes, or…

His reverie was broken by Winn’s voice over the radio, louder and more urgent. “…a breaking story. We have just been informed that another possible victim of the First Time Killer has been identified. Her name is Ashlee Wicker, twenty-two years old, from Alexandria, Virginia. She was recently a participant here in a radio contest. Once again, it seems First Time is targeting…”

Rick swept the clock radio off his desk, sending it crashing to the floor. When would it stop? When would it all stop?

A
PHONE CALL
from James Stanton had interrupted Tin Man’s room-service brunch. He was needed down at the station to answer a few questions, and it wasn’t a request. It was a demand. Fuck.

He gobbled down the rest of his omelet, cursing First Time under his breath. No doubt, it had to do with the dead girl, Ashlee. The deranged killer, his ticket to fame and fortune, was making his life very inconvenient.

When he got to the station, a sales meeting monopolized the conference room, so they’d been relegated to the station’s break room. Tin Man sat between Tubby and the lawyer Stanton, the three WTLK employees squished on one side of the small table. Across from them sat Detective Tarver Adams.

Adams flipped open a plain manila folder. Scooted the top page closer to his body. Began reading. “Ashlee Wicker, Caucasian, female, age 22, was found yesterday, at 9:43 a.m. Or more specifically, a piece of Ashlee Wicker was found.” He paused, glanced up for effect. “We recovered a portion of her skin.”

Stanton spoke up. “Her skin? That’s all? How can you tell it’s her?”

“Oh, it’s her. The skin had a butterfly tattoo. And it was found pinned to a mannequin’s abdomen in the store window where she worked. Plus her boyfriend reported her missing. I’d say that’s pretty definitive, wouldn’t you? It’s the First Time Killer. He didn’t like what she said about him on the radio and took his revenge.”

Tin Man’s omelet tumbled in his stomach.

“What can we do for you, detective? She didn’t work here, you know.” Stanton had a blank pad in front of him and twirled a Mont Blanc in his hand, poised for action.

“Looking for clues. She was here for that contest. It’s possible the killer saw her here. Inside or outside, our guy spotted her. Followed her. Stalked her. Killed her.”

“Detective. He already admitted to being here. When he called in. He was dressed in a chicken suit.”

“Could be. Probably was. But we need to be thorough.” He turned toward Tin Man. “Did you see anyone out of the ordinary hanging around that day? Did anyone come up to you who seemed unusual? Creepy? Anything set off an alarm?”

Tin Man tried to concentrate, but his gut was aching. He thought back. Again. When First Time claimed to be there, he’d tried to picture the scene, come up with a lead. He’d come up empty. Now, nothing new came to him. “Sorry. Having twenty nutty listeners dressed up like giant chickens was plenty disturbing. But nothing seemed dangerous or evil. Just one of our usual, outlandish, over-the-top contests,” Tin Man said. Next to him, Tubby was dripping sweat like he’d gone twelve rounds with the Champ. And breathing just as hard. “You got anything to add?” he asked his partner.

Tubby’s pale face quivered like Silly Putty in a four-year-old’s hand. “Nope. I can’t believe he was there, in the studio with us.” He shuddered. “Oh my God.”

Stanton jumped in. “Detective. We’d like to cooperate in any way we can. But all anyone here saw were a bunch of people dressed up in chicken suits.”

“The killer could be an employee.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Stanton fingered his pen, tapped it on his pad. “No one here is capable of that.”

Tin Man had seen plenty of hot tempers among his co-workers, and he wasn’t as certain as Stanton. But he kept quiet, figuring it was the lawyer’s job to do the talking. At least off-air. In the real world.

Stanton wouldn’t let it go. “Detective, I think you are really stretching things.”

Adams straightened. “I think having a psychic on the air is stretching things. And having a dress-up-like-a-chicken contest is stretching things.” He cocked his head at Stanton. “It’s all a matter of opinion and degree.”

“Murder is stretching things on anybody’s scale, don’t you think?” Stanton pressed his lips together. Tin Man wondered if they taught smugness in law school.

“Well, you got me there. Probably aren’t too many people who think murdering someone is acceptable,” Adams said. “Except our killer, of course.”

Stanton didn’t have a reply for him. Tin Man also kept mum, but it felt like the temperature in the room had dropped twenty degrees.

Adams switched his attention from Stanton to Tin Man. “You made some suggestive remarks toward Ashlee Wicker.” He flipped open his pad and scanned the page. “Quote, ‘I’d kinda like to
cluck
you.’” He came down hard on the word
cluck
.

“Come on, I was just fooling around. Radio shtick.” Tin Man glanced at Stanton for support, but the lawyer didn’t meet his eyes.

Adams read another quote. “‘And those are some mighty meaty breasts. Thighs aren’t bad either. Look finger-lickin’ good.’” He flipped his notepad shut. “Got anything to say for yourself? Did you have a thing for Danzler, too?”

“Get off it.” Tin Man shook his head. “Free speech, Detective. I didn’t harm that girl, or anyone else. I’m a lover, not a fighter.” If Stanton wasn’t going to defend him, he’d do it himself.

“Yeah, a real lover,” Adams said. “Did you try to contact Ms. Wicker at any time after the contest?”

“No. Never.”

“Didn’t try to meet her? You know, to give her thighs a lick?” Adams glared at Tin Man.

Tin Man swallowed. Adams couldn’t possibly believe he was involved, could he? “Detective. I had nothing to do with this. I never even thought about Ashlee Wicker after she left the studio. I swear.”

Adams nodded, the way you’d nod at a used car salesman offering you a real peach. “Sure.” He addressed Stanton. “Anything you’d like to add?”

Tin Man could almost see the gears in Stanton’s head grinding. When did a lawyer ever pass up a chance to speak?

“Have you found Danzler’s body yet?” Stanton asked.

“Nope. Not yet. But we will. And we’re still waiting for DNA verification on the arm, in case you were wondering,” Adams said. He gathered his notes. “We’ll continue our investigation, gentlemen. See what kinds of connections there are between Danzler, Vetter, and the girl. Besides all of them being here, of course.”

“Maybe it’s just a coincidence, Detective,” Stanton said, voice wavering.

Tin Man recognized the tone of someone spouting wishful bullshit.

S
ILENTLY
, R
ICK CAME
up behind Barb and whispered into her ear, “Hey, why don’t we find a room somewhere?”

Barb jumped a little and spun around, pupils dancing for a moment. When she saw it was Rick, her features relaxed, but a scowl appeared. “What are you doing? Jeez.”

“Sorry. Didn’t know you’d be so skittish,” Rick said, as he went to put his arms around his wife. She pulled back and Rick examined her face, trying to gauge her feelings. Tight as a snare drum. “Sorry. Really. I thought you’d heard me sneak up.”

Barb had been examining a painting, one of Monet’s cathedrals. It had been his idea to meet at the National Gallery. He’d seen the art museum rendezvous in a Woody Allen movie and thought it seemed like a logical—and romantic—choice. A public place, but far enough away from Fairfax to seem safe.