First Time Killer (13 page)

G
ETTING A PSYCHIC
to take calls and help expose the killer had been Tin Man’s idea. When he’d floated it by Celia, her dark eyes shone like black pearls under a full moon. She reverentially recounted some shit about the old movie
Network
, where a ratings-starved programming director played by Faye Dunaway enlisted the help of a psychic—Sybil the Soothsayer—to attract viewers. He hoped life didn’t really imitate art; if he remembered correctly, the on-air talent in the movie got carved up by a submachine gun in the final act.

Now he was sitting in the studio, waiting for the psychic to get off the phone so he could continue preparing her for her radio stint. Her name was Marie Templeton, and he’d worked with her once at an appearance when he was still in Jersey. They weren’t buddy-buddy, but he wouldn’t be ragging on her like some of the targets he brought into the studio. He’d treat her with respect; together they’d tackle the listeners, just the two of them. He’d given Tubby the day off. Told him to practice making wisecracks into a tape recorder.

She seemed pretty normal, for a psychic. Could have been the poster model for a soccer mom. Mid-thirties, fifteen pounds overweight, brown hair and brown eyes. Blouse and slacks. Sensible shoes. Casio watch. You’d pass by half a dozen women like her in the grocery store before you got to the frozen foods.

Marie closed her cell phone. “Sorry about that. Double-checking my son’s piano lesson.”

“That’s okay. Just make sure the ringer’s off. This is live radio, you know.”

“It’s off.” She picked up the headphones and started to put them on. “How do these go?”

“Here, let me help you with your cans,” Tin Man said.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Sorry, old radio joke. Cans are headphones. They’re more comfortable if you wear them like this.” Tin Man reached over, pushed them back a little on her head. “How’s that?”

“Better, thanks.”

“Okay. I’ll work the phones and cue you when you should answer. Talk slowly and clearly, but don’t be afraid to say something a little controversial, if that’s what feels right. Sound okay?”

“Sure,” Marie said, a small half-smile gracing her lips. When she spoke, her voice was soft and calm. Measured. No extra-terrestrial glow or otherworldly aura of any kind radiated toward Tin Man. On the outside, Marie Templeton was the epitome of normalcy.

“Okay, then. We’ll have a great show, don’t you worry.”

“Oh, I’m not worried in the least, Tin Man,” Marie said, leaning closer. “I feel a little silly calling you Tin Man. What’s your real name?”

Tin Man flinched. In radio, he was simply Tin Man. Nothing else. His real name was on a need-to-know basis. “Hey, you’re the psychic. You tell me.” He tried to make it sound like light-hearted ribbing, but wasn’t sure it came out that way.

Marie stared at Tin Man, then flashed him the demure smile. “I’m used to the skepticism. The jokes. Other people’s disbelief is nothing new to me.” She paused, looked him over. “If it amuses you, it’s fine with me.” A steady gaze met his eyes.

Tin Man opened his mouth, then closed it. After a few seconds, he tried again to speak. “Sorry.”

“Like I said, I’m used to it.” She folded her hands in her lap and waited for Tin Man to continue. Centered in serenity.

Tin Man shuffled a few papers around on the console. Found a paper clip and fiddled with it while he spoke. “If you have a questions you don’t want to ask over the air, you can jot it down on a piece of paper and slide it over to me. Or you can wait until J.T. gives us the signal we’re in break. Either way works.”

“Is J.T. the one who found the arm in the trash?”

“That’s right.”

A small nod. “Great.”

“Okay then. If you need—”

“Yes, I know. Down the hall, before the elevators, on the left. Thanks.” Marie brushed some lint from her blouse.

“How did you know what I was going to ask?”

Marie displayed that enigmatic smile again. Mona-fucking-Lisa in sensible shoes.

With Marie in the co-pilot’s chair instead of Tubby, the first segment of the show sailed by. Tin Man softened the callers up a bit, then fed them to Marie. She brushed off the jerks politely and seemed to connect with the true believers. She had a way of drawing you in close as she spoke, like she was an old friend rehashing a funny incident from days gone by. When this was all over, Tin Man wouldn’t be surprised if Celia offered Marie her own gig.

He figured the calls were running about fifty-fifty. Half bought into the whole psychic thing while the other half threw Marie’s psychic talents into the stewpot with Bigfoot, aliens, and channeling the dead. Not the most scintillating radio, in Tin Man’s opinion, but at least none of the callers really abused Marie. He didn’t have to hit the dump button once—a rarity for the
Circus
.

After the break, Marie settled back into her chair at the table. Unscrewed the top of her water bottle and took a long swig. Wiped a few drops off her chin. Something told Tin Man she was about to deviate from their plan. “May I bring us back, Tin Man?”

Tin Man stared at her for a second. Getting bolder, was she? “Sure.” Things could get interesting. Interesting was good.

“Welcome back. This is Marie Templeton on,” Marie paused, glanced at Tin Man, “the
Afternoon Circus
. I’m here answering your calls, hoping to help you explore your inner possibilities. Some people call me a psychic. Others prefer the term clairvoyant. Or seer. Still others use terms like phony, or kook, or—my personal favorite—crazy-ass looney-tunes psycho-bitch.” Marie grinned and winked at Tin Man.

“But I’m afraid I’m not any of those things. I’ll tell you who I am. I’m a mother, a wife. A member of the PTA and a volunteer at the church day care center. I work out when I find the time, and I play bridge once a week. Go to the movies. See the Nutcracker once a year. Go to the beach when I can. Eat Hershey’s bars when I’m feeling down.” She paused, took a quick gulp of water and swallowed. Her face darkened, features tightened.

Tin Man moved toward his mic but wasn’t quick enough.

Marie’s speech continued. “That’s who I am. Just like you. Except for one thing. My abnormal sight.” She laughed, a raw, scratchy sound without mirth, without joy. “I once had an aunt who called what I have a gift. Like someone gave you a little foil-wrapped box, and you opened it up, laughing and giggling and gushing over some shiny trinket. A gift, like something you look forward to at Christmas or your birthday. A damn gift.” Marie closed her eyes and scratched her neck. With eyes shut, she spoke softly and Tin Man detected the smallest of quivers. “It’s no gift. It’s a defect. Like a cleft palate or a gimpy foot. It’s something that’s a part of me. I was born with it, I grew up with it, and I’ll be laid to rest with it. I’ve just got to find a way to cope with it the best I can, limp through life with it.”

She opened her eyes abruptly. “It’s not a gift,” she said, in a voice barely above a whisper.

Marie inched closer to the microphone. Licked her lips. Then the muscles in her face relaxed, and pleasant soccer mom reappeared. “Enough about me. I’m feeling it now. Let’s get back into things. Tin Man?” She turned toward him, smiled warmly. “Can we ask J.T. O’Connor to come on air with us?”

Tin Man shrugged. “Uh, sure. For those of you who don’t know, J.T. is the producer here at the
Circus
.”

“He’s also the guy who found the arm in the trashcan,” Marie said.

“Yeah, that too,” Tin Man said.

J.T. entered the studio, settled in, and launched into a recap of the fateful night. The park, the trashcan, the arm, the police.

Tin Man listened, hearing the details for the tenth time. J.T. loved being in the spotlight, drinking in the attention. Like he was a rock star or something. Hell, all he did was find an arm in the trash.

J.T. had pushed his chair next to Marie’s. Both his hands were in hers, and she gripped them tightly with her eyes closed, head down, chin resting on her chest. There was complete silence. Marie began to hum. Quietly at first, then growing louder, turning into a sing-song, rhythmical chant. J.T. glanced around, amused eyes finally settling on Tin Man. He lifted both eyebrows.
What the hell?

Tin Man shrugged back, watched as Marie’s head slowly lifted. Her mouth had opened slightly. The monk-like humming continued for a full minute. Then she spoke in a monotone, exactly how Tin Man would have pictured a psychic talking, before he met Marie. “J.T., I’m sensing a great conflict within you. You’re very…unsettled.” She chose her words carefully as she crafted J.T.’s fortune.

J.T. nodded. “I guess…”

“Shhh. Don’t speak. You can talk when I’m finished.”

J.T. nodded again, kept his lips pressed together.

“Unsettled. You want to do a good job here, but you don’t appreciate how you’re treated. You believe they think you’re…stupid.” Marie cocked her head, like she was surprised by her own words.

J.T. squirmed in his chair. Had Marie hit a nerve? J.T. was kinda thick, but Tin Man always thought he wasn’t smart enough to realize that.

“But there’s more. Your right hand is almost too cold for me to touch. I’m seeing a dark, barren place. Utterly bleak. The remains in a post-apocalyptic landscape. Black, bubbling, gurgling, acrid fluid running through channels cut into craggy stone. Wait. It’s alive. Yes, the place I’m seeing is alive. But it’s malevolent. Evil. Inhuman.” Marie gasped, eyelids fluttered. Then her shoulders slumped and she slid from the chair, crumpling onto the floor, an other-worldly keening filling the small studio.

Tin Man scrambled to help Marie, and J.T. was a second behind. “I’m okay. I’m fine,” she said, smoothing her hair, as she got to her feet. She seemed to recover very quickly. “Really.” She sat back down in her chair and inched closer to the mic.

“Sure you’re okay?” Tin Man asked, back on air.

“Yes. Yes, I’m good to go.” She worked her neck back and forth a couple of times. “J.T., give me your hands. We need to continue this.”

“Maybe we should take a little break first,” Tin Man said. He turned toward master control looking for guidance. Celia was there, windmilling her arms.
Keep going.

“No,” Marie said, more sharply than she’d spoken before. “We have to finish this, don’t you see?”

Tin Man didn’t see, but he didn’t have the same “sight” Marie did. He shrugged. “Okay. Let’s keep it going. J.T., okay with you?”

“Sure, T.M. I’m ready,” J.T. said, all business now.

“Very good. J.T., give me your hands. And remember, please remain silent.” J.T. extended his arms and Marie grasped his hands, palms up. She closed her eyes, and, for twenty seconds, she massaged them, gently caressing each finger, the palms, the wrists. “You touched the arm with your right hand, didn’t you?”

J.T. nodded.

“I thought so. Some of the murderer’s essence has been passed along. To you.” Marie sniffled. “I’m so sorry, J.T. So sorry.”

J.T. bit his lip.

“The First Time Killer has no soul,” Marie said. Any semblance of being in a trance had evaporated. “I’m getting a strong picture now. Tall and fair. Muscles chiseled from granite. Obsidian eyes, classic features. Regal in bearing. Intelligence beyond measure. Witty, charming, a real smooth operator. Champion of the downtrodden. The First Time Killer is not to be taken lightly. He’s a cancer on our city. A black plague. He must be stopped.”

J.T. couldn’t maintain his silence any longer. “Why would someone like that kill? Sounds like he’s Mr. America.”

Marie opened her eyes, let go of J.T.’s hands. “I don’t want to mislead anyone. The description I gave of him isn’t a true physical representation of his appearance and demeanor. No, it’s how he sees himself. His self-image.” Marie paused to take a sip from her water bottle.

Tin Man thought about some of the self-portraits he’d seen where the artist depicts himself as Satan or as a porcine beast. What’s this, killer as Adonis?

“So he’s not really tall and charming?” J.T. asked.

“He could be. But more than likely, he’s an ugly troll. Could be physically deformed. Ignorant. Wicked. Evil incarnate. One of the few human beings on earth with absolutely no redeeming qualities. When he’s found, he should be incinerated.”

E
VERY WEEKDAY MORNING
, Rick dropped Livvy off at kindergarten. He’d walk her to the front door, bend over for his snuggle-hugs and a quick peck on the cheek, and watch as she disappeared into the schoolhouse teeming with other moppets. Then he’d head home to collect Barb for their daily walk. An exercise power walk. Most mornings they’d do the neighborhood, seeing whose houses were for sale or what renovations were getting started. Today, they hopped in the car and drove to Missy’s Corner to walk on the trail around the duck pond.

“Little chilly this morning,” Rick said as he zipped up his coat until he could feel the metal zipper, cold on his throat. The white fog of his breath dissipated before his eyes.

“You getting wimpy in your old age?” Barb asked. She was ten years younger than he was and acted fifteen. Indefatigable.

“Who are you calling old?”

“If the corrective, old-fogey shoe fits…” Barb smiled and picked up the pace.

Rick wasn’t in bad shape, but he always ended up a little winded after their walks. “I’m feeling great. I feel free. Not a care in the world.” Rick had been able to quell the anxiety of waking up unemployed. He could worry about that tomorrow. Or the next day. Or next week.

“Not worried?” Barb glanced at him, then returned her focus to the path ahead. They were coming to a split in the path. The trail to the right circled Spider Lake. Barb pointed right. Decision made.

“Naw. That place was wearing me down. Eroding my sense of self. And I can do without Celia, that’s for sure.” He glanced at Barb to gauge her spirits, but between the wind blowing hair in her face and her hat drawn down low, he couldn’t get a read. “How are you feeling?”

They walked about fifteen yards before Barb answered. When she spoke, the measured words sounded rehearsed. “I want you to be happy. Absolutely. And I know you weren’t always very happy at the
Circus
.”