First Time Killer (18 page)

“I’m going to take your calls in a minute, but first I want to introduce someone. Sitting next to me is the vivacious Celia Perez, Program Director at WTLK. She’s the one responsible for bringing me back and setting up this wonderful event.” He nodded at Celia and gently pushed the microphone in her direction.

Celia cleared her throat. Rick knew she didn’t have any trouble talking when the mics were closed. She’d never really gone on-air before, at least not to his knowledge. “Um, thank you Rick. But your return is what made this a great event. I just hired some guys to build a stage and rented a few lights.” The audience clapped, but Rick wasn’t sure whether it was meant for Celia, or because she had mentioned his return. Either way, it was nice.

He leaned in to the mic. “Celia’s too modest. What she does for this show is incalculable. Let’s give her some appreciation. Give her some props.” The crowd hooted, but they’d been at it a while and the alcohol had taken its toll.

“I’d like to personally thank you for—” Rick stopped talking as J.T. mounted the stage and strode toward him, a small box in his hands. Wrapped in red, glossy wrapping paper, and topped with a black bow. Festive.

J.T. bent over next to Rick and whispered in his ear. “Sorry to interrupt, boss, but some dude just gave this to me. Said he found it on the ground. A Post-It note was attached that said to give this to you ASAP.”

Rick pushed the box aside as he got up, almost knocking his chair over. “What if—”

“Relax, it’s too light for anything nasty to be inside,” J.T. said. “I’m guessing female underwear. If you’re lucky, that is.”

Rick sat. Celia, on his right, quietly watched the action. Most likely, it was a harmless gift. Like all the rest. And it wouldn’t be the first time he’d received an admirer’s undergarment. Still…

“Boss?”

“Yeah?”

“Want me to open it?” J.T. shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as the seconds of dead air ticked by.

Rick ran through the possibilities in his head. Got to be harmless. Too light to be a bomb. Poison? Anthrax? Maybe he should call Adams to open it. The on-air silence pressed against him. Listeners in forty-two cities were wondering what was happening. He sensed Celia next to him, shifting in her seat. Rick gazed out at the crowd. All those people. There for him. He was their leader, their rock star, their on-air messiah. He couldn’t let them down.

“Rick?” Celia’s voice. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Huh? Yeah, sure, I’ll do it.” He reached out and slid the box along the table until it was directly in front of him. While he did, J.T. swung the mic in his direction and began to give the play-by-play.

Rick grabbed one end of the bow. The satiny-smooth strip was the teensiest bit frayed at the edge where the scissors had snipped it. He tugged gently and watched the loops of the bow shrink in size, then unravel. In the background, J.T. painted a picture for those listening in their homes and cars.

Pulling harder, Rick removed the black bow completely. Gazed out at the crowd. Expectant faces. Waiting for the joke, the punch line. What’s the gag in the box? He glanced at Celia. She, too, had her eyes glued to the box. Probably hoping for something outrageous. Something the listeners would remember and talk about and fill the on-line chat rooms with for days. Anything for ratings.

Rick turned the box on its side and ran his fingers along the bottom, searching for the tape securing the wrapping paper. Ever since he was a kid, he never ripped the wrapping off his presents, willy-nilly. He’d always liked to methodically unwrap each precious gift. Slowly, to heighten the suspense. Made for good drama as a kid, made for good radio now.

He heard J.T. describing the box for the two million listeners without a view. “Red. Shiny. About an eight-inch cube. Ringmaster Rick is fondling it. Turning it over and over. I think he’s trying to guess what’s in it.” Then he lowered his voice almost into a whisper. “I still think it’s going to be a garment some fine lady has removed from her body. Panties. Bra. Maybe a thong.”

Rick shut him out. He scratched at the tape with his fingernail, loosening its hold. He pried the tape off and went to work unwrapping and untaping, until all of the red paper had been removed. The box itself was unremarkable. Tan corrugated. No markings. He picked it up, hefted it in his hand. It was light. J.T. was probably right. Panties.

Another thin strip of tape held the box closed. Rick tried to pull it off, but the tape held fast. From out of nowhere, J.T. produced a small pocketknife. Handed it to Rick. He took it and worked out the longest blade. Then he sliced through the tape and handed the knife back to J.T.

With J.T. peering over his shoulder, Rick licked his lips, tried to steady trembling hands. He’d opened dozens of boxes from fans in the past, never felt like this before. Of course, he’d rarely performed before a live audience
. Just dive in
. He pulled apart the two top flaps of the box. Exhaled.

Into the mic, J.T. described the action. “Rick has uncovered a white piece of paper. It looks like a note. What’s it say, Rick?”

Enough foolishness. He didn’t need a play-by-play. He snatched the mic back from J.T. “It says, ‘Dear Rick, ’ears to you. Sincerely, First Time. P.S. Don’t ever leave the show again.’” He heard Celia gasp next to him, while J.T. let out a low whistle. Someone in the audience shouted something Rick couldn’t make out. Otherwise, total quiet. A thousand people holding their breath.

Rick plucked the note from the box, careful to only touch one corner of the paper. Preserve any evidence. Underneath was a wad of crumpled tissue paper. Rick grabbed a pen from the table and prodded the paper nest. Looking for an edge to nudge aside.

“Hold it, please,” Detective Adams bellowed as he passed in front of the stage, pushing through the crowd, heading for the stairs off to one side. “Don’t touch it!”

Rick found a small gap in the paper wad, and inserted the cap end of the pen. Pushed the paper away. His mouth fell open and his knees began to buckle. From behind, he heard J.T. say “Holy shit.” Sounded like he was in an underwater echo chamber.

Rick tried to shout, but nothing came out. Lying in the mass of white tissue paper was an ear.

A human ear.

Adorned with a dangling silver cross.

Garth the Goth’s ear.

R
ICK
’
S MUSCLES DIDN
’
T
work. Mouth agape, legs frozen. He was dimly aware of his heart hammering and his breath came jagged when it started again.

Garth’s ear. In a box. Someone cut off Garth’s ear, put it in a box with tissue paper, and tied it with a bow. A black bow. And gave it to him like a
fucking
present. ’
Ears to you.

Muted sounds thudded in his head, but he couldn’t make out any words. He could feel his pulse in his neck, at his temples. Senses on overload. Some movement on his right, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the ear. And the silver cross.

Rick felt someone push him aside, heard Adams tell everyone to back off. Adams peered into the box. Didn’t say a word, just shook his head slowly back and forth, expression indecipherable. Then he whipped out his cell and started calling.

So much for Ringmaster Rick’s triumphant return to the airwaves.

Rick waited for about an hour before Adams was ready to question him. “Thanks for waiting. Hell of a thing, ain’t it?” Adams extended one of his long arms and grabbed the elbow with his other hand. Stretched it out. “Strained it playing ball last night. So, got any theories?”

Rick had a tough time getting past the ear. “No. Nothing. Besides we got a sicko on our hands.”

“That’s for sure. Looks like the ear did belong to your morning man. We sent a car over to his place. Been broken into. Signs of a struggle. The evidence techs are there now. Hard to tell when it happened. Hopefully we’ll know more soon.”

Rick shivered, took a sip of coffee. Cold. He set the cup down. “What can I tell you? I opened the box and there was his ear. That’s about all I know.”

“Well, it was delivered to you personally. Got any idea why?”

“Who knows? He knew I’d be on air. In front of a crowd. Get more mileage for his shock that way, I guess.” Rick scanned the park. Most of the crowd had gone home, but there were still a few people milling about. And about a dozen cops, poking around, looking for clues. Two police cars had driven up onto the grass, their flashing lights causing shadows to dance.

“It was a shock, all right. You and Garth friends?”

Rick paused a moment to get the wording right. “I guess you’d say we were co-workers. We were friendly, but we didn’t hang out together or anything.”

“For how long?”

“How long have I known him?” Whether it was from the cold or the shock, Rick felt a little spacey.

“Yes, how long have you worked with him?” Adams said, irritation creeping into his voice.

“I came here in 2000 and he came along about a year later. Maybe eighteen months. So, since then.”

“He have any enemies? That you knew about?”

“No, not really. He had a…way about him. Rubbed some people the wrong way.”

“Really. How so?” Adams scribbled something in his little notebook.

“Lacked people skills. Got caught up in his own little world. Which, for radio, isn’t such a bad thing. Brought in the small, but loyal, Goth crowd.” The humor was lost on Adams.

“Anyone in particular he rubbed wrong?” Adams asked.

Rick pulled at his ear. Remembered little tiffs Garth had with just about everyone. None were really serious though. “Not really. Nothing major. He’d just be snippy sometimes. Some people might call him rude. But it never escalated. As far as I knew, anyway.”

Something caught Adams’s attention off in the distance. He flipped his pad closed. “Okay. If you think of anything, let me know. I’m sure I’ll be talking with you. This guy seems to be getting off big-time on your show.”

The next day, ten minutes to air, and Rick was having second thoughts about returning to the airwaves. About getting into the radio business in the first place. If he’d known then what he knew now, he might’ve chosen a different path. Like selling insurance in the country’s heartland, coaching Little League, and having a few too many at the Optimists’ monthly meetings.

But he was there in the studio, waiting to go on live, his words broadcast to more than two million listeners. Two million listeners who viewed him as some sort of cult hero. He didn’t see it like that, never did. His job was to entertain and inform. Come up with insightful observations about being stuck in traffic or his neighbor’s cat, about the price of gas or his great-aunt’s dental work. Sometimes he’d veer into politics, sometimes sports. His job was to talk about whatever his listeners wanted to talk about. And put his own inimitable spin on things. Express his opinions. Get people thinking and talking and feeling and acting.

Another round of second thoughts intruded. About tonight’s guest and the direction of the show. Rick closed his eyes and rotated his head, moving it back and forth, around and around. Maybe he shouldn’t be so uptight. Maybe he should cede to Celia more often. He had to admit, she did have some great instincts when it came to sparking the ratings. It was almost as if she thrived on other people’s misfortunes. Who’s to say her way was so wrong, anyway? It was what the listeners wanted, what they craved. Ratings don’t lie about that.

Rick rolled his shoulders, kneaded his neck. The stress was eating at him. Throughout his career, he’d faced this battle before, many times. Ratings vs. respectability. He liked to think respectability won out, but on those cold winter mornings when the light came shining through, when it was only him in the room, he knew he’d given in and chased ratings more times than he wanted to admit. Sanctimony was getting old.

After yesterday’s catastrophe, it hadn’t taken long for Celia to get rolling. She’d pushed hard for Rick to bring in a guest, someone controversial and outspoken. He’d wanted to do the show solo, taking calls and trying to calm things down. Put things into perspective. Reassure their listeners. The fire in Celia’s eyes told him his wishes wouldn’t be granted today. After some back and forth, they’d settled for the psych professor Rick knew from George Mason University.

Dr. Harrison Caldwell entered the studio like he was boarding his yacht and all the brass fittings hadn’t been polished brightly enough. He was tall and slim, with prominent cheekbones and a poorly executed comb-over. Dressed in an Armani suit and gleaming Italian shoes, he didn’t look like many of the other college professors Rick had known. Rick rose and smiled, sticking out his hand. “Good to see you again. Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Caldwell said. He looked around the studio. “Cozy place here.”

Rick sensed disdain in the man’s voice. “Well, it’s like just about any radio studio. We like it.” He smiled at Caldwell, trying to put him at ease, just like he did with all of his guests. Caldwell simply nodded, expression blank.

“Shall I sit?” Caldwell asked, pointing at a chair.

“Please. Have a seat.”

With an economy of motion, Caldwell took his seat and shot his cuffs. Gold cufflinks in the shape of the letter “C” peeked out. “I’ve done quite a bit of the media, you know. Radio, TV, even started a blog not too long ago.” The corners of his mouth crept upward, the first sign of emotion Rick had seen. “Enjoy it immensely.” Caldwell glanced around, searching for something. “Mind if I have some tea? Green, if you have it.”

Rick flipped the intercom switch, relayed Caldwell’s request to J.T. in master control.

“Green tea? I’ll get one of the interns to check the vending machine,” J.T. said. Through the glass, Rick saw him puff out his cheeks like a chipmunk.

Three minutes to air. Rick quickly explained the set-up to Caldwell. “Okay. Any questions? I’m sure we’ll have a fine show.”

“All set,” Caldwell said. “And there’s no need to be nervous. We’ll do fine.”