First Time Killer (2 page)

“All in good time,” Jeffrey said. “You’ll find something in a trashcan, by the Lowell Street entrance to Major Francis Park. Something truly disarming.”

Rick slammed his hand down on the dump button immediately, preventing Jeffrey’s last sentences from going out on the air. He tilted his head up to the mic and willed his voice to remain calm. “Well, looks like our caller said a few things he shouldn’t have. Can’t anger the FCC now, can we? We’ll be back after these words. This is Rick Jennings on the
Afternoon Circus
.” He signaled J.T. who sent them into a spot set. He felt like he’d absorbed a sucker punch to the solar plexus. Had he just been talking to a killer?

Rick yanked off his headphones and sprang from his chair. Barged into master control and crowded into the small room. “See if you can call him back. Try Caller ID, or star sixty-nine, or something,” Rick said.

“I tried boss. No luck,” J.T. said.

“Maybe we should call the cops, just in case,” Rick said.

Celia stepped forward. “Never mind that. Why didn’t you keep him talking? We had a guy who says he killed someone, and you cut it short. You’ve got to milk each call for everything it’s worth.” Celia’s nostrils flared as she took several rapid breaths.

Rick felt the heat gather on his face. “What? Are you serious? That guy was unbalanced—probably dangerous—and you’re worried about ratings?”

“Ratings are my business. Listen. Next time we get a call like that, I want you to really ramp things up. You should have found out more about him. More details about what he claimed he did. Anything that will energize our listeners.” She surrounded the word
energize
with air quotes. “Come on, Rick. You can do better.”

Rick shook his head. A deranged freak had hijacked the show—
his
show—and Celia was lecturing him about how to do his job. He’d had enough. The bullshit that had been dumped on his head the past two months had suffocated him. Celia and the rest of the
Afternoon Circus
could kiss his ass.

“I’m outta here.” Spittle flew from his lips, a few drops landed on the console before him. Rick brushed against Celia’s shoulder as he headed for the door. Part of him hoped she would fire him on his way out. Save him the trouble of writing a resignation letter.

“Rick. Rick. Hang on.”

Rick stopped and turned around. Celia stood before him, arms out, both palms up. “Please. Let’s talk about this.” Her face softened and she nodded at J.T. “Give us a minute, will you?”

J.T. shrugged. “Sure. I need to take a leak anyway.” He left the small room.

When the door clicked shut, Celia said, “Sorry to get huffy.” She licked her lips. “It
was
good radio. Really. But you can relax now. He wasn’t going to kill anyone. They never do.”

“We should call the cops. Tell them about the call. They’ll want to check out that trashcan.”

Celia laughed, a harsh, biting sound. “Rick, when will you learn? There’s nothing in that trashcan. That guy was yanking your chain. Compelling, though.”

Rick glared at her, clenching his jaw as she met his gaze. “Let’s not take any chances. Call the cops, Celia. Just to be sure. For me?”

After a brief moment, she nodded. “I’ll take care of it.” She turned away, then spun back. “You need to realize something. This is entertainment. We’re a long way down the dial from NPR. People who call this show will say, or do, just about anything to get a reaction. From you, from other listeners. That’s the way the game is played.” She tapped her watch. “Time to get back out there, Rick.”

After Jeffrey’s bogus confession, the phone lines hummed. Copycats and poseurs. Spouting tales of murder and mayhem. One guy said he was about to shove dynamite into his cat’s mouth. Then he started singing
God Bless America
before Rick cut him off. After a while, Rick got bored, found himself asking questions mechanically, by rote, words flowing from his lips without passing through his brain.

Not that anyone noticed. Or cared. Rick knew Celia loved the never-ending parade of faked-up stories, and J.T. enjoyed his hobby of messing with the callers as he screened them, searching for the most outrageous. Rick’s job was simply to keep things from falling apart.

Rick checked the big classroom clock on the wall. Ten minutes to seven. He was tired and couldn’t wait to get home to Barb. Couldn’t wait to read Livvy a bedtime story. In front of him, a single light shone on the phone panel. Last call of the night, thank God. Rick opened the line. “You are live! Talk to me.”

“Hey, Rick. It’s me. J.T.”

Rick shot a glance at Celia in master control. She shrugged, busied herself with some papers on the desk. Some intern was running the board. He hadn’t even noticed J.T. had left. “Where are you?”

“At the park. Checking out Jeffrey’s story. Big C sent me here.”

Celia usurped Rick every chance she could. But sending his producer out to mingle with the cops? This
was
a circus. “Okay, then. Fill us in. What do the cops say?”

Dead air.

“J.T.? You there? What’s going on? Cops find anything?”

“There aren’t any cops here.”

Rick tried to catch Celia’s eyes, but she’d swiveled her chair so her back was to the glass partition. “No cops?”

“Nope. Just me. And I’m going over to the trashcan now.”

A vision of a bloody head, sticking out of the top of the can, flashed before Rick. Get a grip, the cops probably had already checked it out and cleared it. Another false alarm. “Okay, J.T., get on with it.”

“I’m taking off the top. Damn, it’s heavy. Hold on.” The sounds of clanging and banging filled the airwaves. Although J.T. hadn’t given out his exact location, Rick knew that pretty soon he’d be joined in his trashcan excavation by curious listeners eager to participate in a “radio stunt.” Somehow, they always managed to sniff things out. “Okay. Top’s off. I’m taking out a white plastic garbage bag now. It’s got a red X on it, in Sharpie.”

Rick glanced at the clock. Four minutes until quitting time. But he knew Celia would keep this on for as long as she wanted, for as long as it took to get her the ratings she craved. For all Rick knew, she probably sent J.T. out behind their building with a script to follow. The whole thing staged like
War of the Worlds
.

“I’m untying the bag now.” A few seconds of silence filled the studio. Then a frenzied yell exploded in Rick’s headphones. No one could fake that scream. “Holy shit. It’s human. It’s a fucking arm. It’s a goddamn fucking human arm.” A thud, followed by the unmistakable sound of retching.

Unbelievable. Rick dropped his head into his hands, leaned on the table. This time, nobody even thought to hit the dump button.

R
ICK CRACKED OPEN
the door to his five-year-old daughter’s room until the shaft of light from the hall cut across her cherubic face. A ringlet of blond curls obscured one eye, and Smelly, Livvy’s stuffed skunk, snuggled tightly against her shoulder. Rick took a deep breath, trying to draw in some of his daughter’s bountiful innocence. She had plenty to spare.

He heard the shuffling first, the soft footsteps down the hall, then felt his wife’s arms snake around him from behind and clasp around his chest. The smell of herbal shampoo and the warm nuzzle at his cheek were inviting.

“We did good, didn’t we?” Barb Jennings whispered in the dark, although once Livvy nodded off it would take a herd of elephants to wake her before she was ready. “Our little angel.”

An angel when asleep. An imp when awake. Full of questions and opinions. Just like her mother. “She’s priceless, all right.” He gently closed the door and led Barb down the hall to their bedroom, still arm-in-arm. “Some day, huh?”

“Yeah. Terrifying. But I bet it got great ratings,” Barb said.

“Shit. Not you, too.” Rick went to his side of the room, sprawled on the bed.

“Sorry. It’s just…Never mind. How are you?” Barb shucked her robe and draped it across the chair next to the bed. Climbed in and propped herself up, squishing a pillow behind her head for more height. Didn’t look too comfortable to Rick.

“I’ll survive, I guess. Celia and I got into it again.” Rick sat up on his side of the bed and untied his shoes. “I hate that woman. In case I haven’t told you that before.”

“Hmm. I remember you mentioning it once or twice. Or maybe three hundred times.” Barb faced Rick, pillow still jammed under her head. “Things will change once you get on satellite.”

“
If
we get on satellite.” Rick rose, headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he returned to the bedroom, he found his wife in the same position as he’d left her. Propped up, staring at him.

“How come you’re so late? Change your mind and go out for a drink with Winn?”

“Nope. I was giving my statement to the cops.”

“For so long? What kind of statement? All that psycho did was call you.” Barb’s voice pitched higher.

Rick had phoned Barb right after the show to fill her in on what had happened. He said he’d be late, he just hadn’t known how late. He caught Barb’s gaze. “I…”

“What?”

“The cops were a little torqued at us.”

“Why?” Barb scooted herself up taller in the bed.

“I had to dump out the very end of the call. He told us he’d left something in a trashcan. Gave us the location. I didn’t want it going out on air. Didn’t want to encourage him.” Rick pulled on a pair of sweatpants. Tied the drawstring loosely.

“And?”

“And the cops started talking about obstruction of justice.”

“For Pete’s sake. Didn’t you think about calling the police?”

He stared at her, bit his lower lip. “I asked Celia to call. Thought she did. Instead, she sent J.T. to do a live stand-up. She’d ream her grandmother on-air if she thought it would be ‘great radio.’”

“Every program director is like that. At least that’s what you’ve been telling me all these years.” Barb shifted her body, but didn’t take her eyes off him. “Did they identify the victim?”

“Not yet. All they have so far is the arm. I guess they’re out looking for the body now.”

Barb shuddered. “Do you really think you know him?”

He shook his head. “No chance. It’s just a sick fuck playing games on the radio. The cops’ll figure it out in a few days and arrest his sorry ass. Hopefully, they’ll throw away the key, too.”

Barb got under the covers, adjusted her pillow again. “The
Afternoon Circus
really needs you. You’re smart, sensitive. Morally strong. You’re the yin to their yang. The sturm to their drang.”

“Sturm and drang? You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She giggled. “I know. But it rhymed. Sort of.”

Rick climbed into bed, burrowed under the covers. Reached out for Barb and grabbed her hand. “You know, I’m the luckiest man on Earth. I’ve got two princesses. A big one and a little one. Surrounded by beauty. And charm. And grace. And wisdom. And sunshine.” He cleared his throat. “And complaining. And nagging. And long hair in the sink. And stinky perfume. And—”

A playful kick in the shins was followed by a poke in the ribs. Then Barb’s lips were on his, and her hands, and her tongue. Anxious fingers clawed for the drawstring on his sweats and the stress of the night drained away.

“A
FTERNOON
, R
ICK
. R
ECOVERED
from yesterday?” Celia eased into the empty chair next to his desk and settled in, crossing her legs. Her skirt rode up, giving Rick a glimpse of thigh.

“I’m fine, Celia. Getting ready for my show. Hopefully, today will be a little calmer.”

Celia reached into her leather portfolio and withdrew a folded section of the newspaper, then slapped it on the desk. “See this?”

“Yeah.”

“Front page of Metro, right below the fold.
First Time
Killer Calls In
. Mentioned the show—by name—six times.” She lifted an eyebrow in Rick’s direction. “Your name, twice. How’s it feel to be a celebrity?”

“You’ve been telling me I’ve been one for months now.”

Celia’s cheeks colored. “Well, now it’s official. It’s in the
Post
. That should increase our audience for the next few days.”

“Wow. Maybe it’ll double to sixty listeners.” Rick rubbed his hands across his face. “This thing makes me uncomfortable. We should just ignore it.”

Celia shook her head. Slowly, back and forth, as if she were confronted by a dolt and had to explain how a sandwich worked. “Rick. For. The. Love. Of. God. Yesterday’s show was great. Exciting. Thrilling, even.”

Rick’s eyes narrowed. “I know that’s how you see it. But I thought it was terrible.” Celia might technically be his boss, but he didn’t have to buy into her warped vision of how radio worked. He just had to get along with her well enough to do his job and earn his paycheck. Provide for his family. It had been a while since radio had been fun for him.

“It got great ratings.”

“There’s more to radio than ratings.”

Celia’s eyes bugged out, then she shrugged and smiled. Patronizing. “Sure, Rick. By the way, I’ve got a couple suggestions for the show, moving forward. Remember, you are
Ringmaster Rick
of the
Afternoon Circus
. If you would refer to yourself on-air like that, I’d appreciate it. Gives us uniformity with our promos, you know.” She scratched her chin with a long red fingernail.

“What about our deal?” Rick asked. “You’re supposed to let me do the show my way. And Tin Man can do it his way. Then let the people decide. Remember?” It had been Celia’s hare-brained idea to split the
Afternoon Circus
into two two-hour segments. Have Rick host one and have an outrageous shock jock host the other. The guy with the biggest ratings after three months would get the keys to the bus.

Celia licked her already-glistening lips. “That’s right, that’s the deal. But it’s my job to help both of you get the best ratings you can.”