First Time Killer (28 page)

“What kind of idea?”

“Sort of a favor. But a mutually beneficial favor.”

Doing favors for a madman? “I’m listening.” He swiveled around, looked back into the shop. Barb wasn’t seated, must have gone into the ladies’ room. She’d be out any second.

“I’ll grant you an interview. Exclusive. You can ask me questions and I’ll talk for hours. Then your bitch Celia can milk it five ways ’til Easter. Make it into a twelve-part series, for all I care. Just promise to air it. That should spike your ratings.”

“Why?” Rick asked. But he knew. Celia was right. This guy would do anything to get airtime. Even kill. Especially kill.

“I’m being misunderstood. I want to get my story out, over the air. Reliably, accurately,” First Time said. “And you’re just the guy to do it.”

The bell over the door jingled behind him. Rick spun around as Barb pushed through, zipping up her coat. “Hold on a sec,” Rick said into the phone. Then, to Barb: “It’s business. I’ll only be a minute more. Meet you in the car, okay?” He watched as she made her way through the parking lot to the car. She shot a small glance at him over her shoulder before she opened her door and got in. He hated lying to her.

Back to his conversation with First Time. “When do we meet?”

“Two conditions. You come alone. And you can’t tell anyone in advance. No cops. Nobody at the station. No friends. Nobody in your family. No one. Capice?”

Rick considered First Time’s offer. He had a chance—a real chance, this time—to bring the killer in. A real hero, not some talk show flunkie. He didn’t know how he’d do it exactly, but he’d figure that out later. The offer couldn’t be passed up. Not if he wanted to live with himself in the future. “Okay. You got it. When and where?”

First Time chuckled. “I’ll call you tomorrow with the plan.” He paused, and Rick thought he heard lip-smacking noises. “Ringmaster Rick, I’m not kidding. If you tell anyone about this before we meet, another body part will wash ashore. If you get my drift, matey.”

R
ICK SLEPT ONLY
fitfully, dark dreams nipping at the corners of his mind even as he awoke. He putzed around the house for a couple of hours, grumbling to himself as he killed time. At around one, after Livvy came home from school and devoured a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch, Barb took her to a friend’s for a playdate, leaving Rick to mire in his pitiful mood. Or at least that’s what Barb said as she departed. Rick didn’t correct her, content to play the part of a grump, if that’s what it took to keep the truth from her.

He closed his eyes and let a mental movie play in his mind. Gurgling stomach acid etched a gaping hole in his stomach lining, then dissolved the stomach wall. From there, it went to work eroding the rest of his body. Liver. Kidney. Intestines. Lungs. All turned into festering, ulcerated—failed—organs. In short order, the acid ate through his skin, and he watched in horror as his own body consumed itself. The closing credits of his mind-movie ran over an image of a puddle of acid. No body left. That’s how he often felt when he had to wait.

During Sarah Sue’s illness, he spent many hours—late at night, early in the morning—pacing the halls. Nothing to do, nothing he
could
do. Except expect the worse. He’d make a list of possible courses of action, in a very structured, organized way. Then he’d crumple it up and stuff it in the trash. His options were always futile. As proved by the ultimate result.

For the tenth time, he checked the power on his cell. Charged and ready to go. First Time said he would call today, and since six a.m., Rick hadn’t lost sight of his phone. When Barb asked why he’d taken it into the shower, he’d blamed Celia, saying she was going to call and harass him about something. Good thing Barb and Celia rarely spoke to each other.

Why did First Time want to meet with him in person? So far, he’d been content to call in with his ramblings and rantings. Why risk a face-to-face? Rick had read about serial killers needing to continually raise the stakes. Was First Time a true serial killer? What defined a “true” serial killer anyway? Three bodies? Five bodies? Ten?

Rick shuddered. Thinking about death so callously scared him. Every one of those “bodies” had a family. Mother, father, siblings. Maybe kids. Every life First Time snuffed out affected people beside the victim. Many more. An intricate spider web connecting dozens and dozens of relatives and friends, all who would grieve the death of a loved one.

If Rick had to choose, he’d pick face-to-face every time. Words were just words, empty and floating, without body language, hand gestures, and facial clues to give them depth and meaning. Context. It was one of the things that frustrated him about his call-in show. He felt he was only getting a small part of the message his callers were trying to deliver. And one thing he knew for sure: he’d be able to spot someone yanking his chain nearly every time if he got a chance to see the caller in person.

A face-to-face exclusive interview with First Time. Journalistically, it would be the coup of the year. Maybe of the past five years. Celia’s eager face appeared in his mind. What would she say when he came back with the interview? First Time was right; she’d probably want to split it into pieces and tease it for weeks. One thing for sure, it would send the ratings soaring. Might even secure the SatRad deal. Then he could decide what he wanted to do. Keep on plugging or retire and slow down.

The cell rang, startling Rick. He fumbled the phone and it dropped into his lap. Grabbing it, he flipped it open and started talking even before he had it to his mouth. “Hello. Jennings here.”

“Hello, Jennings.” First Time’s metallic voice mocked him. “Having a nice day?”

“When do you want to meet?”

“Wow, for a
talk
show guy, you need to work on your small
talk
.”

Rick willed himself to calm down. “Yes, I’m having a fine day.” He took a breath. “Now, when can we meet?”

“Tonight. Tomorrow morning, actually.” First Time chuckled. “Got a pencil?”

A
T THREE TWENTY-EIGHT
a.m., Rick stopped at the entrance to Major Francis Park and glanced around. Completely still, not even a breeze to rustle the leaves. The temperature hovered in the upper teens, and his breath streamed from his mouth and nostrils, melting away in a white, wispy fog, the only sign of life as he stood motionless. The streetlights illuminating the path every thirty yards washed out all colors, giving Rick’s world a post-apocalyptic aura. He felt like he was experiencing nuclear winter or had crashed on some stark, inhospitable alien world in another galaxy. Last human alive.

As he scanned the deserted park, his gaze stopped on a trashcan. The trashcan. Twenty yards to his left was where J.T. found Danzler’s arm. Was the young intern slaughtered here, one dark, cold night, then dismembered? Could he have been standing right in this spot before he met his fate? Rick shivered and headed down the path.

He passed the site where the stage had been set up for their live remote. Thousands of adoring fans screaming his name. He’d been on top of the world then, at least for a couple of hours. Before everything came crashing down when he peered into that box.

An arm. An ear. What next? Rick picked up his pace, not wanting to think about any more body parts. Not wanting to think about his fate. But the images swirled in his head. He considered turning tail and heading home, wishing this was all a bad dream. But something spurred him on. Some sense of duty. Obligation. Was he doing the right thing? Or was he somehow making things worse?

He struggled to banish the unsettling thoughts from his head by focusing on the present. Strained to connect with reality. Concentrated on the frigid air numbing his cheeks. Told himself to put one foot in front of the other. Right, left. Right, left. A regular stroll in the park.

His instructions were simple. Walk to the cinder block restroom building, about a quarter mile down the path, on the right. Count to one hundred, then go behind the building. Excavate the “fourth stone from the left.” End of instructions. Rick had tried to ask more questions, but First Time had sloughed them off. All he’d said was be sure to come alone. And bring a flashlight—just a flashlight. The park was a dark, dark place in the middle of the night.

Rick proceeded down the path, walking at his normal pace. After about three minutes, he couldn’t hold back and started jogging. His breath escaped his mouth in great spurts, like the Little Engine that Could chugging up a hill, and after a few minutes, his lungs burned from the frigid air. Legs pumped faster, and a few drops of perspiration formed on his forehead despite the arctic cold. His nose began to drip, prompting a quick swipe with his sleeve.

He curved around a gentle bend in the path and the rest rooms appeared. A squat, block building with two heavy metal doors, paint peeling. Forty years old, at least. A couple of spotlights on the front corners of the building sent two distinct cones of light toward the path. Rick slowed to a walk as he approached, gasping for breath. Looked around. No one was in sight. No animals, either. All snuggled deep in their warm hidey-holes. Even the nocturnal creatures—foxes, voles, opossums—wouldn’t venture out into the cold, he guessed. Only fools came out on a night like this. Fools and those hunting fools.

Rick stopped and cleared his throat loudly. Was he a fool? Was what he was doing insane? Meeting a murderer at night, in an isolated spot? Ever since First Time’s call to set up the meeting, he’d gone back and forth. He’d wanted to climb into his hole and pull the trapdoor shut, let First Time be someone else’s problem, someone else’s responsibility. Wasn’t catching murderers the job of the police? Or FBI? Or someone better trained than he was? But then Mr. Conscience would speak up and appeal to Rick’s sense of goodness. His social responsibility. Urge him to step up to the plate and try to bring First Time in.

If he were still single, his decision would be easy. Go for it. Without a doubt. But he had his family to consider. If something happened to him, Barb and Livvy would be devastated. Destroyed. His stomach churned and his head ached as he had debated his course of action.

Mr. Conscience had been very persuasive. This was a huge opportunity. A chance to bring in First Time, end the killing. Save other people’s families from being destroyed. He couldn’t back out. He’d never be able to live with himself, and Barb and Livvy would be equally devastated watching his guilt eat away at him, slowly, agonizingly, over the span of their lifetimes, if he’d had a chance to nail First Time and squandered it.

And when he called Adams, the detective had agreed with Mr. Conscience. Somewhere, hidden in the woods, lurking about, was Adams, along with his men. Waiting to spring out and capture First Time. All Rick had to do was be the bait.

Rick stood transfixed in front of the rest room building. Slowly, silently, he counted to one hundred. Steadily and evenly he ticked off the numbers, knowing it didn’t matter one iota if he missed a few or counted too quickly. It was unlikely First Time had a stopwatch on him. When he reached one hundred, he took a tentative step toward the side of the building. The beginnings of a faint dirt path led around back.

He cleared his throat, then barked out a hello, wanting to make sure he didn’t surprise First Time. His words sounded thin and feeble in the cold. Rick shivered, then circled behind the building, slowly, carefully. Alert for any sudden movement.

At the back corner, he reached out and steadied himself on the wall, pausing for a moment. The shadows were much heavier there. Ominous. Rick took a few deep breaths, then removed the flashlight from his coat pocket. He flicked it on and held it in front of him, leading the way, trying to transform the dark unknown into something he could handle.

As he rounded the corner, his breath caught and his muscles tensed. Fight or flight. He jumped to his right and zig-zagged the light around crazily, hoping to spot First Time before he felt a knife slice through his throat or a bullet rip into his belly.

But there was no one.

Rick exhaled, felt his muscles relax. Had First Time been stringing him along? Showing who was boss by dragging him out in the middle of the night, on a wild goose chase? He swept his light across the small patch of grass leading from the rest rooms up to the tree line of a dense woods. Nothing.

Wherever Adams’s men were, they were well hidden. When Rick had told Adams about the meeting place, Adams told him they’d be watching from a distance, ready for anything. They hadn’t wanted to check out the rock beforehand, in case First Time was scoping things out. Didn’t want to ruin things. At that particular moment, he prayed Adams was watching closely.

Rick took another deep breath and pivoted toward the building. Played the light across the back of the structure. Just cinder blocks in need of a paint job. On the ground, a row of flat, irregular-shaped slabs of gray rock ran the length of the building. Whether the stones were decorative or there to border a flowerbed, Rick couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter. He quickly counted out the fourth from the left, kicked some leaves aside, and knelt over it.

He set the flashlight down on the ground and braced his body with his left hand. Then he jammed the gloved fingers of his right hand under one edge and pried the stone up. Lighter than he imagined, it came up easily. He flipped the stone over onto an adjacent slab, and the loud clattering noise echoed in the silent, still night.

Rick picked up the flashlight and directed it at the empty space under the rock. A walkie-talkie enclosed in a Ziploc bag rested in the shallow depression.

Rick’s heart skipped. He dropped the flashlight and snatched the bag from the hole. Brushed a clump of dirt off. Tried to unzip it, but his bulky gloves made it difficult. Finally, he fumbled the bag open and removed the walkie-talkie. He gripped it tightly and depressed the call button a couple of times, then fingered it and spoke. “Hello?” Up close, he could make out the word “Motorola” on the front of the device.