FM for Murder (19 page)

“Yes, Danny,” she said, laughing. “My goodness, you sound like my mother used to sound when I came down with a cold or something.”

“Your mother isn’t around any more,” observed Daniel, “so it’s a very good thing you have me to take care of you.”

“And me to take care of you,” she said, pointedly. “I’m still not crazy about you running off to track down your long-lost brother all on your own. You should have some assistance at least, some….”

“Back-up?” He folded his hands behind his head and leaned against the headboard.

“Yes,” she agree, “like that Jax fellow. Why didn’t he do the chasing down anyway?”

“I told you,” he said, “Amy, this is something I have to do myself. David is my brother. This is a personal matter—very personal. I’m the only one who has any hope of convincing David to return. If I can’t do it, no one can.”

“So,” she said, resigned to his determined sound, “you’re going to the radio station tonight?”

“Yes,” he said, “Station KRDN in Reardon. I’ve got directions and I’m supposed to meet him over there after midnight. It might be fun. I gotta tell you, seeing him was strange. He looks—well—different. His radio name is…get this…Black Vulture. He says it’s his radio name. He dresses all in black…like some movie hero from the silent picture days.”

“And he goes to class like that?”

“Not sure,” he said. “He was busy grading lots of student essays and trying to finish up something for his dissertation, otherwise I’d probably be there now. We had supper together—or rather—he served me pizza in his apartment.”

“He at least sounds conscientious,” she noted.

“Definitely one’s image of a starving grad student.”

“You didn’t get the impression that he was at all…bitter…that his father had disowned him?”

“I don’t know if he even knows that he is disowned legally. Certainly, he knows that he’s disowned emotionally—and doesn’t seem to care at all. I know he shows no interest in the carpet business and never has. If he’s harboring any resentment or envy—or anything like that—I didn’t get the impression.”

“If he is resentful, he must know that this would be an ideal opportunity to mend fences with your father.”

“Correct,” said Daniel, “Father is in a weakened, vulnerable position and if I can David to return and can get the two of them together, Amy, I’m just sure I can bring about a reconciliation.”

“You are such an optimist,” she exclaimed. “It’s one of the main reasons I love you.”

“Oh,” he sighed, “I thought you loved me for my hard as rock abs and my movie star chiseled features.”

“Too funny,” she giggled. “I much prefer your slightly pudgy tummy and your sweet little round face.”

“You’re obviously the only one who does,” he pouted.

“I’d better be!”

“I’m swearing on the Bible that I found here in the nightstand next to the bed in my hotel room,” he said with conviction. “Can’t you see my raised hand?”

She laughed and then added, “Don’t make me laugh; it hurts my stomach.”

“Sorry, Sweet,” he whispered, “I wish I were there with you to gently rub your belly.”

“I’m imagining you doing that now,” she whispered in a gentle, dreamy voice.

“Just close your eyes and feel the gentle strokes of my hand.” Daniel placed the pillow from the bed on his lap and caressed it in soft circles. He closed his eyes as he had ordered Amy to do and the two remained silent, except for the sound of their paired breathing.

“I’m going to fall asleep, Danny,” she said eventually.

“Which is a good idea,” he said, “it’s what you need. I’ll let you go, but I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

“Absolutely,” she agreed. “Enjoy your trip to the radio station and good luck with your brother.”

“Thanks,” he replied, “I hope you’re feeling better soon. Sleep tight. I’ll call you first thing tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you too.” They clicked their phones off at the same time. Daniel set the pillow aside and stared at the far wall of the little hotel room. He hoped Amy didn’t have anything serious. Maybe he should call Knowles and have him drop by her apartment just in case. No, he reasoned. That would just upset Amy. She probably needed sleep more than anything. If she seemed worse tomorrow when he called, then he’d definitely call Knowles. He was not going to take any chances with her welfare. God, now he felt awful that he was hundreds of miles away and couldn’t be there for her. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. It was after eleven o’clock. He’d better think about getting ready for his foray into the world of alternative music at radio station KRDN.

Chapter 25

Present time--December 20, Thursday

The two Tulip Kisses she had consumed last night at the Blue Poppy were evidently much stronger than she had thought—or than she was used to. Now as she struggled to make it through her morning classes, Pamela wondered if her students could tell that she was—dare she say it?---hung-over—and on a Thursday, no less. Even so, the beverage was divine and she’d have another one someday if she ever ventured down to the Blue Poppy. Too bad, she thought, that she had sacrificed her sobriety to try to find some clues about the elusive Ted Ballard, but had come up virtually empty handed.

It was funny that Trudi Muldoon also seemed to be conducting her own research on her recently demised advisee. She and Trudi had bonded last night in their mutual desire to solve the murder. Trudi had supplied her with more personal information about Ballard and she had shared her own discoveries about the audio recording with the English professor. They had agreed to continue to work together until the young man’s mysterious death was solved. At least, she thought that’s what they had agreed. Trudi had also consumed a few of the Blue Poppy’s elegant looking alcoholic drinks and for all Pamela knew, they might have performed one of those blood brother rituals on the small stage in front of her colleagues. Oh my God, she used to be able to hold her liquor better.

Somehow, her classes had ended and she found herself sitting at her desk finishing off the tail end of her sandwich. Today’s offering from Rocky was left-over egg salad on a white roll with plain tea. He hated her she was sure. He seemed rather upset over last night’s imbibing, but then again, she might not have been reading him right. She was in a bit of a fog when she returned home. She was lucky she had made it home, if truth be told. He was probably worried about her driving “under the influence” as he would say.

Her monitor was on and the ubiquitous gun shot profile was visible. She gave the cursor a press and the sound of Ballard’s final words filled her office.

“Oh, Theodore Ballard,” she said to the monitor, “who shot you?”

“Still no idea?” said Willard Swinton, as his round head appeared in her door frame.

“Willard,” she sighed. “I’ve listened to this recording at least a hundred times. There’s a lot of strange things about it but I’ll be damned if I can figure out what they all mean.”

“I’ve been listening too, Pamela,” said Willard, entering her office, holding a plastic CD package in his hand, obviously the recording she had made for him of the murder. Willard looked chipper and well rested, his Navy blue pinstriped suit and light blue shirt providing a nice contrast to his chocolate face. “I may have some additional information for you about our mystery speaker.”

“You mean the killer.”

“All I know is a person speaks at the same time as this Ballard fellow. We have a definite vowel sound that overlaps Ballard’s speech. We’ve already determined that this second speaker is probably male, and probably Southern. I can also add that the person is probably well educated—I mean from a private school.”

“Really?”

“Fairly sure,” Willard said, smiling and nodding, his print silk bow tie, wobbling up and down over his larynx. “But…”

“Yes?”

“That is not the most important finding I have for you.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he came closer to her desk, pointing directly at the CD in its case, “Pamela, as I listened to this recording over and over, particularly the second acoustic line that we believe is the killer and the voice of Ballard himself, I noticed something strange.”

“What?” She was beginning to feel like Barbara Walters, question following question.

“I ran an acoustic profile for the fundamental frequency for both voices as well as several other comparisons between the two voices. Of course, I don’t have much to go on with the second voice, but there’s quite a bit of data for Ballard’s voice so….”

“Willard,” she interrupted, “what did you find?”

“Both voices are almost identical.”

“What?”

“The killer could be Ballard’s clone—vocally speaking, that is.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know, it doesn’t, but truly that’s what I found. I can show you the acoustic profiles I ran if you’d like me to demonstrate….”

“No, no,” she said, holding up her hands in protest. “I believe you Willard. I just don’t get it. How likely is it for two voices to be identical?”

“Not identical,” he clarified, “but quite similar. Amazingly similar.”

“So our killer sounds like Ted Ballard,” she said, thinking aloud.

“Yes,” said Willard Swinton, nodding. They both stood silently staring at each other. There were many logical reasons why one voice might sound like another. But it was still very strange. The ringing of Pamela’s desk phone startled them both. Pamela answered it, her eyes still on Willard’s.

“Yes?”

“Pamela?” She recognized the voice of Mitchell Marks.

“Yes, Mitchell. What’s up?”

“I believe I have some information for you about the murder recording.”

“Please don’t tell me that the murderer sounds like Ballard,” she said into the receiver.

“What?” said Marks, obviously confused.

“Never mind,” she said, shaking her head, “I’m sorry, Mitchell. What information do you have?”

“You’d better come down here so I can show you.” He hung up and Pamela was left holding the receiver. “Mitchell’s figured out something about the recording too, Willard. He wants me to come down.”

“Let’s go,” said Willard, turning and heading out the doorway. Pamela grabbed her keys and locking her door, followed Willard down the hallway and into the stairwell. When they reached the main floor, Willard waddled out into the hall with his cane, puffing with excitement. She managed to keep up.

They arrived to discover Jane Marie standing at Mitchell’s doorway, talking to her boss. When Mitchell saw Pamela, he waved her into his office. Willard followed.

“Mitchell,” explained Pamela, “Willard and I were just working on the recording when you called. He found something strange about the killer. His voice is almost identical to that of Ballard.”

“No way!” said Mitchell. Pamela feared that Mitchell was going to declare that he had just discovered that the killer’s voice was totally different from Ballard’s and they’d really be at an impasse. However, Mitchell had a totally different finding. He led Pamela and Willard over to his computer monitor and hit the play button.

“Listen,” he said, “to the gunshot and listen to what happens after the gunshot.”

They listened as directed to the recording that they had now heard dozens if not hundreds of times. Mitchell motioned for them to sit in the chairs in front of his desk and they quickly took their places, their ears following the sound track of the murder.

“Pamela,” Mitchell said, “I told you the other day, that there was something strange about the gunshot. I couldn’t figure it out, but now I believe I can say what’s not happening—even if I can’t say what is happening. Let me explain. We’re assuming Ballard is sitting directly behind the mic and the killer is standing in the doorway.”

“Yes,” said Pamela. “I took those measurements. The doorway is about ten feet from the microphone. However, I should tell you that Detective Shoop called me yesterday to tell me that the autopsy report indicated that the bullet entry came from below. So, the killer must have either been sitting or kneeling or else very short. I still can’t figure that out.”

“It doesn’t make sense to me either. But let me tell you what I’m hearing. If the killer shoots the gun from the door and the bullet hits Ballard at the microphone, we should hear—I think—less sound from the gunshot and more sound from the impact of the bullet—it would all happen almost instantaneously. Certainly with Ballard at the mic we would hear bullet impact and some sound from Ballard when he’s hit—after all he’s sitting directly in front of the mic. But we don’t hear any of that. We hear the gunshot and then nothing.”

“I thought about that too, Mitchell,” she said, “but it doesn’t make sense.”

“I know,” Mitchell agreed, “We hear the gunshot and then someone seems to turn off the microphone and shuts off the power and it happens within a few seconds. I’m assuming it must be the killer. But if it were, wouldn’t you hear the killer walking towards the mic—even faintly?”

“It’s true,” added Willard, “we can hear the killer vocalize when we assume he brings out the gun. Surely, even if he were wearing soft shoes, we’d hear some sound as he walked towards the microphone.”

“My students in my acoustics seminar noted this too, Willard,” she added. “Gentlemen, I don’t know what this means, but you can bet I’m going to find out.”

Chapter 26

Previous week--December 15-16, late Saturday night—early Sunday morning

David Bridgewater, alias Ted Ballard, entered the front door of radio station KRDN around 11:30 p.m. Saturday night. Carl Edwards was still on-air and greeted him as his gave his spiel into the microphone. David took off his overcoat and wandered over to the CD collections behind Edwards and started searching for songs he might play for his program that night. He carried several CDs that he replaced in the station’s music library.

When Edwards started a tune playing, he leaned back in his chair and spoke to David.

“Hey, Ted, you’re looking spiffy tonight. Got a date later?”

“Nah,” replied David, “been getting some flack from my advisor. She says I have to look more presentable for my classes.”