“Yeah, I know.” Rick remembered what it was like to be unattached and on the prowl 24/7. There were radio groupies back in his day—though not as many and not as brazen. And not nearly as many strippers.
J.T. kept dribbling.
Rick balled up his fists inside his pockets. “You know a guy named Mike? Kinda creepy. Scar on his forehead.” He touched his head over his eye.
“Solid guy, always wearing a camo jacket?”
Rick’s pulse quickened thinking about him. “Yeah, sounds like him. He a regular?”
“That’s the Nazi Hunter. He called the Rhino a lot, talking about conspiracies and shit like that. He doesn’t call much anymore. I thought maybe he’d moved to South America to get closer to his prey.” J.T. eyed Rick. “Why?”
“I bumped into him. He freaked me out a little.”
“Don’t know too much about him, boss. Sorry.” J.T said. “He harass you?”
“No. Just talked to me. Actually, if I wasn’t on edge, it would have seemed normal.”
Or at least not too freaky.
“Except…”
“Except what?”
“He seemed to know who Livvy was, without me saying anything.”
J.T. slapped the ball with one hand. “Want me to talk with him?”
“Naw, I’m probably making too much of it. Forget it.”
“Well, if you change your mind…” J.T. stared at Rick as he slapped the ball again.
Rick gave him a single nod. “Thanks. One last question. How do you know so much about these characters?” Rick had talked to these guys on the phone, but he didn’t know enough to slot them into categories. Thank God he had a producer who could stomach dealing with the army of misfits attracted to a call-in show. “Do you socialize with them?”
“Hell, no. Except the strippers.” J.T. flipped the ball from hand to hand, then held it on his hip. “Boss, they call in all the time. Some of them call every single day. Guess it makes them feel important. Part of something. Most of the time, I don’t put them through. It would mess up the show if they were always on. So I talk to them, rag on them, whatever. Keeps me amused. Keeps them happy.”
“You’re a stronger man than I am,” Rick said. “Hey, I almost forgot about Dimitri.”
J.T. hit himself in the forehead lightly with the ball. “Oh, right. I talk to him more than my mother. Have you checked out his website lately? There’s a ton of info there. That’s probably where the Nazi Hunter found out about Livvy.”
Dimitri was a self-proclaimed
Afternoon Circus
expert and historian. “I’ve never seen it.”
“Really? Never?” J.T. seemed amazed. “I’d put Dimitri in a class by himself. He knows so much about our show, we should consider hiring him. He knows more than I do, for sure.”
“Maybe we should get him to be our producer,” Rick said, deadpan. He stared at J.T.
J.T.’s eyes flashed, then he broke into a grin. “You’re joshing.” His smile faltered. “Right? I mean, I love working here.”
Rick kept the stare going, then softened. What would J.T. do without the
Circus
? “You’re safe, J.T. Just keep doing your usual bang-up job. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
As Rick turned to leave, J.T. said, “Hey, Adams asked me about these guys, too. Wanted me to arrange a meeting, get everyone together so he could question them. You want in on that?”
“Sure. That ought to be interesting. Or at least entertaining,” Rick said. “Do me a favor, though. Don’t invite the Nazi Hunter. I’ll give Adams his name myself.”
G
OING TO THE
movie theater in the middle of the morning aroused long-forgotten feelings of guilt, of all those times Rick ditched his junior English class and caught the latest flick at the discount theater right off campus. Two bucks, with student ID. He always figured what he learned about the human condition from watching the films was more valuable than learning how to write compositions or how to not split infinitives.
Of course, today was different. On this morning, no movie was being shown. Marty Williamson had called an all-hands meeting and there wasn’t a room at the station large enough to seat all the hands. Actually there might have been, but Rick believed Marty enjoyed renting out the theater because it made him feel like a big shot. Like renting the entire theater for your kid’s birthday party.
Forty or so employees of WTLK sat in the stadium-style seats. Sales reps, secretaries, on-air talent. Engineers. A dozen interns. The entire theater buzzed as everyone waited for Marty to address the troops. All-hands meetings were reserved for the bombshells. Great or horrible. Some kind of news that couldn’t be delivered via email. Six months ago, when Marty detailed the plans to be sold to SatRad, the get-together had been a giddy affair. A couple months later, tragedy struck and Marty had broken the news about the Rhino’s death. This one also would be a sober affair. The death of another
Circus
member.
Rick and J.T. sat together toward the back of the theater. Only the part-time guy who worked in the mailroom sat behind them. Marty, decked out in a dark blue pin-striped suit that accentuated his spindly build and made him seem paler than usual, stood at the podium in front of the jumbo-sized white screen. Flanked by Sales Manager Lassita DuJuan on his right, and Celia on his left. Marty tapped the microphone twice. A small feedback squeal rang out. “Can everyone hear me?”
A wave of mumbles rose up. “Good. I’m glad everyone could make it this morning.” They’d pulled Garth the Goth out of studio, leaving just a few interns back at the station. A
Best Of the Afternoon Circus
was being aired. Rick figured Celia had picked out the episode containing the original First Time call. Probably thought the listeners could never get enough of J.T. puking.
“As you all know, a member of our radio family was tragically killed.” Marty stopped and straightened his tie. Regrouped. “Ted Danzler. He was an intern here what, about six months ago?” Marty looked to Celia for confirmation, although he must have already known. She nodded back somberly. “Let’s all bow our heads in a moment of silence to remember Ted.”
After thirty seconds, Marty cleared his throat into the mic, and the sound rumbled through the theater. “This madman, this monster calling himself First Time, is responsible.” He gazed out over the crowd. “To make things worse, if that were possible, First Time phoned in to the
Circus
. Got us involved in his terrible actions. As you know, at the end of his call, he told us where we would find something. Fortunately, Rick was on the ball and dumped out the location.” Marty squinted, shading his eyes with his hands as he scanned the crowd. When he found Rick, he stopped panning and pointed into the back. “Nice job, Rick. If that information had made it out on-air, no telling what might have happened to Ted’s arm. The cops never might have been able to make the identification. And then his poor parents…” Marty trailed off.
Rick didn’t need any special kudos for doing his job. And more importantly, he didn’t want to be associated with this tragedy.
Again, Marty fiddled with his tie before speaking. “I spoke with his parents. Told them what a fine addition to the show Ted had been. Offered to do what I could—what the station could—in their time of need. May God bless him.” Marty bowed his head, gripped the podium with both hands.
Celia leaned over and grabbed one arm, whispering into his ear. Marty raised his head and leaned forward to speak into the mic. “Ted was a team player. And he would have wanted what was best for us. All of us. So I don’t think it’s a stretch to think he’d want us to take advantage of every opportunity—this opportunity included—to maximize our potential. To try to broadcast our show to the largest possible audience. I truly believe that’s what would have made Ted happiest. And ultimately, life goes on for the living. Celia will outline how we plan to do that. Celia?”
Marty was a piece of work, all right. Rick felt the nausea grow in his stomach.
Marty backed away from the podium and Celia filled the void. “What happened to Ted is a tragedy. But there’s nothing we can do to change the past. We must focus on the future. Try to honor Ted’s wishes for us to become a successful radio station.” Celia smiled, but to Rick, it came across as mercenary, not sympathetic. “Let me get to the point here. The day after First Time called, we hired True Data Polling to make some calls. See what our listeners—and our non-listeners—thought of First Time and our handling of the situation.”
Rick knew how much Celia relied on pollsters and surveys and the press to tell her how she was doing her job. Her obsession wasn’t limited to the ratings.
Celia went on. “We got an extremely high response. People wanted to hear more about First Time. And they want to talk about it, too. I know it’s only been a very short time, but listeners are up, up, up. And we think they’re insatiable. The more we talk about it, the more they’ll listen.” She looked up, the cold smile still painted on her face. “And then there was the call to Tin Man.” She gestured with her open hand to Tin Man, sitting in the front. He rose part way, faced the crowd, flicked his hand a couple of times, then sat back down.
“That tells me First Time likes us. Wants to be part of our show. Wants to run away and join the
Circus
, as it were.” She gripped the podium with both hands. “And we are going to welcome him with open arms.”
J.T. leaned over and started whispering, but Rick shushed him. He needed to hear what Celia was planning. Sure it would involve him. Sure he wasn’t going to like it.
“I want all of our
Circus
segments to concentrate on matters related to the killer. Let’s try to encourage our listeners to speculate about what will happen next. Let’s discuss why we think he’s doing what he’s doing. Let’s not leave any stone unturned.”
“Why do you think he’s doing it? Calling in, I mean?” The question came from Linc Vetter, Garth the Goth’s cousin. He worked in sales, a real up-and-comer. And he was nothing at all like Garth. Linc was trim and well-dressed, preferring tailored clothes in contemporary colors over Goth Black.
Celia’s gaze drifted toward the ceiling. She nodded, pursed her lips as she formulated her answer. “Well, Linc. I don’t really know
why
. And I guess, when you get right down to it, I don’t really care. Doesn’t pay to try to suss out a crazy man, does it? So I guess my philosophy is this: If this nut wants to call in to a radio show and expose himself, then I’d rather it be our show. Let’s go with it. Our ultimate goal is to help catch this guy.” She nodded, the sides of her mouth turning upward slightly. “Of course, there’s nothing wrong with delivering good ratings while we catch him, is there?”
“No, but what should we tell the advertisers? I’m not sure they’ll want to associate themselves with a wacko killer,” Linc said.
Rick wondered why he was worried. Linc considered himself to be the ideal sales guy. Could sell snow in Saskatoon. All the sales reps, sitting in the same row, with ties cinched and shoes shined nodded in unison at Linc’s pronouncement. Lassita ran a tight ship. Maybe he was just trying to score Brownie points.
“Well, I guess we’ll have to be sure we help nail this guy. Then the advertisers will be glad they took part,” Celia said, to a smattering of applause. Nabbing a killer
would
be good for business.
Celia looked at Tin Man and nodded, then craned her head, searching the back of the theater. “Rick? You and Tin Man are the front guys on this. When First Time calls, I want you to get him talking. Get him to divulge some secrets. Drum up some clues. Who is he? Where does he live? What is he after? Why did he kill Ted? Be clever. Be forceful. Be on your game. This is an unfortunate tragedy, but let’s look at the silver lining. This could be our fast-track to satellite.”
Rick heard some murmuring. He wasn’t sure Celia’s pitch played too well to the crowd. Exploiting the death of a co-worker was cold, even for her. Celia was treading a fine line. She could easily get hung out on the clothesline.
“What if First Time doesn’t call back?” someone called out.
“He will. He’s called in twice so far. He’ll call back. He likes to hear his voice. Some of you know.” Celia grinned, and Rick could only think of a wolf spying a flock of sheep. “You know how it is, once you get a taste of it. The rush of being on-air. Your voice being heard by millions of people. Listeners hanging on your every sentence. Intoxicating. Addictive. Essential. He’ll call back. He has to. I’d bet on it.”
Celia gazed out at the crowd. “Okay, everyone. Back to work.” People started to stand, gathering their coats and hats. “One more thing. I’ve hired some security for the station. We’ll post a guard in the front lobby. But please be vigilant. We’ve already lost one person. Let’s not lose any more.”
Rick cringed, envisioning every moment on-air talking about First Time. He saw what was left of his career slowly sliding into the ocean, like one of those Malibu houses in a mudslide.
T
IN
M
AN GENTLY
pushed open the door to the station lobby until he could peer through the crack. More than a dozen listeners dressed like chickens filled the seats. Others milled around looking lost, some gathered in groups to chat. A few sipped from water bottles. It looked like happy hour at Old MacDonald’s Farm.
First Time’s call had rattled Tin Man. How did the killer know he drove a Beamer? Right after the show, he’d driven around the Northern Virginia suburban sprawl for hours, taking side roads, making sure he wasn’t followed. Then he’d dumped his car at Dulles airport—Green economy lot—and rented a nondescript family sedan. Finally, he’d checked into an airport motel.
Hope you have a nice stay, Mr. James Munrow.
Tin Man wasn’t backing down, but there was no sense taking chances either. And there was no chance in hell he was going to postpone this contest he’d come up with, just to appease a madman. As Tin Man liked to tell people, his momma didn’t raise no dummy.