First Time Killer

by Alan Orloff

  Little Miss Sunshine. Barb was always good for a pick-me-up. Maybe she’d be right about this. “You really think so?”

  “I do. I really do. And I know you’ll be happier. Hanging around the house is killing you. I mean, if you ‘fix’ many more appliances, we’ll go broke.”

  Hearing the hopeful tone of her voice, Rick knew his decision had been made. “Okay. It’s settled. I’m going back.”

  Barb beamed, then threw her arms around him, wet hands caressing the back of his neck.

  “Okay. Easy, now.”

  She stepped back, eyes moist. Returned to her post at the sink and turned the water back on.

  “I’ll call Brewster in the morning.” Rick knew it would tick Celia off, but if Brewster was going to be true to his word, Rick thought he should deal directly with the man at the top. Celia could stew all she wanted; bringing him back had been Brewster’s idea.

  “Good for you. I think it’s the best thing. No more moping around.” She rinsed a glass and put it into the dishwasher with a clink.

  It was funny how things worked. Since he walked out, Rick hadn’t given much thought at all to the show. Now that he’d decided to go back, his mind jumped ahead. What would his first day back be like? What would he talk about? “Had lunch with Winn today. He said Detective Adams came by the station. Spoke to our lawyer. He wants us to quit talking about First Time.”

  Barb shut the water off, dried her hands on a dishtowel. “You should.”

  “We couldn’t if we wanted to. Not as long as we let people call in. And if we cut off the phone lines and talked about something else, our ratings would plummet. We wouldn’t stay afloat for a week.”

  “You could run Best Of episodes for a while.”

  “I don’t think so. Celia wouldn’t go for that. Bad ratings.”

  Barb reached out for Rick’s hand, then embraced him. “He scares me. Killing some innocent guy. Calling you up to brag about it.” Rick felt her shudder, sensed concern underneath. “Do you think you’re in any danger?” Barb asked.

  “Me? No way. He tries anything with me, I’ll use my secret special move on him. The one I learned when I trained with the Company in Zookistan, back in the eighties.” He moved his mouth closer to Barb’s ear and adopted a vague foreign accent. “You remember ze move, don’t you?” A throaty whisper.

  A smile grew on Barb’s face. “Maybe you should remind me.”

  “Vell, first I do zis.” Rick slid his hand down Barb’s back until he found the bottom of her sweater, then he snaked his hand inside. Brought it up along her smooth skin until his fingers closed around her bra strap. “Zen, I do zis.” He unhooked her bra. “And now…”

  With both hands, he carefully removed her sweater. Then the bra.

  “Ah, I remember the move now,” Barb said. “And I like it. One thing, though. Don’t try it on the killer. He might not be so appreciative.”

  CHAPTER 28

  ANOTHER BRISK AFTERNOON. But there was plenty of electricity in the air to keep the chill off Rick. To celebrate his return to the airwaves, Celia decided to take the Afternoon Circus on the road for a live remote. “On the road” was relative; the show had only moved a couple of miles to broadcast from Major Francis Park.

  They’d set up an elevated stage next to the spot where J.T. had discovered the arm in the trashcan. The original trashcan had been replaced with another standard-issue park trashcan and had been roped off, like a little shrine. The collection of memorials had grown, too. There must have been seventy or eighty candles, poems, drawings, and stuffed animals heaped against the green can’s metal sides.

  The stage supported a table and a few chairs. All the requisite electronics were in place. Frankie Polchous, the engineer, had wired the stage so they could take phone calls—just like in-studio. A WTLK backdrop, featuring a collage of Circus posters, had been set up across the back of the stage, helping to screen the wind. A few banks of klieg lights had been erected, enough to throw light on the stage and the first few rows of the audience. They hadn’t had much time to plan the event, but they’d managed to pull it together.

  Rick stood by himself, off to one side, on the fringes of the giant crowd. He’d started taking a rough census, but had given up when his estimate reached nine hundred. And the throng was growing. Men and women, bundled up against the cold, packed side-by-side. Some were eating, some were drinking. More than some, if Rick knew his listeners. Many held homemade signs. Welcome Back, Ringmaster. Last Time, Killer? Peace, Now, Dammit! He’d even seen a few warped individuals carrying plastic mannequin arms. What had he agreed to, coming back? Did he seriously think things would be better? Or had it been a gigantic case of wishful thinking? The smiling faces of Barb and Livvy floated in his mind. Little EssEss made an appearance, too.

  The scene reminded Rick of the documentaries he’d seen about Woodstock. People—hippies—for as far as the eye could see. Psyched for some great music, a real counter-culture experience. On second thought, maybe there really wasn’t much of a similarity. No historian on the planet would consider this live remote broadcast of the Afternoon Circus to be a cultural experience of any type.

  Rick turned the collar of his coat up and sipped his Dunkin’ Donuts coffee from a Styrofoam cup. In the shadows, he wasn’t too worried about somebody spotting him. That was one of the great things about radio—most people didn’t know what he looked like. To the casual observer, he was just another listener who’d come out to support the Circus. Of course, it was the “special” fans like the Nazi Hunter he’d have to watch out for.

  A couple of police officers strolled by. Detective Adams had been around earlier when they’d been setting up, trying again to dissuade Celia. She’d been polite but held firm. To Rick, it didn’t seem like Adams had been trying very hard. Maybe he was just smart enough to realize when he was battering his head against a stone wall. In addition to the uniforms, Rick knew Adams would have some men out, undercover, in case First Time decided to try something in person. The odds were slim, but they didn’t have much else to go on.

  Rick hadn’t had much say in the planning. Although Brewster had promised him Celia would take a less active role in the day-to-day tasks, this was her event, start to finish. She’d even postponed his return a day so she could have the weekend to promote it. And promote it she did. WTLK ran spots touting the live remote ten times an hour. She’d even wrangled someone at the Post to run a little throwaway about it in the Style section.

  On stage, Tin Man and Tubby were on fire. They were interviewing a “freelance” forensic evidence expert. Rick wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard Celia say she’d gotten his name from Marie, the psychic. The so-called expert, some guy in a purple velour warm-up suit named Dennis, claimed he could recreate certain incidents solely from a piece of evidence. And not just simple facts, either, like Mr. Mustard got bludgeoned with a lead pipe in the kitchen. Dennis said he could reconstruct entire scenes simply by touching an object. Or body part—he maintained organic evidence worked best.

  Since no one had any spare body parts, Tin Man and Tubby decided to do some of their own freelancing. The call went out to the crowd for volunteers. A female was needed, one who wasn’t shy. Some liquid lubrication would help bolster her courage. Tin Man didn’t have much trouble enticing a couple of female volunteers from the crowd to come on stage. How this related to First Time wasn’t exactly clear, but Rick knew it didn’t really matter. Not as long as the crowd was entertained. Just being in the same time zone as the trashcan of record was good enough.

  Rick glanced to the side of the stage where Celia stood. Dressed in a tight black skirt and boots, she looked like another one of the Circus groupies. Next to her, in a dark suit, pinched-face Stanton leaned against the side of the stage. Looked as if he’d eaten a couple of bad burritos. This time, though, he might have something to worry about. Things often got dicey—standards-wise—at a live show.

  On-stage, one of the volunteers, a full-figured redhead, reac
hed under her peasant dress and pulled off her panties. Pink with large, black polka dots.

  “Fling ’em over here, lassie,” Tin Man said.

  The redhead tossed them over, giggling loudly, and Tin Man snagged them out of mid-air. He seemed to attract exhibitionists. Probably one of the reasons Celia hired him in the first place.

  Tin Man made a big deal of smelling the panties. “I think there might be some organic matter on them.” Then he handed them over—reluctantly—to the forensic expert.

  Dennis closed his eyes and rubbed the panties all over his face. Rick glanced over at Tubby, who seemed a little ill. Who wouldn’t be, being a part of this? Sometimes Rick wondered about his role. Even though his part of the Circus was better-mannered, did it really exonerate him? Or was he as bad as these two clowns? It was a fine line, one he was always dancing around. Too often, he feared, he caved in and believed the excuses he told himself.

  Dennis had opened his eyes, and he carefully placed the panties on the table in front of him, keeping his fingers in contact with them. “The owner of these panties,” Dennis said, eyeing the redhead for a beat too long, “is a vivacious, fun-loving girl.” His voice was high-pitched and squeaky. Not very good for radio.

  The audience whooped and hollered. Fun-loving girls were always a crowd favorite. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stanton take a step toward the stage. Celia grabbed his sleeve, holding him back.

  “Yes. Yes, I am,” the redhead said. She started shimmying and swaying to some internal tune.

  “You have a boyfriend, too. Don’t you?”

  She smiled coyly. “Yes. There’s a guy I like and we’ve dated some. I don’t know if you could call him my boyfriend though.” She turned toward the audience and raised both her hands, grinding her hips. “I like lots of guys. Whooooo.”

  The catcalls got louder. Rick sipped his coffee, looked at his watch. No matter what happened, he’d be on stage in a few minutes. He’d gotten used to following all sorts of unsavory acts. What did it say about him that it all rolled off his back?

  Dennis asserted himself, high-pitched voice rising. “I’m getting the picture that you were, um, with your boyfriend in the very recent past.” He arched one eyebrow. “Like within the past hour.”

  The redhead whooped again and began hiking up her dress. The alcohol level in her system caused her to wobble on her high heels. Stanton couldn’t take it any longer. He jumped on stage and hurried toward his indecency problem. “Okay. We’re done here. Go to commercials. Time for break.” Stanton grabbed the girl by her elbow and escorted her off the stage to a chorus of boos from the crowd.

  “Well, say hello to our giant pain-in-the-ass. Our snarky shark. The lawyer man.” Tin Man stood and pointed after Stanton, inciting the crowd. “Let him hear you.”

  The crowd ramped up their booing and jeering. A few beer cans rained down on the stage. Tin Man picked up a couple of full plastic water bottles and hurled them back out into the crowd. The crowd responded with more beer and soda cans. Tin Man flipped the audience off and ran for cover, stage left, followed closely by Tubby. J.T. appeared from the wings, hands over his head, and made his way, ducking and weaving, toward the console. The shower of debris lessened as he hit a few buttons and sent the show into break.

  The audience, full of short-attention-span twenty-somethings, forgot all about the dizzy redhead. They began a rhythmic chant. For their radio hero.

  Rick. Rick. Rick. We want Rick. Rick. Rick. Rick. We want Rick.

  Rick felt goosebumps pop on both arms, despite the warmth provided by his heavy leather bomber jacket. He gazed out over the crowd, watched the people pumping their fists into the air as they shouted his name. Most of his fans’ faces were shrouded in shadow, but at certain angles, the spotlights would catch a beaming face, red and shiny with anticipation. As if receiving direction from some unseen conductor, the chant got louder. And louder. They were all calling his name. Rick. Rick. Rick. We want Rick.

  It was time. Time for Ringmaster Rick to make his glorious return.

  CHAPTER 29

  RICK HAD ONLY been gone for a little more than a week. But it felt like a month. His mouth was dry, and despite his usual comfort behind a mic, his stomach fluttered. Maybe it had something to do with the undulating sea of a thousand adoring people screaming his name in unison.

  “Hello, everyone. It’s great to be back.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t think anyone noticed. The crowed was too busy yelling. “Thank you. Thank you. I had no idea you felt this way about me.” Rick extended both arms toward the crowd, palms up. “Thank you.” Off to the side, Celia applauded, every so often stopping to exhort the crowd to continue. Rick didn’t spot Stanton anywhere. Must still be busy with the redhead.

  Celia had wanted Rick to open his segment with a little speech. She wanted him to congratulate Tin Man and Tubby on how they’ve been handling the First Time hullabaloo in his absence, and she wanted him to crow about how great the ratings have been. Both toady, self-congratulating messages. Rick had just nodded, having no intention of doing either. He had a few things of his own he wanted to say. And with Brewster’s mandate, he wasn’t worried too much about Celia.

  After a full minute, Rick motioned for quiet and the cheering subsided. “Thank you. Wow, it’s nice to be back. Although I’ve only been gone a short time.” He licked his lips and looked around for a bottle of water. Damn Tin Man for hurling the water into the crowd. Rick spotted J.T. and pantomimed taking a sip of water. Maybe he’d get the message.

  “This evening, I’ll be talking with some of you. Those of you who’ve braved the cold to come out to support me.” Rick gestured at the crowd, eliciting a few screams. “And I’ll be taking phone calls, as usual. But before I get started, I’d like to say a few things.” Rick paused to catch his breath as J.T. jogged across the stage with two bottles of water. He set them down in front of Rick, then waved to the fans and scampered off.

  “Thanks, J.T.” He twisted off the cap of one of the bottles and took a long sip. “Much better. Now I can really talk.” A few people clapped. It was one of those magical nights when reciting the grocery list would get applause. “As you all know, a terrible thing happened recently. An innocent man was killed.” Rick stood and walked to the side of the stage closest to the trashcan. He pointed and shouted to the crowd. “His arm was found right over there. In a trashcan!”

  The crowd erupted. Rick walked solemnly back to his seat behind the mic. “And if that wasn’t bad enough, the killer decided to drag my show—our show—into the mud with him.” The crowd had quieted and everyone focused on him, on his words. Here and across the country.

  He raised his voice, settling into a sermon cadence. “It’s time for us to come together. Band together. Stand together. Together, we will find this guy and bring him to justice.” Rick imagined Adams cringing at the thought of a thousand vigilantes. And at that exact moment, Rick had no doubt if the killer showed, he’d be ripped to shreds by the energized mob.

  More thunderous applause. Shouting. An airhorn sounded, a long blast followed by a dozen short ones. Rick could whip up a crowd when he wanted. “We’ll show this miscreant, this First Time Killer. We’ll show him who he’s messing with.” Frenzied fans shouted and screamed, turning Major Francis Park into Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

  Rick took a sip of water and closed his eyes, letting the wall of noise go out over the airwaves without any interruption or commentary from him. Let the rest of the country hear—feel—the raw emotion of his fans. After a moment, he put his arms up calling for quiet.

  “I need to add something. Something very important. At least to me.” Rick shot a glance in Celia’s direction, but didn’t wait to find out if she was paying attention. “I vow to do everything in my power to bring First Time to justice. Before he harms someone else.” The noise welled up again, but Rick cut it off. “Hold on, hold on. I’ll do everything I can to stop this insanity. But I’m going to do it my way. No exploitation. N
o outrageous contests. Nothing to incite him or anger him. I’m going to follow through the only way I know how. Listening to your concerns and worries. Helping you allay your fears. Working with the police department any way I can to bring in First Time. And of course, I can’t do any of it without the support from you, my beloved fans.”

  Like a preacher or a politician, Rick had a well-developed sense of timing. Fire the crowd up, calm them down. Fire them up higher, then bring them down a little. Ride the roller coaster. He knew when to pause for applause, and now was one of those times. He slowly rose and took a few steps toward the front of the stage. Held his arms up. When he was sure every eye was on him, he took a deep, theatrical bow.

  It was good to be back.

  For the next two hours, Rick was on top of his game. They’d set up a mic stand out in the crowd, and it attracted a steady stream of people eager to ask Rick’s advice or spout off about First Time. Every so often, he’d take a phone call, and the listeners in Scottsdale or Seattle or St. Louis weighed in with their opinions. The fact they were physically removed from First Time’s handiwork didn’t diminish the depth of their anger.

  Usually, when Rick discussed an issue—abortion, death penalty, paper or plastic—he’d elicit all types of comments. Some listeners were for, some against. Some argued both sides of the issue at once. The back-and-forth made for a lively debate. Not surprisingly, the opinions about First Time were more one-sided. Like about 100% disapproval. Tonight, it didn’t matter to Rick. He was on top again.

  A few fervent fans brought presents for Rick. A coffee mug, t-shirts, an original watercolor of Rick behind a microphone. Homemade brownies. A box of gourmet chocolates. J.T. escorted the gift-bearing fans on stage, and Rick would thank them and give them a hug or an autograph or a slap on the back. J.T. was eager to help; Rick usually passed the booty around the station for the crew and interns to enjoy. He’d always found it made him a little hinky to bring home the stuff his fans had given him. He didn’t employ a taste tester.