Mystery Dance: Three Novels

by Scott Nicholson

  I punched up another. It was Wayne, my main man. Maybe he had something bright to say for once. He stuttered a couple of times before starting. “Hey, Miss Night Owl lady, I dig your style. I know us men can be, like, pigs and stuff, but don’t you think killing’s a little harsh?”

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Night Owl said. “I think thousands of years of male-dominated society are enough, don’t you?”

  “Well, uh–” Wayne was at a loss for words. Maybe he’d used up the dozen he knew. But he coughed and continued. “I guess there’s some bad guys, but it’s not, you know, a total washout with us dude-types.”

  “Oh, there are a few good men, and believe me, they’re not in the Marines. Take our Mickey, for instance.”

  “Thanks, Night Owl.” I was beginning to wonder if I knew this woman. I’d always had a soft spot for sweet psychos. “Do you have time for another caller?”

  Wayne cut in like a cowboy at a line dance. “Would you like to, like, go out or something, Night Owl?”

  “Well, you definitely sound like my type. My type of victim, that is. Who knows, maybe we’ll meet. I’ll keep one in the chamber, just for you.”

  I punched up another caller. It was a woman.

  “I’m right with you, honey. I dated a clown for seven years, and ever doggone time I brought up marriage, he’d say, ‘Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?’ Well, I put a good dose of digitalis in a cherry cheesecake–do you bake? I got some good recipes. Been in the family for generations–well, the idiot ate it. He was grinnin’ like a turtle eatin’ saw-briars the whole time. Fell over dead right there at the kitchen table. Had a weak heart, I told the police. Well, I may be the cow, but he’s the one who kicked the bucket. And I got you to thank for gettin’ up my nerve.”

  “Another blow for freedom, my dear,” Night Owl said. “Keep that oven warm. Sounds like you’re a real killer cook. Well, folks, got to run. There’s nothing I hate worse than being a cold-blooded murderer, so I try to leave before rigor mortis sets in. Bye, Mickey, smooches to you.”

  As she hung up, I felt like I was in a vacuum. I was annoyed by my attraction to her. I was beginning to understand the audience’s fascination with Night Owl. I punched up another caller.

  We filled the air of the black Kansas sky with talk about the Equal Rights Amendment, the best methods of undetected murder, and even shared a few culinary tips. The switchboard stayed full most of the shift. I slipped in a few hard rock tunes and a couple of ads without losing talkers. The night flowed by like warm honey.

  By the time the sun was stabbing over the flat horizon, I was wrapping up the best shift I’d ever had. Reluctantly,. I turned the board over to Georgie Boy, host of the Kick’s Morning Show. I signed off on the transmitter log and went home. I was so wired, I didn’t fall asleep until noon. A lot of people probably called in sick that morning.

  Night Owl didn’t phone the next week, but plenty of others did. Some were women confessing murder. A few guys apologized for the whole male gender. Most people quite simply wanted to talk about death and dying, especially of the “unnatural” variety.

  I played the role of arbitrator. I’d never fought in the battle of the sexes, so I just stood by and counted casualties. I changed the name of the show to “Death Radio,” and I even had some celebrities dialing in. I was caught in the flush of excitement. I felt free, like a teenager with his first car and the whole bright future laid out in front of him like a six-lane highway.

  There was a rash of homicides in the city, and officials had no explanation. Gun sales were up, but robbery and rape were way down. My show was number one with a bullet among the overnights in my market. When I went to pick up my check one Friday, I ran into Pudge. He looked like a cat that had swallowed curdled cream.

  “Congratulations, Mick. In three weeks, you’ve escalated to the top of your time slot. We’ve got sponsors lining up to take your show. We can pretty much name our price. Freddie in sales is shopping for a new BMW, he’s so confident this is going to be his big payoff. This ‘death’ thing is a stroke of genius. You should go into marketing.”

  And spend even more time with people like you, I thought. I’d rather eat digitalis cheesecake. I enjoyed having Pudge over the fire, so I rotated the spit a little.

  “Well, I think we need to automate the show. People just love spending the night on hold.” I was about to fan the flames a little more when smugness crept like a shadow across his doughy face.

  “Oh, by the way,” he interrupted, with an undisguised note of glee, “there’s a policeman waiting in the lounge to see you. I hope you’re not into those awful drugs again.”

  I’d been expecting this. The cops were slow in this town, but even they could follow a beacon like the one my show had become. I flipped Pudge a finger and walked past the studio into the lounge. At the table sat a short, wiry man in a rumpled tan suit. His eyes were beady and intelligent, like those of a field mouse. He was eating a glazed donut.

  “You must be Mickey,” he said, a jawful of pastry muffling his words. “I’m Detective Dietz from homicide.”

  He held out his hand for me to shake. My hand came away a little bit sticky.

  “I’ve heard that you might know a little bit about this ‘Night Owl’ character. According to witnesses, she’s called here at the station on at least two occasions, apparently just after committing murder.”

  “I can’t control what people are going to say. There’s that little matter of the First Amendment.”

  “There’s also a matter called ‘withholding evidence,’ and its kissing cousin, ‘aiding and abetting.’ Surely you’re familiar with the judicial system by now.”

  I was about to protest when he held up a hand. “Society considers those debts paid, Mickey. Or should I say ‘Michel’? We just want to stop the killings. All this city needs is a female Charles Bronson running wild. The next thing you know, the papers pick up on it and we got a slew of imitators.”

  “You already know as much as I do. She says she killed some guys who did her wrong.”

  “Well, she seems to think you’re on her side. You haven’t done anything to encourage her, have you?” Dietz wiped the crumbs off his chin and licked his rodent lips.

  “Look, she’s good for ratings. The audience loves her. She connects with people. Maybe there’s a murderous streak in all of us. It’s not my place to censor immorality.”

  “That’s why there’s a Federal Communications Commission, my friend. I’d be willing to bet that a death forum is not what they consider ‘in the public interest.’“

  “What can I do?” I shrugged. I got the impression that Dietz would be on me like a fly on stink until he wrapped up this case.

  “We want to set up a wiretap in the studio and wait for her to call again. You’ll need to keep her going long enough for us to get a trace. Our technician tells me that takes about two minutes if she’s on a local exchange.”

  I shrugged again. He would have no problem getting a court order if necessary. “I never know when she’s going to call.”

  “We’ll wait. We’re on salary. And you have good donuts here. We start tonight.”

  My Honda broke down, so I had to catch a bus back to WKIK that night. As I walked to the entrance, I noticed a sign with my name on it. It was a good space, right next to the GM’s. I noted with satisfaction that it was a little closer to the door than Pudge’s.

  It was a little past midnight, so I was late signing on. Dietz and an engineer who looked like a junkie were already on the job. The engineer was splicing into the phone system. Bits of bare wire littered the floor like copper worms.

  I checked the transmitter readings and apologized to the jock who had to stay late to cover for me. He had a little acne around his mouth. Probably an intern. He looked at me with a flash of something like hero worship in his eyes.

  “No problem, Mr. Nixon,” he said, handing me the playlist. For a second, I thought he was going to
ask for my autograph.

  I settled behind the console like a pilot about to launch a jumbo jet. Dietz slouched in one corner with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. The engineer held an earphone against his gaunt head and nodded at him. All systems go, prepare for lift-off, I said to myself. I flipped over the mike key and addressed the waiting ears of Topeka .

  “Have some fear, Mickey’s here, welcome to ‘Death Radio,’ only on the Kick. Give me a buzz and let me know what’s going down in the dark corners of your mind.”

  I grinned at Dietz as the board lit up. “Go ahead, caller. You’re on,” I said, cranking up the pot.

  A woman with a stuffy nose began talking. “Mickey, I just wanted you to know how much we love ‘Death Radio’ here at Floyd’s Truck Stop. You don’t know how many loafers sit around here on their lazy hind ends soppin’ up free refills and listenin’ to your show.”

  “Glad to have you aboard, honey. So, have you killed anybody lately?”

  I saw Dietz wince as she laughed. “Now, I don’t think that girl’s as bad as all that. So she shot a few, sounds to me like they had it comin’. And all the guys around here been tippin’ real good this week. Been mindin’ their manners, and eatin’ with their hats off. Ever bad wind blows somebody good, I say.”

  “Amen to that,” I said. I was beginning to wonder, and not for the first time, if I was playing to people’s fears just to be a big shot. To be honest with myself, I was enjoying the success. Let people die if it was good for the ratings. I was beginning to think like a television news producer. Give the people what they want and damn the consequences.

  I steadily punched up callers, and every one had a story about some man they knew who was finally shaping up or had died trying. A few knew, “first-hand”, about somebody who met their Maker over a little marital indiscretion. Dietz was pale, furiously scribbling on a note pad with the stub of a pencil. He hadn’t realized just how out of control the show had gotten.

  “Folks, I love you,” I said at the end of the shift. “Thanks for opening your hearts to me, not to mention a few holes in people’s heads. Night Owl, if you’re out there, fly right and keep your barrel smoking. Tune in again tomorrow, skip work if you feel like it, and deep-six somebody if you must. This is Mickey Nixon, stick a fork in me, I’m done.”

  Dietz was as white as a nurse’s bra. He would probably be in an all-day powwow with the District Attorney’s office, scrambling for offenses to charge me with. Georgie Boy walked in and surveyed the electronic carnage the police engineer had inflicted. I winked at him and poked the Denon machine with my finger. The Cars started playing “Let The Good Times Roll.”

  Three nights passed that way, with Dietz as my co-pilot and the skeletal technician as navigator. The phone lines stayed busy. Other stations were covering my show as a news event, and a few were trying their own Death Shows. But I was the only one with Night Owl. She called that Tuesday at about 4 AM, just after the hourly station ID.

  “Hey, Mickey, honey, it’s Night Owl,” her voice purred over the speakers.

  Dietz jumped up, spilling his coffee and adding another stain to the studio floor. The police tech rolled the tape recorder and watched his meters. I reached a trembling finger to my mike switch.

  “Hello, Night Owl, it’s good to hear your voice. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten old Mickey here.”

  “I’d never do that. Just thinking about you gets me all hot and bothered. I’ve been listening, and I like what I hear. It seems like murder’s the biggest game in town.”

  “Yes, but nobody does it like you. Have you done it lately?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, I was just with a gentleman who knows how to show a lady a good time. He even did the driving. It’s funny how if you walk down certain streets at night, guys just pull over and ask if you want a ride. They’ll even try to give you money. But, oh my, the things they ask you to do.”

  “What did this one want?” I was excited and scared at the same time. Dietz flicked his eyes from the tech to his wristwatch, then to my sweaty face.

  “You know I don’t talk dirty over the phone, Mickey. That would be unladylike. Let’s just say we wound up on a dead-end road. I could feel the pounding of his cheap heart beneath his polyester suit. He said I could do it any way I wanted. The way I wanted was to put it right between his meaty chins and scatter his pea-sized brain all over his nice, clean upholstery.”

  “Way to go, girl,” I said. The switchboard was clogged with callers wanting to talk to Night Owl. There was no time to punch someone in. The tech started nodding down the seconds, his bony head wobbling like a frog on a wire, and I felt dread squeeze my throat.

  “Mickey, nobody knows how to treat a lady anymore, except you. Thanks for keeping me going when the rest of the world is going crazy. If only every man were like you–”

  I suddenly felt sick.

  “Hang up, there’s a police trace!” I screamed into my mike, covering it with saliva. I heard a click on the monitors. It was the sound of my world coming to an end, in a stream of dead air instead of the guitar feedback I’d always imagined.

  Dietz rushed at me, anger twisting his face into a mask. The tech threw his scrawny arms up in surrender. I leaned back in my swivel chair and stared at the zeroed-out volume meters. “Good-bye, Night Owl,” I said, to no one in particular.

  Everything moved in slow motion after that. Dietz read me my rights and was about to snap on the cuffs, but in my condition, I was about as dangerous as a goldfish. Once he regained his composure, he was kind enough to let me run the board until another jock showed up. They couldn’t reach Pudge, but the GM sent in the pimply intern. I signed off with The Who’s “Song is Over.”

  I’ve got a battery of lawyers from the American Civil Liberties Union, and they tell me my case will be tied up for years, years I probably don’t have. Night Owl left a message on my answering machine at home.

  “Mickey, you said you’d never do me wrong, but you’re just like all the rest.” Sadness had replaced the fire in her voice, and her words twisted in my chest like a corkscrew. “All the joy’s gone, but at least I still have my work. I’ll see you around. And now I think I’m supposed to say, ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you.’“

  I kept my deejay job. There was no one to fire me. It seems Pudge was found dead in his car. Ballistics tests match those of the other Night Owl murders. The GM decided I have just enough notoriety left to draw a few listeners. They’ve removed the interface from the studio, and all we have is a request line.

  So now I sit and wait. I heard there’s been a string of shootings over in Council Bluffs, with a familiar M.O., and it’s not a long drive to get here. The request line blinks, as lonely as the last morning star. Wayne is on the other end.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me,” I say.

  “Rock on, dude.”

  I do.

  Table of Contents

  ###

  False Recovered Memories: The Skull Ring

  By Scott Nicholson

  More articles at www.hauntedcomputer.com

  The Skull Ring was a novel that got me my first agent, way back in the publishing Dark Ages of 2001 or so. He liked it, but The Red Church sold through the slush pile before he finished it, and as my career moved on, somehow the novel fell in the cracks.

  It sat dormant and was slated to be published as a limited-edition hardcover a few years ago until the publisher went out of business. This novel was killing so many agents and publishers that I thought I might as well stamp “666” on it and toss it in the dead-letter office.

  The digital revolution inspired me to see how audiences would respond to the story of a woman who can’t trust her own memories as sinister forces from the past close in around her. A couple of people, including a professional counselor, basically said Satanism was dead, and the False Recovered Memory Syndrome that was a diagnosis du jour in the 1980’s was as dated as disco and MTV. But, heck, Dean Koontz released a novel called False M
emory not that long ago, and all evidence indicates Satan is still very active in the world today.

  In researching the novel, I dug into the psychological case books and the diagnostic manuals, researching details of actual cases and the mumbo jumbo of the modern voodoo called “Psychology.” really, a counselor with a wicked streak can do a lot of damage, and when you combine that with a belief that one serves a higher, darker purpose, then how can a mere mortal stand a chance?

  Before the diagnosis eventually became ridiculed, a number of psychologists built reputations by allegedly uncovering so many childhood victims of ritual abuse that it seemed like there must be a coven on every street corner. The problem with all these claims was that not one shred of evidence and not one skeleton of a sacrificed baby was ever discovered, though law-enforcement agencies regularly receive “education” on the insidious cult influences in our schools and neighborhoods. Of course, that’s exactly what Satan would want us to believe, right?

  My research naturally went to the Internet, where I found the organized Church of Satan is as scrubbed-up and orderly as any Christian denomination, more intent on selling you marked-up regalia and ceremonial talismans than encouraging evil intent. The core principle is selfishness, not so different from many other organized belief systems.

  And Julia Stone is a victim of this selfishness, rebuilding her life and her past after her father disappeared and she was injured during a long-ago night of chants, fire, and people in hoods. Now the past has followed her to the peaceful town of Elkwood, where a mutilated body turns up in a local river. Someone knows about her past and is leaving taunting and cruel clues around her house. Her lawyer boyfriend is turning violent and the local handyman seems all too eager to share his religious views. Then Julia discovers children’s bones under her house, the ring closes in, and the chase is on through the Appalachian wilderness, where even nature seems to be on Satan’s side.