“What? A coward? F-you! You sit behind the mic all day, spouting whatever b.s. pops into your head. Then you go home to your loving—and might I add attractive—wife. At least I have the strength to act upon my convictions.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tyranny. The oppressed. Hunger. Illegal arms dealing. Petro-politics gone amuck. The mistreatment of endangered species. Elimination of inferior races. Reruns of
The Dukes of Hazard
.”
Was First Time high? This was a side of the sicko’s personality he hadn’t seen before. Caldwell had to be wrong—no way did he know anybody so twisted. “What does any of that have to do with killing people?”
“You are a very narrow-minded person. Very parochial.”
“Look, you’ve got a huge audience. Why don’t you explain yourself? What do you want?” He knew the exasperation echoed in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. The seconds ticked by.
“Rick. It’s been nice talking with you. But my head is beginning to hurt. So I think I’ll say good-bye.”
“Wait!” Rick’s heart banged in his chest.
“No, really. I must go.” First Time paused. “Besides, I’ve got some more business to take care of.” Click.
Rick felt like he’d run five miles. Sweat soaked into his shirt, at the collar, and under his arms. He was afraid to get up, afraid his rubbery legs wouldn’t support him.
“Rick.”
It was Adams. Rick swiveled his head in the detective’s direction.
He was met by Adams’s toothy smile. “We got him pinpointed. It won’t be long now.”
O
VER THE INTERCOM,
Rick heard a cheer go up. The few people gathered in master control were jumping up and down, hugging each other. Through the glass, J.T. caught Rick’s attention with waving arms and gave him the slash across the throat signal indicating they’d gone to break.
“First Time is ours,” Adams said, addressing Rick. “I’ve got to run. Thanks for your help.” He held out his hand. Rick pumped it twice and watched as the lanky detective rushed away.
First Time was in custody. Things could get back to normal. The celebration in master control continued, but Celia stopped carrying on long enough to speak to him over the intercom. “Way to go, Rick. Outstanding. After the break, turn the show right over to news. They’ll follow the events from here. You can call it a day. A great day. Go home. Celebrate. You earned it.” She gazed out at him, a wild, feral look on her face. “Take tomorrow off, too. That’s an order.”
Rick felt relief, not excitement. Not euphoria. People were dead, Garth among them. The last few weeks would never be forgotten, like a fiery car crash or a deadly terrorist strike. Maybe he’d take a nice long vacation. To the islands. Barb would like that. And when they returned, the SatRad deal would be completed, signed, sealed, delivered. He could cash out and ditch the day-to-day radio gig. Maybe do specials. Or even TV. Take a crack at writing a book. The sky was the limit.
“Sixty seconds, Rick,” J.T. said. “Then hand it off to Damon. Some of us still have a show to do, you know.”
Rick did know. The daydreams could wait. The vacations, the sun, the beach, all nice. But who was he kidding? He loved his work. He’d probably be on the air until the day he died.
His first call was to Barb to tell her he was picking her and Livvy up. They were all coming home.
Later that evening on a WTLK Special News Report, Rick heard Damon rehashing the events of the day. According to “unnamed sources,” First Time had been identified as Anthony “Lap Dog” Lazzeri, age 28. Caucasian male. One of the show’s regular callers. Rick knew he should be shocked, but part of him always feared one of the rejects obsessed with the show was involved. During their meeting, that feeling had lessened somewhat because they all seemed so juvenile. But on some level, he’d been prepared for the worst. He took no solace knowing his inkling had been correct.
Every few minutes, Damon would repeat the facts “as he knew them,” using the fake, deep-throated newscaster voice Rick knew he reserved for the most salacious stories. The grandstanding persisted although there weren’t any new facts—it was too soon for any other details to have been released. But that didn’t stop the rookie from adding his own speculation. Some impartial news operation. Where was an old-timer like Winn when you needed him? Rick knew the answer. Behind the scenes. Celia, on orders from Brewster no doubt, had relegated Winn to the background, while she gunned for the younger demographic. At the expense of real journalism.
So Caldwell had been in the right ballpark when he said the killer knew him. More like the killer
thought
he knew him. Ever since he started on-air, Rick had been fascinated by the types of relationships his listeners developed with him. He’d even gone so far as to categorize them. The bulk of his audience comprised regular, ordinary listeners. Listened frequently, but to them, the
Afternoon Circus
wasn’t a daily “event.” The next, smaller, group were those listeners Rick labeled “fans.” They listened every day, called in periodically, some might even check out the website from time to time. These fans were the ones who came to the appearances and bought their
Circus
crap from the station’s website store.
And then there were the “fanatics.” Rabid, infatuated listeners, hanging on every word Rick uttered. He imagined them sitting at home in the dark, glued to the show, taking notes. Discussing the show’s topics with other fanatics. Cutting out pictures from trade magazines and pinning them to the walls. Rick wouldn’t be surprised if some of these whackjobs created elaborate fantasies about him, complete with details on how they could become part of his life.
Those were the ones who scared him, to the point where he’d sometimes give a fake name for restaurant and hotel reservations. Once in a while, if he’d see a strange car in front of his house, he’d watch it for hours, certain it contained a stalker. Rick was extremely careful never to give out his address, but people had a way of digging up stuff like that.
He never understood how listeners could think they knew him, just because they were fans of the show. He spoke to them, but there was no personal connection, no dialogue. With the exception of the small percentage of people who actually called in, it was a one-way street. How lonely and starved for friendship must those people be? He often wanted to shout at his listeners that it was a harmless little show. That they should get a life.
Get a life like his life. Anchored in reality. Wonderful wife, fantastic daughter. Good job. Plenty of friends. He wanted to tell them to leave the radio behind and venture out into the world. Interact with real, live people on a daily basis. Forget the Internet and the chat rooms. Life was for the living. The inspirational platitudes bounced around in his brain. What his lonely listeners really needed was just a little attention.
A terrible question that had been gnawing at him finally gained traction: Was Lap Dog Lazzeri’s infatuation with him somehow responsible for the deaths of three—or more—people?
Lap Dog. Talked to him on the phone plenty, heard stories about him from J.T., but he’d only met him once, at the station during Adams’s meeting. From their phone conversations, Lap Dog didn’t sound like the sharpest arrow in the quiver. And yet First Time seemed so…
intelligent
. So formidable. Nabbing him had really been a tremendous stroke of luck. He’d finally made a mistake and Adams and his men had pounced. An odd sensation started in Rick’s stomach and filled his chest. Made his heart skip a beat. Worked its way up the spine into his brain, quashing the emotional euphoria spawned by Lap Dog’s capture. Why would First Time, who’d been so cautious, so elusive, be so careless all of a sudden? Strange, inexplicable things happened every day, but Rick felt uneasy.
Did they have the right guy?
The next morning at the crack of dawn, Rick was awakened by Livvy crawling over his legs. Trying to be quiet and unobtrusive, she elbowed Rick in the gut as she burrowed her way under the covers between Rick and Barb. Finally, she settled under Barb’s chin, mother and daughter facing him, both with eyes closed. Enough light sliced in through the slits in the blinds to give Rick a good view of their faces. Every day, Livvy looked more and more like Barb. Gorgeous. God, it was great to all be back together, in their own home, in their own beds. Two out of three, anyway.
An hour and a half later, Livvy had been delivered to school and Barb had gone to pick up some groceries. Rick pored over the paper as he picked at his blueberry muffin.
The
Post
had devoted the entire first page to the capture of First Time. Their crack crime reporters had uncovered a good deal of Lazzeri’s history. Had several assault and battery priors. Did time for drug possession. Suffered from undisclosed mental disorders. The cops had seized a computer from his run-down apartment and examined the history of his Internet browsing. Every day for the past two years, he’d visited the
Afternoon Circus
website operated by Dimitri. The cops had discovered scores of emails to and from Dimitri, but they refused to divulge any details, citing the “on-going criminal investigation.”
The official department spokesperson issued all the
official
police statements. The reporters had attributed other information to unnamed sources within the Fairfax Police Department. Rick made a mental note that Detective Tarver Adams wasn’t quoted, nor was he singled out by name.
Rick read and re-read the articles, searching for some understanding of why. Why First Time targeted their show. Why First Time killed. But it all remained a mystery.
After breakfast, he considered going to the gym and doing a few miles on the treadmill, but decided he didn’t want to go out in public. Didn’t want to answer questions or describe his role in the capture. Celia was right, he should take it easy today. He deserved that much.
I
N THE STUDIO,
the acrid stench of lighter fluid and burnt cloth hung in the air, irritating the nostrils. Tin Man sipped from his coffee, trying to soothe his throat. Thought about switching to tea and honey like some of the other deejays, but nixed the idea quickly. Didn’t want to seem too much like a woman.
During the last segment, Tin Man had taken a rag doll and given him a beard. Using a black Sharpie and the front page picture from the
Post
as a model, he’d done a surprisingly good job of making the doll resemble Lap Dog Lazzeri, Mr. First Time Killer. Then he’d tied a noose around the doll’s neck with a clothesline and strung him up, right in the studio, all while entertaining the listeners with a step-by-step description. Tubby had been sure to interject a few salient comments, just to let the radio audience know he was still alive and well.
After Dolly Lazzeri had swung for a while, Tin Man took an aluminum baseball bat to him, piñata-style. Forty or fifty whacks later, he was amazed there was anything left. Then he’d moved on to the next phase, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a book of matches. After a few squirts of lighter fluid, he set their little rag doppelganger ablaze and watched him burn in effigy in a metal wastebasket as
The Star Spangled Banner
played in the background.
Celia, J.T., and half the sales force, it seemed, had egged him on. Carrying on like Munchkins after the house landed on the witch. Ding-dong, indeed.
First Time was behind bars. Tin Man’s ratings were good, and Celia had told them to do what they pleased, not to worry much about the FCC, for a change. And as a bonus, his partner wasn’t annoying the crap out of him.
Life was good.
After the bonfire, Tin Man broke into a rap he’d composed about First Time.
First Time in jail, First Time, no bail, First Time alone, First Time’ll get boned.
He could improvise with the best of them.
Tin Man was on top of his game. After yesterday’s capture, he knew a hell of a lot of people would be listening today, and he wanted to capitalize on that. So far, the phones had been humming. Tons of listeners calling in to vent, to congratulate the police, to sing the praises of Rick Jennings. Which was fine with Tin Man, as long as he got some props along the way, too.
He kept the rap going.
First Time will make some new friends, Who’ll love him in the end.
Rotting in jail, Can’t be frail.
Directing his invective toward Lap Dog instead of at the callers. All of which made for a smoother show.
Tin Man caught a glimpse of Celia in master control. Clapping her hands to his beat. He wondered how long she could ride First Time’s coattails before the audience petered out. She’d give it a shot, but then what? No worries, he’d just have to come up with something that was outrageous in its own right.
Tin Man finished and applauded himself. From the booth, J.T. hit the crowd-gone-crazy sound effect, sending whoops and hollers echoing through his headphones. Tin Man waited for a moment for the din to die before speaking. “Thank you everyone. Tubby, nice job clapping. I think we’ll have to send a CD of that to our friend, once he gets settled in his new home.” Tubby was smiling, a wide, goofy grin. Maybe they
could
work together. “Let’s take some calls. Jamie, you’re on.”
“Hey guys, how’s it hanging?”
“Long and straight, my man,” said Tin Man.
“They should fry his ass,” Jamie said. “Isn’t Virginia good at that?”
“Thanks for your opinion, Jamie,” Tin Man said. He disconnected Jamie, not wanting to turn this into some kind of political show. They were shock jocks, not Bill O’Reilly wannabes. He switched to line 5. “Howdy, Cisco. Hey, that your real name?”
“Yeah.”
“Anybody ever call you ‘Kid’?” Tin Man said. He pulled out his cell phone and thumbed it on. Found a good game to play. Put his feet up.
“No. Never heard that before,” Cisco said. All that was missing was the “duh.”
Tin Man ignored the sarcasm. “What’s on your mind, Cisco?”