FM for Murder (15 page)

“Any other ideas about what you’re seeing or hearing?” she asked.

“Dr. Barnes,” said a red-haired girl in the back row, skeptically, “I’m not really sure this is the kind of thing you’re looking for, but how does the tape end? After the gunshot? It seems to end because the recording ends—someone turns off the microphone or the recording a few seconds after the shot.”

“Yes, Polly,” Pamela said, “I see that. What are you getting at?”

“My question is,” the girl continued, “’Who turned the recording off?’ I mean, the victim was the disc jockey and he was at the mic, but he didn’t turn the mic off—he was dead. The killer was at the door, right? Why would he have walked over and turned off the mic or pulled the plug? I mean, I would think the killer would just leave and the recording would keep playing until the police or the station manager showed up and found the body.”

“It’s a very good question, Polly,” said Pamela. “I will definitely discuss it with Detective Shoop.”

“Are you helping with the investigation, Dr. Barnes?” asked another student.

“Only to provide insight into the recording,” she said, “Actually, anyone who was listening to the program Saturday night could have heard the murder. Anyone might have a recording of it.” She felt it necessary she realized to justify the fact that she had discussed the recording now with not only several colleagues but an entire class of students too.

“Anything else?” she asked her class.

“It’s strange, Dr. Barnes,” said the young man, Paul, who had started this conversation in the first place, “that the murderer doesn’t say anything—oh, I know, he says something, but it sounds more like a gasp—like he’s shocked—not like he’s about to kill someone.”

“I would be shocked if I was about to kill someone!” declared Ellen.

“But,” continued Paul, “you’d think a killer would say something like, “I hate you, you bastard, and I’m going to kill you!”

“Not,” interjected Ellen, “if he was killing a disc jockey speaking into a microphone. He’d know it would be heard by the audience.”

“So, why didn’t he wait until music was playing? Why did he kill him while the disc jockey was talking? It seems potentially more dangerous to kill him then, doesn’t it?” argued Paul.

“Yeah,” agreed another student, “unless he intentionally did it while this Ballard was on air so people would hear the killing.”

“Why would he do that?” questioned another.

“Dr. Barnes,” asked a quiet girl in the back, “do the police know if the disc jockey had any enemies?”

“As far as I know, they know of no enemies,” declared Pamela, “but the investigation is still on-going.”

“Another thing, Dr. Barnes,” said another young man, “Ballard gets in quite a bit of information from the time the killer enters until the gun shot—but when you think about it—none of it helps identify the killer. There is something that seems obvious to me though from what Ballard says.”

“What?” demanded a number of the students.

“Ballard didn’t know the killer,” he responded, “If he had known the killer, surely, he would have greeted him by name. But he doesn’t. He asks him if he’s a fan? Why he’s there? And when the killer brings out the gun, Ballard doesn’t say anything that would indicate that he knows why he’s going to be killed, such as ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I didn’t mean it’ so I think he’s totally in the dark as to who his killer is and why he’s killed.”

“Does that mean that you think this is some random killing?” one of the girls asked Pamela.

“I don’t know, Teri,” said Pamela. “The police don’t seem to think it’s random. The radio station was an out of the way place. Ballard was the only one there. This has all the marks, they say, of an intentional killing.”

“But why?” asked a male student in the back row.

“And who?” said Pamela, “That’s our job to find out. Let’s get back to work.” The class continued reviewing the recording until the end of class. At that time, Pamela made duplicate copies of the murder recording for each of them and asked them to keep studying it on their own. Then she dismissed the class and headed home.

When she arrived home, Rocky was waiting for her at the kitchen door.

“You had a phone call,” he said, looking perturbed, his arms tightly folded.

“Who?” she asked.

“Your old favorite Detective Shoop,” he said, “He wanted to know if you’d made any headway in analyzing the murder tape?” Rocky emphasized the word ‘murder’ and glared at her.

“Now, Rocky,” she said, cringing, “I did not butt my nose into this like you’re probably thinking. Shoop came to my office….”

“Which you evidently weren’t ever going to tell me?”

“I knew it would just make you mad.”

“And keeping me from being mad is far more important than getting yourself involved in another murder investigation? You were almost killed by that maniac last year!”

“Rocky, Rocky,” she sighed. “Please.” She threw her head back and slumped into a kitchen chair. “I can’t, just can’t do this now. I am totally exhausted.”

“Then, go to bed,” he said, huffing and storming off into the living room, “I won’t keep you awake! I’ll sleep on the couch!” He went to the linen closet at the end of the hallway and pulled out a blanket and a pillow and returned to the living room where he flung himself and the linens on the sofa, turning his back to her.

She grabbed her belongings and walked to the bedroom, every muscle aching. Never in their twenty-two years of marriage had Rocky refused to sleep with her. She got ready for bed and crawled under the covers. Tears dotted her cheeks. She was so tired, but how could she sleep with Rocky mad at her?

Chapter 20

Previous week--Saturday morning, December 15

Finding his way to David’s small apartment had been relatively easy. David lived in a small brick complex off a tree-lined residential street situated about midway between downtown Reardon and campus. The building was set at a 90 degree angle to the street and parking slots separated the driveway from the building. All of the apartments had outside entrances. David’s was a second story unit, so Daniel had to climb a flight of stairs located about half-way down the building and then backtrack a few units to get to David’s—204. He had parked his Acura in the only “visitor” slot available and left his suitcase in the trunk. He hadn’t planned any further than this meeting and didn’t know if he’d be staying here, at a hotel, or turning around immediately and going home.

The wind picked up as he knocked on the thin, bent metal screen door. There was no bell that he could see. The sound was weak and he doubted anyone inside could hear it, so he knocked again—harder. From inside, further back in the apartment, a voice called out, “All right, I’m coming. Keep your pants on.” The door was jerked open and a man appeared behind the screen of the metal door. His hair was a bit longer than Daniel’s and puffed up and messy. He was unshaven and looked as if he’d been recently awakened—but even so, there was no doubt that this was David Bridgewater.

“Hey, David,” said Daniel, smiling and shivering in the increasing wind, “long time no see.”

“What are you doing here?” retorted David after a few seconds pause, yawning and scowling.

“Visiting my long lost brother,” replied Daniel, bouncing up and down on his feet, “Could I come in or are you going to make me stand out here freezing my ass off?”

“How’d you find me?”

“I’ll be happy to explain everything, really,” said Daniel, “if I could just come in?”

David Bridgewater leaned his forehead against the screen door, staring intently at the man on the other side. Finally, he abruptly ripped open the screen door and allowed Daniel to enter the small, dark apartment. Inside, Daniel found himself in a living room—at least the appearance of a couch and recliner indicated as much. A tiny kitchen was visible across a counter that separated the living room from the kitchen-dining room area. The couch was covered with an old printed blanket that had seen better days but was probably in place to cover even worse markings on the sofa. There were several dilapidated end tables and a few mismatched lamps—none of which were turned on. The whole place was dark because all the curtains were closed. The kitchen counter was strewn with pizza boxes and empty beer cans and the smell of trash permeated the tiny apartment.

“What d’ya want?” asked David, standing directly in front of Daniel, still in confrontational mode.

“Could I sit down?” asked Daniel, “I’ve been driving quite a ways to get here.”

“Not at my request,” said David, but he pointed at the couch where Daniel walked to and gingerly checking the safely of the inner springs by first testing the cushions with his hand, finally sat carefully on the edge.

“I repeat,” said David, still standing in the center of the room, “what do you want?”

“I want to find my brother—you,” said Daniel, “is that a crime?”

There was a long pause as David stared at Daniel. He walked to the door and closed it and then walked to the recliner and sat down. “He sent you, didn’t he?”

“If you mean Father,” said Daniel, “the answer is ‘no.’ He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

“That’s unlikely,” said David, “he knows

everything.”

“Not now, David,” Daniel said softly, leaning towards his brother across the room, “he’s sick—in fact, he’s dying.”

“Really?” said David, with a disbelieving smile. “You expect me to believe that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“If he’s sick—and dying—then why in the world would you come looking for me? I’d think you’d be happy to have me long gone.”

“Where’d you get that idea?”

David’s laugh was more a snort and he shook his head. “What’s it been—Danny Boy?” Daniel cringed as he heard his brother use his favorite cruel epithet. “What’s it been? Twelve years? You haven’t been pounding on doors all these years looking for me, have you?”

“No,” admitted Daniel, his head lowered. This would not be easy. David was never diplomatic and he would not cut him any slack. “Most of the last twelve years I’ve been much too busy running the company and taking care of the family—the family that you deserted, by the way--to play detective.”

“So,” said David, “what’s changed? I know the old man—obviously better than you. He kicked me out of his life—out of his family twelve years ago and told me never to return. I’m just following orders, bro. He’s iron—stone. He’ll never change. No, Danny Boy, you’re here for another reason. I’m not sure what—but it’s not at Father’s command. Believe me, Father doesn’t want me back and he’ll never want me back even when he’s on death’s doorstep.”

“Sometimes, David,” said Daniel, cautiously attempting to find an approach that might soften his brother’s heart, “we have to take the first step. Did you ever consider that maybe if you were to return—apologize—that he might forgive you--that things might be different?”

“You’re such a fool,” replied David, laughing.

“Maybe,” agreed Daniel, “and maybe this was a fool’s errand, but David, I had to try. If I don’t try to reunite you and Father now—I’ll never get another chance.”

David shook his head. “You poor schmuck,” he guffawed. Standing, he sauntered into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door and retrieved two beers. He returned and threw one to Daniel and plopped back in the recliner where he opened his and took a long chug.

“Uh, thanks,” said Daniel, “I appreciate it. It was a long drive.” He sipped the beer from the can. “Good.”

“Yeah,” said David, “Look, I’m sorry you wasted your time. There was a reason I went incognito and this was part of it.” He gestured broadly. “I figured if you knew where I was you’d try to find me. But, believe me, it’s a waste. Father doesn’t want me back. He would not be grateful if you brought me back and I don’t intend to go back. So, here’s a beer for your trouble, but your drive was for nothing.”

“Not nothing,” said Daniel, “Even if you don’t return with me—and I haven’t given up trying to convince you—it’s worth it to me just to see you again—to talk to you—to see you and see what you’re doing. You’re my brother, for God’s sake.”

“What you see is what you get,” said David, outstretching his arms.

“My investigator tells me you’re working on a graduate degree,” prompted Daniel.

“Yeah,” replied David, “got a Master’s in English literature and now I’m working on a doctorate in creative writing. That would really impress the old man, wouldn’t it?”

“It’s further than I’ve gone.”

“Which is?”

“MBA. Kind of a waste, I suppose. Running Bridgewater Carpets is mostly a hands-on business,” he explained, “but you’d know that. You worked there during the summers while you were in high school too.”

“Probably the most useless, boring work I’ve ever done.”

“Yes, it comes back to me now. There were certainly lots of battles between you and Father about the direction your life should take.”

“And he felt he was the one to decide what that direction should be.”

“I know,” agreed Daniel, “he can be autocratic, David. I actually live with him.”

“Lucky you.”

“My investigator tells me you work part-time as a disc jockey.”

“Yeah,” said David, “very part-time—only four hours on Saturday night—really Sunday morning. That’s why I’m sleeping late today, ‘cause I have to stay up so late tonight.”

“What’s your program called?”

“Oh, God, Danny Boy,” snickered David, “My ‘program’ doesn’t really have a name. I play alternative rock—you may have heard of ‘goth’ or ‘emo’ music. There’s not a huge demand for it in Reardon, but there is a small fan base that supports my four hour show, so I guess you could say I’m sort of a minor celebrity within a certain group.”

“Is this the reason for the hair?” Daniel asked, gesturing to David’s spiky, puffed up hair style.

“It’s romantic,” replied David, “like Poe. Tragic. girls like it.”

“Ah!” said Daniel, smiling, “You’re a rock star!”

“No,” said David, sighing, “but I wish. I spend most of my time writing my dissertation that I….. Well, I spend a lot of time writing. How about you? I assume Father has you hop-hop-hopping at the plant?” He took a deep swig from his can and leaned back in the recliner, expecting a lengthy story.