FM for Murder (8 page)

“Thinking,” said Detective Shoop, appearing suddenly in the doorway, obviously having overheard the three women talking.

“My, my!” exclaimed Pamela, “Detective Shoop! What brings you all the way over to my office. I thought you and your men would still be digging through clues at Silverton Hall or at the radio station.”

“My dear, Dr. Barnes,” he said politely to the professor on the couch, as he gave her a sweeping bow, “we have completed our collection of evidence at the station, at Ballard’s office, and at his apartment, and are now hard at work going over the clues. I stopped by your office because I have a favor to ask.”

“Do tell, Detective,” said Pamela, smiling, “and what favor could I possibly do for you?” She crossed her legs, swinging her top leg back and forth coyly.

“Actually, Dr. Barnes,” continued the tall, gangly man, his overcoat swinging as he spoke, “it occurred to me yesterday when I saw you in Dr. Muldoon’s office that the two murders—that of this Ted Ballard and that of Charlotte Clark last year have certain similarities.”

“Really, Detective?” said Pamela, blinking quizzically, “what similarities would those be?” She ceased the swinging leg and planted her feet on the ground.

“Both murders were recorded,” responded Shoop. “Charlotte Clark’s murder, of course, was recorded accidentally and was only retrievable by your department, but Ted Ballard’s murder was heard by a live audience and was recorded automatically by the radio station where it occurred.”

“That is an astounding observation, Detective,” answered Pamela. Joan and Arliss were listening and watching the charged interchange between their friend and the austere looking policeman. The more Pamela sparkled, the more distressed it seemed the detective appeared.

“I just happen to have a copy of the recording of Ballard’s murder that was made at KRDN,” said Shoop as he removed a CD box from his inside pocket. “Possibly, you might enjoy analyzing it as you did the recording made of Charlotte Clark’s murder.”

“Detective Shoop,” said Pamela, beaming, “are you asking me to help with your investigation?”

“My dear, Dr. Barnes,” replied Shoop, giving her a curt bow, “I’m no fool. I will take all the help I can get—and as it appears unlikely that Ballard’s killer will be coming forth and confessing in the near future, if you are able to supply us with any clues regarding his identity from the sounds on this tape, I would be forever in your debt.”

“My goodness, Detective,” said Pamela, “of course, I will be happy to listen to the recording. I can’t promise anything, but I will give it my best try.”

“That’s all I ask, Dr. Barnes,” said the man, handing her the CD. “That’s all I ask.”

Chapter 10

Previous week--Wednesday, late, December 12

Amy Shuster turned off her little portable television set on which she had been watching the local news in her small living room and shuffled into her even smaller bedroom to get ready for bed. She set her alarm clock for six a.m., knowing she was working the early shift the next day at the diner. Giving her cat Tinkerbell a quick shove off of her quilt, she pulled down the coverlet, removed her toasty robe and slippers, and scooted under the sheets. Tinkerbell howled in annoyance but marched off with her typical haughty attitude to her own bed in Amy’s small kitchen.

“Not tonight, Tink,” said Amy to the departing feline. “I’m way too tired for your shenanigans.” It was true. She was exhausted. The diner had been packed, but she was glad to have kept busy because Daniel had not been there today. She’d heard some of the plant workers who were eating there talking about a broken piece of machinery that was slowing down production. She figured that was what was keeping him busy—that and his dying father and trying to track down David. Oh, well, she thought, I can’t see him every day. Even so, she missed him, badly.

She turned out the lamp on her nightstand and the little room was plunged into darkness, except for the light from some of the downtown businesses. Amy’s apartment was above a hardware store in Compton and some stores kept their signs lit—even at night. She had tried nightshades, curtains, Venetians blinds—but nothing kept out all the ambient light. Just adjust. Her mother had always said that’s what people did. If you couldn’t solve a problem—maybe it wasn’t that bad of a problem and you could learn to live with it. All in all, a little outside light coming through her window at night wasn’t really the worst of problems—and she had learned to adjust. She was very much like her mother—very practical. She wished her mother were alive now. She had a lot she wanted to discuss with the wise woman. Just how practical was she being? Amy wondered.

Along with the outdoor lights came the noises—cars, a stray dog, people yelling at each other every so often—downtown sounds. Amy had learned to tune them out—just like the light. She had learned to focus on what mattered—and when she focused on something—there wasn’t much that could distract her. It was hard to clear her mind for sleep; she kept contemplating the concerns that faced her—Daniel, his father, Daniel’s determination to find David, their relationship. Daniel intended to solve each problem in a particular order—David first, then his father, and finally their relationship. Amy understood his reasoning but she wasn’t certain she agreed with his reasons.

Tinkerbell jumped back on her bed. It was hopeless. “Tink, are you lonely too?” The big calico purred and snuggled against her body, then—bored—leaped down and headed out into the front room. Amy reached for the long gold chain around her neck and followed it down to the small bauble at the end. She sighed as she touched the delicate keepsake in the dark, running her finger around the small circle she now had grown to know so well. She was so used to how it felt but not very used to what it looked like as she touched it more often than she looked at it. It was almost as if, bringing it out to look at it was bad luck—so she kept it tucked away on the chain where she could feel it always with her.

A noise in the living room drew her attention. Was that Tinkerbell? Possibly the old yellow tabby was sneaking around her apartment looking for some hidden treat and had knocked over a knick-knack. It had happened before. No, wait. That sounded more like the front door opening. But, she had locked the door before she went to bed, she was sure. She clutched the covers around her shoulders and sunk down further as if to hide from any potential intruder. The door clicked again and footsteps tip-toed towards the bedroom. Her bedroom door cracked open and a figure moved towards the bed and leaned over her.

“I missed you today,” said Daniel, his cheek nuzzling hers.

“Dan,” she shrieked, sitting up, “you scared me! You’re ice cold!”

“I’m sorry, Sweet,” he embraced her, sitting beside her on the bed, “I tried to get away, but there was a malfunction at the plant and then another set-back with father and—oh—just a terrible day.”

“Your father?” she asked, her arms on his, “how is he?”

“Holding his own,” responded Daniel, “but obviously, not doing well. Makes me even more determined to track down David.” He removed his gloves.

“Have you made any progress?” she asked.

“Let me tell you,” he said, as he took off his jacket and placed it over an arm chair in the corner of the bedroom. He sat down next to her. “I have an appointment with an investigator tomorrow, so things are starting to move.”

“That’s good,” replied Amy, shivering next to the cold from Daniel’s body. “Here, let me warm you up.” She wrapped her arms around him and they remained entwined and silent for a few moments. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Daniel reached for Amy’s face and placed it in his hands.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, gazing at her. “Like an angel in the moonlight.”

“More like a frazzled waitress in the light from the sign from McNally’s Hardware,” she laughed. He kissed her gently and then more passionately.

“Wait,” he said as he quickly slipped out of his clothes and slid under the covers beside her. “Better.” They hugged tightly until both were warmed by the bed and the body heat.

“So,” she said, “What’s this I heard about you climbing up some sky-high loom?”

“My god,” he moaned, “don’t tell me that’s traveling around now?”

“My heart was in my stomach when I heard it.”

“Some carpeting just got stuck in one of the rollers. I climbed up and extracted it.”

“With your teeth?” she said, purring and poking his ribs.

“I save my teeth for nibbling,” he responded and began rubbing his lips over her belly.

“No, really,” she insisted, “what did you do? I had no idea you could repair those big monster machines. I thought you sat behind a desk all day.”

“Didn’t know I was so macho, did you?”

“No,” she said, teasing, “I thought you were Casper Milquetoast.”

“Who?”

“Casper…” She swatted him playfully.

“Never mind. Never mind. I know who he is. And I am not one. I am a hero, at least—your hero.”

“Always,” she squeezed him tightly. “And you don’t need to climb tall buildings or machines. You don’t need to do anything except be you.”

“That I can do,” he said, caressing her hair.

“And your father?” she questioned. “You said there was a setback?”

“He had some sort of seizure,” said Daniel, “They gave him a shot of something and it calmed him down. Even so, afterwards, he was still talking to me. Not as much as yesterday, but he was still there, Amy. He’s trying so hard to hang on. Maybe he knows I’m trying to find David.”

“Even though he says he doesn’t want you to look for him?”

“It’s his pride. It’s all his pride,” he sighed. “David’s departure obviously hurt him deeply. If I can find David and bring him back—just think what that would do for father.”

“If you can find him,” she cautioned, “If you can bring him back.”

“That’s why I’m hiring this Jax,” said Daniel in Amy’s ear. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she replied, “and maybe the tomorrow after that we can tell your father about us if he withstands finding out about your search for David?”

“It is the absolute next item on the agenda. Reunite father with David—then drop the bomb about us.”

“I hope he survives all these surprises and revelations.” She put her head on Daniel’s chest.

“He’s tough. He’s shown me that at every turn. I just have to hope he will hang on and that he’ll realize that all of this is good news—and he’ll be happy about it.”

“Dan,” she said, worried, “what’s good news for you isn’t necessarily good news for someone else.”

“I refuse to believe that,” he said, defiantly.

“Ever the optimist,” she said, shaking her head, “and it worries me. Either way, it’s getting late and I have to be at work at six. I need to get to sleep.”

“You do?” he asked.

“Yes.” She pulled on her chain and felt the circle at the end. She grasped it tightly in her palm, as if for good luck.

“This instant?”

“Soon,” she said. His nose rubbed her bare shoulder as his leg encircled her torso. She reacted by wrapping her legs around his waist and tightening her arms around his neck. “But not immediately,” she said, as the chain fell between her breasts.

Chapter 11

Present time--Monday afternoon, December 17

As soon as Shoop and Joan and Arliss had departed, Pamela wasted no time in loading the compact disc into her hard drive and bringing up her acoustic analysis program. She set her volume at a moderate level in case any people in the hallways might be listening. Even if they were, strange sounds often emanated from Pamela’s office as she frequently listened to peculiar sounds—human and non-human alike—for her academic research. Last year when she was analyzing the sounds that had been recorded during the murder of her colleague Charlotte Clark, she went to great lengths to disguise her efforts. Now, she didn’t even think twice about listening to the recording of the murder of the disc jockey. If truth be told, she was probably not the only person with such a recording, she reasoned. Anyone who’d been listening to KRDN Saturday night with recording capabilities on their iPod or radio might very well have a similar recording.

She brought up the spectrograph on her monitor and set her cursor to the far left. As she opened the recording, a peaked line, something like a read-out from a seismograph filled the screen. She pressed “play” and the voice of the disc jockey, Theodore Ballard, could be heard. As he spoke, the cursor—which took the form of a vertical line that completely segmented the spectrograph from top to bottom—moved rapidly from the left of the screen to the right—where it ended abruptly. Pamela reset the cursor and pressed “play” a second time.

The recording lasted around seven minutes and included songs introduced by Ballard as well as his patter between. Some of the comments Ballard made, she realized, were enlightening as far as providing information about Ballard’s background. However, it was unlikely that the entire seven minutes of the recording would produce much evidence regarding the killer. No, she thought. I’d better focus—at least for now--on the segment where the killer enters and the actual murder takes place. By repeating the tape again, she located the exact spot where she believed the killer must have actually come in the door of the studio. A few seconds before the killer’s entrance, she realized that Ballard was aware that he had a visitor but had no idea who the person was. Ballard gave no indication of knowing the person on the tape. That is, he didn’t call the person by name or show by the way he spoke that he had any relationship with the killer at all. This is going to be hard, she thought.

All right, she said to herself. Let’s start with the obvious. Let’s see if I can find out anything from the killer. I wonder, she mused, if the killer made any noise. On first (and second and third) glance it didn’t appear so, but she reminded herself that Ballard was sitting behind the microphone and the killer was standing in the doorway. If the killer spoke at all, Ballard’s microphone which was probably uni-directional would not pick up the sound very well. But, she reasoned, that doesn’t mean that I can’t hear it. She set the cursor at the segment where she believed the killer entered and punched in directions for her analysis program to run a low pass-filter. Then, with her eyes on the cursor, she pressed “play”: