Rewind II

 4/14/1995

They sat in the small, windowless conference room on the second floor of the 4^th Precinct…Lieutenant Johnson and Keith on one side, a Sergeant Mason and two other detectives on the other. Captain Frank Donovan was at the head.

 

“I asked Mason to fill you in, Lieutenant,” Donovan said casually. He was two years away from retirement and exhibited an easy way, however, he left no doubt as to who was in charge. A long, angular frame was twisted and bent to fit the small, uncomfortable chair. His body hands cut through the air as he talked. “He’s been working on something that might be tied in with your case.”

 

Mason cleared his throat and shifted to face Johnson. “It ain’t much.”

 

He was the opposite of the Captain…soft and bulging. A knot of dark, unruly hair along with his cheap, rumpled suit illustrated his personality perfectly. He motioned and one of the officers sitting beside him shoved several folders across the desk.

 

“We’ve got three women murdered in the Financial District on the past three Saturday nights. Yours makes four. All of the previous victims were assaulted and strangled.”

 

Johnson reached for a section of the files and began leafing through them. Mason read from a prepared report. Victim number one was a hooker working the convention at the Hyatt Regency Hotel on Union Square. She was last seen leaving the hotel around 8:30 pm. She was found in the parking garage between two cars at 3 am.”

 

He turned a page. “Victim number two was a TWA stewardess staying overnight at the Canterbury Hotel on Union Street. She left the other members of her crew about seven o’clock to walk down to Chinatown. She was found the following morning in the alley by the hotel.”

 

Mason continued in his monotone voice. “Victim three worked in the Transamerica Building for a law firm. She told friends she had to go by her office to finish some work and would meet them later at a bar. The guard in the T.A. Building said she left around nine. She was found in the backseat of her car in the parking lot across the street at midnight by a night watchman.”

 

He closed the folder. “The ongoing investigation procedures are all listed in the reports.”

 

Johnson looked up. “Any common denominators?”

 

Mason shook his head. “None, other than the fact that they were all strangled and sexually assaulted. None of the women knew each other or shared the same friends or hangouts. They didn’t look alike. They were dressed differently.”

 

“Robbery?”

 

“Naw,” Mason wiped a grizzled paw across his thick lips. “Purses were found near each victim, complete with wallets and credit cards intact.”

 

Johnson frowned and twisted his head to one side, trying to relieve the tension in his neck. “All of them strangled and assaulted on successive Saturday nights within a nine block radius in the Financial District?”

 

“That’s it.”

 

“You think they were all killed by the same person?”

 

Mason shrugged his heavy shoulders again. “Hard to say, Lieutenant. Except for yours last night, they were all strangled and assaulted, but we’ve got no concrete evidence to link them together other than time and place. We have no matching trace evidence. The perp evidently wore a condom so there are no semen excretions.”

 

Johnson closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “So, we’ve got a serial killer and rapist loose in the Financial District. Have we done any surveillance?”

 

“We put extra officers in the general vicinity last night and got nothing.”

 

Johnson looked at the Captain. He now knew why he had been assigned to the case. “Have the newspapers picked up on any of this?”

 

The Captain moved around in his chair, trying, without success, to find a comfortable position. “As a matter of fact,” he opened the morning paper and threw it toward Johson, “they’ve just put them together. Check out the headline. They’re calling the murders Saturday Night Specials.”

 

Johnson stared at him for a few moments before saying anything. The murders would be bad enough without media focus. Now, the investigation would become a three-ring circus. “All right, let’s get to work. Mason, you guys continue the investigation on the first three murders. Let’s assume they were all killed by the same person. Interview everyone who works in the district bars and restaurants on Saturday nights. See if anybody heard or saw anything unusual. Find out who the Saturday night regulars are and talk to all of them. We’ll tackle last night’s killing separately. Maybe we can stumble onto something you guys missed. After we’re done, we’ll make a comparison.”

 

“What do you have on the one last night?” the Sergeant asked.

 

Johnson looked at Keith. The detective leaned forward and opened his folder. “We’ve got a dead Caucasian female, twenty-six years old named Rhonda James, wife of Edward “Fast Eddie” James, well-known local disc jockey or radio station KAKA. The woman was beaten and apparently sexually assaulted in her apartment last night by an unknown assailant or assailants.”

 

Keith pulled out the forensics report and passed it across the desk to the Lieutenant. “Cause of death was a blow to the back of the head, probably from the bathroom sink, resulting in a cracked skull and severe brain trauma. The coroner puts the time of death between nine and ten o’clock.”

 

Johnson reached for a cigarette. The Captain frowned and shook his head and Johnson answered in kind. He shoved the crumpled pack into his pocket and forced himself to listen to Keith.

 

“There was no sign of forcible entry into the victim’s apartment and it doesn’t appear that anything was stolen. There were signs of a struggle…a smashed vase in the dining area, a broken lamp in the bedroom, busted door and mirror in the bathroom. We found two glasses, half-filled with liquor, one scotch, the other bourbon, indicating the victim may have been sharing a drink with her assailant. Prints on one glass match those of the victim. No prints were found on the other glass. We’re matching other prints in the apartment, but so far, we have nothing.”

 

“So this may not be connected with the others,” Johnson said. “We’ve got to figure that whoever did it knew the victim. He didn’t break in and the woman obviously fixed him a drink, right?”

 

“Not necessarily, Lieutenant,” Keith answered. “The assailant could have used a master key to get into the apartment while the victim was out, then surprised her when she returned.”

 

Johnson nodded. “If that was the case, why fix the guy a drink?”

 

“Maybe the drinks were from earlier in the afternoon. Maybe she had a drink with her husband before he left for work.”

 

“Was there any ice in the glasses?” Johnson asked.

 

Keith opened his notebook. “I’ll find out.”

 

“But if she had shared a drink with her husband, why weren’t his prints on the other glass?”

 

“Maybe he didn’t drink it.”

 

The Lieutenant rubbed his chin absently. “Maybe, but the report said there were no prints…like the glass had been wiped clean. What else do you have?”

 

Keith flipped through the notes. “According to her neighbors, the victim kept to herself. No one really knew her. We interviewed everyone on her floor and they all seem to be in the clear as is the rest of the building. We’re talking to some of the residents who weren’t home last night.”

 

Keith studied his writing carefully as he came to the end of the report. He didn’t want to make any mistakes. “I interviewed the guard at the door. Everyone who visits someone in the building signs in before they’re allowed past the guard. There were only three visitors in the building last night and they’re all in the clear.”

 

“None of them could have done it?” the Captain asked.

 

Keith sat up a little straighter in his chair. “It’s unlikely, sir. Two of them were ladies visiting a sick friend from their church. The other is a 70-year-old man who has dinner with his son every Saturday night.”

 

“So, whoever did it must live in the apartment building and was already there at the time of the murder?” the Captain asked again.

 

“Well, sir, maybe not.”

 

“What do you mean?” Johnson barked.

 

“All tenants have keys to the garage. The guard only sees those people coming in from the street. Someone who had a key to the garage could have come in from that way, gone up to the apartment and committed the murder, then left the same way without the guard ever seeing him. But he would have to have a key to the building.”

 

“Or followed someone into the garage,” one of the other officers noted.

 

Keith shook his head. “He would still need a key. The elevator from the parking garage only works with a key. It’s an added precaution.”

 

“What about security cameras?” Johnson asked.

 

Keith shrugged his shoulders. “There is one camera over the elevators, but it’s been out of order for a couple of months. The guard says the owner has been meaning to replace it, but hadn’t gotten around to it.”

 

Johnson shook his head. “With the lawsuit that’s could be coming, he’s going to wish he had.” He checked his watch. “I don’t know, maybe we’re onto two different killers.”

 

“Maybe four,” the Captain snorted.

 

The officers followed Johnson’s lead and stood up around the table as the meeting broke up. “We’ll get together again tomorrow and compare notes. If anything breaks, let me know immediately.”

 

As they were heading out, the desk sergeant stuck his head in the door. “There’s an Eddie James to see you, Lieutenant.”

 

Johnson and Keith exchanged a glance. “Bring him back to the office while I get some coffee.”

 

It took the Lieutenant a few minutes to fill an almost clean cup with the thick, vile liquid that passed for coffee in the squad room. By the time he got to his office, Eddie and Keith were already sitting in front of the desk.

 

Johnson held up his cup. “Coffee?”

 

Eddie looked at the Lieutenant through red, bleary eyes and shook his head.

 

“Wise choice,” Johnson said. He sat down on the edge of his desk, studying the smaller man sitting in front of him. “Can I get you anything else?”

 

Eddie slumped over and tears began welling in his eyes. “No thanks. I just got back from identifying Rhonda’s body.” He began to sob quietly.

 

Johnson let him have a few moments, then took a deep breath. “I hate to put you through this, Eddie, but if we’re going to find out who did this to your wife, we need your help.”

 

Eddie sighed heavily, raised his head a little and wiped at his eyes. “I’m sorry. I just can’t seem to control my feelings. Yesterday, things seemed perfect. Today, it’s all changed.”

 

“I understand.” Johnson leaned over and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Do you feel up to answering a few questions?”

 

“I’ll try.”

 

Johnson walked behind his desk and sat down. He pulled a piece of paper from a drawer and began making notes. “Is there anyone, anyone at all that you know of who could have killed your wife?”

 

Eddie clasped his hands together and shook his head. “Oh, God, no. I knew that was going to be your first question and it’s been on my mind all night. But there is no one. It all seems so impossible.”

 

“Eddie, I know these questions are difficult, but we’ve got to have some answers so we can move forward.” Johnson was talking slowly so the man would have no trouble understanding. “Take your time and think carefully. Anything, even the smallest detail could be important. You know your wife had sex and was beaten, yet there was no sign of any forced entry.” Johnson paused for a moment, then continued softly. “Whoever did this either had a key to your apartment or your wife let him in.”

 

Eddie wet his lips with his tongue and tried to make sense. “A key would have done no good, Lieutenant. We have dead bolt locks on all the doors. My wife and I both locked them when we were in the apartment. We even discussed the possibility of someone from the building trying to rob us, so we were very careful about those locks. Besides, Rhonda was scared of staying alone in the city. She’s from a small town and wasn’t happy at all when I took this job in San Francisco. Rhonda was afraid to be left alone at night. Even thought I had to work until midnight, she never got used to it. And I am positive that she bolted all the locks. Every night when I left for work, I would always try the door and make sure she had locked it from the inside. It was sort of a ritual with us. And when I would return, no matter what time, she would have to let me in. Those bolts were always on. Always.”

 

Johnson gave it a few seconds. “Then the only other possibility is that the killer was in the apartment before your wife got home last night. He could have used a key to gain entrance, then waited for her to return.”

 

Eddie shook his head. “She wasn’t gone last night. We spent the entire day in the apartment because Rhonda wasn’t feeling well. She thought she was getting a cold. We slept late and I fixed something to eat in the middle of the afternoon. Neither one of us left the apartment until I left for work.”

 

“And you tested the door after she locked it?”

 

“Yes sir. Like I always do.”

 

“And what time did you leave?”

 

“Right at five.”

 

Johnson made a few notes on the paper in front of him. He tapped a pencil on the desk for a second, idly gathering his thoughts. “Is it possible that your wife left the apartment after you went to work, walked around the Financial District and was followed home by someone?”

 

“Anything is possible, but that’s a long shot,” Eddie answered quickly. “I told you, Rhonda was scared of the city. She didn’t even like to walk around when I was with her. There is no way she would have walked around alone at night. No way.”

 

Johnson turned sideways and gazed through the windows that looked out on the city. He wasn’t getting anywhere. “So, no all we have left is that someone came to call on your wife when you were gone, she recognized who it was and let them in.”

 

Eddie considered the statement for a moment, then nodded. “I guess you’re right.”

 

“The only problem is that the guard admitted only three people in the building last night, none of them to see your wife. It must have been someone in the building.”

 

Eddie slumped in his chair. “We don’t know anyone from our building, Lieutenant. To my knowledge, no one in our building has visited our apartment and we’ve been there almost a year. We didn’t know a soul.”

 

Johnson made some more notes. It was always tough in the beginning. If people were always like they seemed to be, then, of course, no crimes would ever be committed. The problem was, people weren’t always like their outward appearance and it was in questioning like this that he found out who they were and who they weren’t.

 

He reached for a cigarette. No one would tell him to put it out in his own office. He torched the end and inhaled deeply. “Something has to be out of place. It looks like whoever killed her knew her well enough to be admitted to the apartment when she was alone. Did the two of you have any close friends in the city?”

 

Eddie thought for a moment. “Outside of a few people at the radio station and a couple of others, we had no friends. I can’t believe any of the people we knew would do this.”

 

“I don’t want to bust your bubble, Eddie, but it has happened before. It must have been someone she knew.” Johnson took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “I know this will be tough, but I’ve got to ask. Do you have any reason to believe your wife was seeing someone else?”

 

Eddie cleared his throat. “After what happened last night, I had to consider it. Anything’s possible, but I don’t think so. We have, or rather had, a good marriage. Since coming to San Francisco, we’ve had a few problems, but none out of the ordinary. From time to time I would call her while I was on the air and I always found her at home. I don’t think she was seeing anyone else. We were too happy.”

 

Eddie stared into space, his eyes glassing over.

 

Lieutenant Johnson recognized the signs. He knew he had to keep the questions coming. Usually, people in situations like this found some comfort in discussing the crime, as long as they weren’t allowed time to dwell on the particular circumstances. It allowed them some kind of closure. They often reacted dispassionately, as though they weren’t involved. Johnson wanted to make sure there were no long pauses in the conversation where Eddie’s internal defense mechanisms would kick in and he would shut down.

 

“You said you had a few problems since coming to San Francisco,” he asked abruptly.

 

Eddie snapped his head around and came back to the present. Johnson could see him struggling to focus on the question.

 

“I’ve been working in smaller cities. San Francisco is the big time,” Eddie grinned without humor. “My hours aren’t exactly the greatest in the world. I do a lot of public appearances. The audience loves me and Rhonda kind of resented the success I was having. I think she wanted me to remain in the smaller cities where she was a more important part of my life. But we had worked through all of that. Lately, things had been just great.”

 

Johnson stared at Eddie’s face for a few moments. He didn’t think there was much more he could learn. He crushed out the cigarette. “I appreciate your answering questions. It will help us in the long run. I need some more help from you, if you don’t ‘mind. Your fingerprints, so we can discard yours from the ones we lifted in the apartment. I also need for you to go through the place and see if anything is missing, although I don’t think robbery is a motive. And I need a list of all of your friends, everyone who’s been in your apartment, anyone your wife knew and might let in.”

 

“Sure, Lieutenant. Is there anything else?”

 

Johnson scratched his cheek for a few seconds while he thought. “Did you and your wife share a drink before you went to work yesterday?”

 

Eddie shook his head. “No.”

 

“If she had fixed you a drink, would it have been bourbon?”

 

Again, Eddie shook his head. “I wouldn’t drink bourbon or scotch on a bet. Vodka or tequila is the only hard liquor I touch.”

 

Johnson hesitated only a second before he stood up and held out his hand. “I’ll give you a call if we come up with anything.”

 

Eddie shook his hand, started through the door, then stopped. “It just occurred to me that Rhonda said the guard in the building really gave her the creeps.”

 

Johnson perked up. “Which guard?”

 

“The one working nights while I’m on the air.”

 

“Did she say the guy made a pass at her or anything?”

 

“No sir, and I never followed up on it. She never mentioned it again. I never met the guy. I always came in through the garage.”

 

Johnson took a deep breath. “Okay, Eddie, we’ll check it out. Anything else like that you remember, please call me.”

 

Eddie nodded and left the office. An officer approached him outside of the door to take him down the hall to have him fingerprinted.

 

Johnson paced slowly in front of his desk. “We’ve got a woman who isn’t feeling well, according to her husband, stays in bed all day, locks the door after her husband leaves for work, then lets someone she obviously knows into her apartment. The guy assaults her and kills her and leaves without being seen by anyone.” Johnson took a heavy drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds before letting it out with a rush. “What about the guard?”

 

“Not likely,” Keith said. “The guy’s more of a doorman. He doesn’t even carry a gun. He is in his 60s, very small and skinny as a rail. I thought we were going to have to give him oxygen when we questioned him.”

 

“Check it out again. Find out why the woman was afraid of him.”

 

“What about a boyfriend, Lieutenant? With her husband working every night, it would have been pretty easy for her to be seeing someone on the side without him ever knowing about it.”

 

Johnson agreed. “I would buy that except for a couple of reasons. According to the coroner’s report, she was dressed in an old, cotton nightgown and wasn’t wearing any makeup. What woman lets her boyfriend see her like that? Her husband? Yes. Her boyfriend? I don’t think so. And if he doesn’t live in the building, how does he get in without being seen?”

 

“Maybe she gave him a key.”

 

Johnson mashed out the butt in an ashtray. “It doesn’t feel right.”

 

“I know,” Keith said. “Normally, we would be looking at the husband.”

 

Johnson snorted. “That’s pretty much out the window since a few hundred thousands of people were listening to him while the murder was being committed. It’s a pretty compelling alibi.”

 

“It’s got to me someone in the building.”

 

Johnson got up. “I agree. Interview everyone again. See if we can turn something.

 

* * * * * *

 

The sun was setting in Sausalito, the little city built into the steep hills across the bay from San Francisco. It was the most beautiful time of day. High above, the sun kept the sky azure blue, as the shadows closed in on the buildings below. Streaks of sunlight escaped the shadows from time to time, skipping across the white caps in the bay until they, too, disappeared into the darkness. Across the water, the lights in the tall buildings of the city winked at their neighbor. Dusk in Sausalito was romantic, a poet’s dream.

 

The crowd at Jack’s Bar was just starting to build when the tow of them made their way out. It was only a short walk to his tiny apartment.

 

The girl took a quick look around and didn’t like what she saw. “I’m leaving.” She stood up, wobbling a bit. She was more than a little drunk.

 

“Come on, have another drink,” the man told her.

 

She leaned carefully over and set her glass down on the floor. “Bullshit. I’m leaving. The only reason I agreed to come over here in the first place was because you said there was going to be a party.” She gave the small, tack apartment another quick once-over. “There isn’t any party. Even if you planned one, nobody would come here.”

 

She walked unsteadily across the room toward the door. He moved quickly in front of her, blocking the way. “Relax. Have another drink and let’s get cozy.”

 

She moved around him and reached for the door. He jerked her hand away from the knob, pushed her back against the door and shoved his body against hers.

 

“Get off me.”

 

She struggled, but he was stronger. Holding her wrist over her head, he moved to kiss her.

 

“Stop!” She twisted her face to avoid his lips and pushed against his chest with her free hand.

 

He reached up and grabbed the back of her neck with his other hand. Again he leaned down and tried to kiss her.

 

She struggled harder. “Let go, you bastard, you’re hurting me.”

 

He grabbed her hair and twisted her face up toward his. He grinned confidently and raked his lips across her cheek.

 

She suddenly jerked her knee up hard between his legs. The smile left his face with the breath from his lungs. He fell quickly to his knees, then crumpled slowly toward the floor, his hands clutching his crotch, a moan slipping from his lips.

 

“You piece of shit,” the girl rasped as she stepped across him and opened the door. “Everybody told me not to go out with you because you were a creep. They were right.”

 

It was five minutes before he could move to close the door and another ten before he pulled himself to the couch. The pain, so intense before, gradually faded into a dull ache, allowing other thoughts into his head.

 

She wasn’t like the one the previous night. He had not been ready for her reaction. He pulled his legs into a fetal position against his chest and closed his eyes. One had clipped between the cushions of the couch and gripped the handle of the pistol.

 

He would be ready for the next one.

 

* * * * * *

 

Tim Johnson was sitting in his office with Captain Donovan and Sergeant Keith on Monday morning. Johnson was reading the morning paper as others watched warily. When he finished, he grunted and threw it angrily down on his desk. Keith picked it up and read the headline. “Saturday Night Specials Contine.” Underneath, in smaller print, the story was outlined, “DJ’s Wife Is Fourth Victim. Police Have No Leads.” The rest of the story had the details of the case, what little there were. Toward the end of the story, Mr. Jonathan Case, manager radio station KAKA was quoted as being critical of the investigation.

 

“Damn these news people,” Keith snarled.

 

“I agree, Keith,” Lieutenant Johnson said, “but it would be nice if we had something they didn’t. Do we?”

 

Keith swallowed. “I checked with Mason this morning and they haven’t got any new leads on the other three killings.” He looked at his ever-present notebook. “We canvassed the apartment building again and didn’t pick up much. Like James said, hardly anyone in the building knew them.”

 

Johnson reached for a cigarette, ignoring the look on the Captain’s face.

 

“The only person who could give us any information,” Keith went on, “was the next door neighbor, Mrs. Tilman, who made the original 911 call. She says she heard the James’ fighting quite a bit. According to Mrs. Tilman, James; wife was constantly yelling at him for having a girlfriend on the side. She says hardly a night went by without an argument. She heard all of this because her bedroom is right through the wall from theirs.”

 

Johnson laughed. “Thank God for busybodies. Without them, half the crimes in the world would go unsolved.”

 

“Mrs. Tilman says she never heard Mrs. James entertain anybody else in the apartment,” Keith went on. “As far as she knew, Mrs. James never went out when her husband was at work. She would turn the radio on when Eddie went on the air and switch it off when his show was over. She says that until about a month ago, Mr. James wasn’t getting home until around two o’clock in the morning, but lately he was making it around 12:15.” Keith grinned. “She insisted that she knew this only because she had trouble sleeping and, as I said before, her bedroom was next to hers.”

 

Johnson laughed out loud. “That and the fact that she had a glass against the wall listening, more than likely.”

 

“Anyhow,” Keith continued, “Mrs. James used to accuse him of being with other women after his show, but when he started getting home earlier, she calmed down a bit. She also said that the afternoon she was killed, they had a terrific fight. She heard them arguing about divorce.”

 

The Captain pursed his lips. His eyebrows twitched upwards as his face came alive. “Seems as if all was not perfect in paradise.”

 

“The plot thickens.” Johnson lit the cigarette. “Who’s the culprit, Keith?”

 

Keith shook his head. “I don’t have one right not, Lieutenant.”

 

Johnson leaned back in his chair and tried to blow a couple of smoke rings. “Who is the first person we look at in a murder case?”

 

“It doesn’t apply here.”

 

“Who’s the first?” Johnson barked.

 

“The husband,” Keith answered sheepishly. “But it doesn’t apply in this case. The man’s got a perfect alibi with maybe a million people to testify as to where he was.”

 

“Maybe he hired someone to do it.”

 

Keith shook his head. “It doesn’t fit. If he hired someone, he would have certainly made it look like a robbery. Besides, with no forced entry, his wife would have had to let him in. Remember the dead bolts. And if it was Fast Eddie, he would know we would have to look at him sooner or later. There are too many loose ends.”

 

“I agree with the Sergeant,” Captain Donovan said. “Fast Eddie doesn’t get my vote.”

 

Johnson leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “You both may be right, but there are some things that are bothering me.”

 

“Like what?” the Captain asked.

 

“Like a man saying everything was fine with his wife, yet the neighbor says they fought constantly.”

 

Keith made a face. “A lot of married couples fight. That doesn’t mean they commit murder. Also, he wouldn’t be the first innocent man who made his life with his wife seem a little prettier than it really was. It doesn’t mean the guy hired someone to kill his wife.”

 

“Like what else?” the Captain chimed in.

 

Johnson took another hit off the cigarette. “Like Fast Eddie says he only drinks tequila or vodka…and that’s what was in the glass at the station when we went there on the night of the murder. And like his shoes were wet that night, yet he was supposed to have been in the control room the whole time.”

 

“I didn’t notice his shoes,” Keith said.

 

“That’s only one of ten thousand reasons why you are a Sergeant and I’m a Lieutenant.”

 

The Captain waved his hands in the air. “So you think he had something to do with it?”

 

Johnson shook his head. “I didn’t say that. There are more than a few things about this one that bothers me. What about the guard?”

 

Keith was quick with an answer. “No dice. The guard on duty Saturday and Sunday nights is different from the guy who works during the week days. He’s old and weak. Plus, he was playing chess with one of the other tenants when the murder took place. Evidently, it’s a regular Saturday night game. I checked with all the other guards and they all have solid alibis. Except for one.”

 

“What about him?”

 

Keith grinned. “He’s a she, Lieutenant.”

 

Johnson leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. Something about the whole thing was bothering him, but he couldn’t figure out exactly what it was. “Let’s go back to the husband.”

 

Keith grimaced. “No way, Lieutenant. It doesn’t work.”

 

“I know it doesn’t Keith. That’s why I want…” Johnson stopped and snapped his fingers. “Wait a second.”

 

He picked up the phone and punched out a number. The Captain and Keith started at each other, neither knowing what was going on.

 

“Mr. Case, please. Tell him it’s Lieutenant Johnson.” Johnson leaned forward and frowned at Keith, then went back to the phone. “Mr. Case, I wonder if I could take up a little bit of your time with a few questions.”

 

“Sure, Lieutenant, but you need to know that Fast Eddie’s going on the air tonight was his idea, not mine.”

 

Johnson’s chin jerked back with this revelation. He had no knowledge of Eddie’s returning to work. “His idea?”

 

“Absolutely. Eddie told me it would be easier on him if he worked, rather than just sit around the house and brood about this thing. And you know, Lieutenant, I agree with him.”

 

“He’s going on the air tonight?” Johnson asked redundantly.

 

“Yes. I assumed that’s what this call was about.”

 

“No, I had some other questions. Do you mind if I stop by the station in about forty-five minutes?”

 

“May I ask you what interests you in particular?”

 

“Pre-recording.” Johnson hung up the phone.

 

(Continued until next week.)