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  “It doesn’t make sense to me either. But let me tell you what I’m hearing. If the killer shoots the gun from the door and the bullet hits Ballard at the microphone, we should hear—I think—less sound from the gunshot and more sound from the impact of the bullet—it would all happen almost instantaneously. Certainly with Ballard at the mic we would hear bullet impact and some sound from Ballard when he’s hit—after all he’s sitting directly in front of the mic. But we don’t hear any of that. We hear the gunshot and then nothing.”

  “I thought about that too, Mitchell,” she said, “but it doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know,” Mitchell agreed, “We hear the gunshot and then someone seems to turn off the microphone and shuts off the power and it happens within a few seconds. I’m assuming it must be the killer. But if it were, wouldn’t you hear the killer walking towards the mic—even faintly?”

  “It’s true,” added Willard, “we can hear the killer vocalize when we assume he brings out the gun. Surely, even if he were wearing soft shoes, we’d hear some sound as he walked towards the microphone.”

  “My students in my acoustics seminar noted this too, Willard,” she added. “Gentlemen, I don’t know what this means, but you can bet I’m going to find out.”

  Chapter 26

  Previous week--December 15-16, late Saturday night—early Sunday morning

  David Bridgewater, alias Ted Ballard, entered the front door of radio station KRDN around 11:30 p.m. Saturday night. Carl Edwards was still on-air and greeted him as his gave his spiel into the microphone. David took off his overcoat and wandered over to the CD collections behind Edwards and started searching for songs he might play for his program that night. He carried several CDs that he replaced in the station’s music library.

  When Edwards started a tune playing, he leaned back in his chair and spoke to David.

  “Hey, Ted, you’re looking spiffy tonight. Got a date later?”

  “Nah,” replied David, “been getting some flack from my advisor. She says I have to look more presentable for my classes.”

  “Yeah,” said the disc jockey, rising and walking to get a cup of coffee from an automatic pot on a nearby table, “I guess that would make me feel obligated to get a hair cut too.”

  “I feel bald,” said David, rolling his eyes.

  “You look truly middle class, buddy,” said Edwards, patting David on the back and returning to his desk with his paper cup of java.

  “Thanks,” replied David.

  “Hey,” Edwards called out. “I’m setting up a series of about five songs. Can you sign off for me so I can get out of here?”

  “Sure,” said David, “take off.”

  “Thanks, pal,” replied Edwards as he pre-set several songs in order and grandly polished the desk chair with his elbow before bowing in front of David. David laughed and sat down and put up his feet, noticing that there were at least ten minutes left of play time to run. “I’m taking off. See ya!” said Edwards.

  Edwards grabbed his coat from the rack near the front of the studio and wrapped a warm scarf over his ear muffs before heading out into the cold night. David waved at his exiting form. A minute or so later, Edwards’ car had disappeared from the front of the building and David, checking to see that there was still sufficient play time, grabbed his coat and quickly zipped outside and opened his trunk. He extracted a large shopping bag, closed the trunk, and returned into the studio. After taking off his coat, he took the bag to the disc jockey’s console and set it in front of him. He peeked inside and reached in among a variety of objects, finally extracting one object he was searching for at the bottom.

  The object was a black hand gun. After looking at the gun, opening it and checking to be certain that it was loaded, David placed the weapon in the right hand pocket of his black trousers. He tugged the pants around and glanced down to be certain that the bulge from the gun was not noticeable. Then he placed the shopping bag under the console and sat at the chair.

  Soon the music that Edwards had set in motion was finished and David had to announce that his program—Black Vulture’s program was starting a bit early. He immediately played Calliope Doom’s latest song—Cursed Bones—a long one that he knew would play for quite a while. Glancing at his watch, he realized that it was now midnight. Saturday had turned to Sunday. The real show was about to begin. The stage was set and the main actor was in position. All that was needed now, he thought, was the rest of the cast. However, in this particular show, the rest of the cast didn’t realize they were part of the show.

  Calliope Doom’s grinding metallic beat throbbed away confirming the intensity of David’s feelings and the determination of his motivation. He was ready. Show time. To hell with writing dissertations, teaching, and being a small town disc jockey any longer. His life was about to change. All he had to do was perform his part to perfection—something he was sure he could do.

  The music concluded and he flipped the on-air mic. “Okay, folks out there in radio land,” he began, “that was Calliope’s Doom with Cursed Bones.” He rattled on about the alternative rock group and various other groups and songs that he was recommending. He threw in a commercial for “Avery’s Auto Repair” on South Jackson and even suggested that local college students get their cars tuned up before heading home for Christmas break. He started to set up another song from Ochre Fugue that he’d heard on one of his forays to New Orleans.

  Headlights from a car shone through the tall glass windows of the studio and a car’s engine sounded as it pulled in front of the station. David speculated as to who his visitor might be this late at night in such an isolated location. He continued to give his audience a running commentary of the mysterious visitor as the person entered the studio.

  As his brother Daniel walked in the front door of the studio and saw David sitting at the console, he smiled. David was talking into a large microphone sitting on the desk, greeting him for all his listeners to hear. Daniel felt somewhat uncomfortable in being an unseen center of attention.

  “Oh, hi! Come on in!” said David to his brother. Daniel stepped inside the small studio and shut the door. “I’m Theodore Ballard—Black Vulture to my fans. You a fan of alternative rock?” rattled on David, confusing Daniel. How strange, he thought. David knows who I am; he invited me here.

  Then David pulled a gun from his pocket and pointed it at Daniel’s head. Daniel gasped.

  “What the? That’s a gun! What do you need a gun for? Why are you pointing it at me? Wha--? No! No!” said David. Daniel was totally confused and disoriented. Why was his brother holding a gun on him and speaking as if it was he who was holding the gun on him? Then David pulled the trigger and Daniel fell to the ground.

  As soon as Daniel hit the floor, David leaped into action. He immediately turned off the microphone. Then he removed the shopping bag from beneath the console. He took it over to Daniel, now lying on the ground in front of the entrance door. A small bloody hole marred his otherwise serene face. David checked Daniel’s neck for a pulse and found none. Quickly, David removed his own clothes and then Daniel’s clothes—starting with David’s overcoat. He fingered Daniel’s coat pocket and found his car keys. Setting the coat and keys aside, he pulled on Daniel’s neat chinos and button-down cotton shirt. He slipped into his brown loafers. Dressing in Daniel’s clothes was easy; getting Daniel into his clothes was much harder. He tugged his tight black trousers over Daniel’s legs and up his hips. Daniel weighed about the same as he did, but the trousers were tight on him too. It was difficult getting his black shirt that was decorated with a lovely blood covered rose and a saber onto his brother—there were so many buttons. The hardest part was getting Daniel’s feet into his high black boots and tying them.

  Then, from the shopping bag, David pulled out hair wax, a brush, a comb and hair spray. He quickly went to work making Daniel’s hair have that sexy, romantic goth look, complete with spikes, and points. He even had an eyebrow pencil which he used to line Daniel’s eyes fo
r that extra touch. As he was working on his dead brother, he realized that the bullet that had killed him was still lodged in his head. All for the best, he thought. If it had left his skull and lodged somewhere in the wall, he’d be forced to find it and retrieve it. He couldn’t afford to leave any evidence that would point to Daniel’s true identity. When he’d finished making the switch—one brother for another—he dragged Daniel’s body from in front of the station door to behind the console and arranged it to look as if Daniel had been seated and had fallen out of the chair when he was shot.

  “Sorry, Danny Boy,” David said to the dead man at his feet, “nothing personal. Just a perfect solution to an otherwise insolvable problem.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and switched it with Daniel’s wallet. Then, he carefully scoured the floor and the surrounding area for any trace of the crime, depositing anything he found in his shopping bag, When he was assured that he had accounted for every possible eventuality, he grabbed Daniel’s coat and car keys and headed outside where he took off in Daniel’s Acura leaving his old beat-up Ford pick-up in the station’s parking lot. The whole episode had taken approximately ten minutes.

  Chapter 27

  Present time--December 21, Friday evening

  She never thought she’d find herself on a double date with her daughter, but that was exactly where she was. After meeting with Willard and Mitchell and getting inspired with their new leads on the clues on the murder recording, she had returned to her office to continue working on her analysis—only to be interrupted by Kent. When she engaged her assistant in a conversation about the musical proclivities of the recently deceased disc jockey, he informed her that there was a major alternative rock event going on Friday night in New Orleans—a so-called underground vampire ball. Kent told her that many alternative rock musicians who Ted Ballard had endorsed would be playing at some of the highly touted concerts and that he was planning on attending. In fact, he had invited her daughter to accompany him and she had agreed. As Pamela continued to prod Kent for information about the event, she discovered that it was not one event, but a multitude of events happening in various locations in the French Quarter. Although the ball was well organized and advertised, it was not “official” in the respect that there were any public notices. According to Kent, you had to be “in the know” to realize it was going on, and to get invited. He was one of the lucky ones. After additional poking and suggesting, Pamela managed to finagle an invitation from the young man for herself and Rocky. It would be like a “double date” she explained, wondering if he was even aware of this term. When Pamela informed Rocky that they would be going with Angela and Kent on their date to the underground vampire ball in New Orleans, Rocky was torn between fury (at his wife for planning his weekend before checking, and relief that he would be able to keep tabs on his daughter while she was in what he considered one of the most dangerous places on earth).

  Now, here they all were—all four of them, together--seated around a small round, metal-topped table in an even smaller bar in the Quarter. The smoke level was worse than the sound level—and that was more from the people talking than from the music. The music was bad enough, thought Pamela. She looked at Rocky, who cringed in response to her sheepish smile. Angela ignored them—she’d been ignoring them all evening—embarrassed beyond belief to have her parents chaperoning her date. Kent was totally involved with the band on the small stage across from the bar. He and Angela didn’t stand out too much as there were actually some customers dressed like the two young students were. No one was dressed like Rocky and Pamela, however. Many of the patrons were costumed—or, at least, Pamela hoped they were costumes—as vampires or other creatures she imagined were from vampire lore.

  As she peeked over her left shoulder, a tall man with shiny long, black hair and a red velvet tuxedo jacket, was drinking some sort of blood-looking drink (hopefully tomato juice) and waxing eloquent to his partner (Pamela guessed she was female) who was dressed in a flowing black chiffon gown. Her long black tresses reached the middle of her back and her stark red lipstick and intense dark lashes popped against her chalk-white skin. Both of the lovers sported fangs proudly, smiling for Pamela whenever she ventured to glance their way.

  “Just keep your eyes to yourself, Mom,” repeated Angela to her mother under her breath, “You’re gawking. It’s not polite.”

  “I don’t see vampires every day,” responded Pamela, giving her daughter a sweet smile.

  “What do you expect at the Vampire’s Ball?” whispered Rocky. Was he enjoying her discomfort? He was livid about even having to come here in the first place. Of course, he had purchased some strange alcoholic concoction for the two of them. She was sipping hers but Rocky had slurped his down with gusto. “I’m going to get another of these,” he announced, and headed towards the bar.

  “Dr. B,” said Kent, turning around towards her, “Listen to this next group. This is one of the bands that Ted Ballard was sponsoring. He played their first album on his show. Maybe after their set we can try to talk to them.”

  Good idea, thought Pamela. We need to do something to justify coming all the way down to New Orleans. So far, she hadn’t learned anything that she thought would explain anything more about Ted Ballard or who might have wanted him dead.

  A tall man wearing a long black cape floated onto the stage, swooping his cape around in dramatic bull-fighting waves. He stopped before the microphone and spoke to the audience, “Welcome, humans and lovers of the night. We here at the Black Rose are honored that you have decided to join us in your revelry. The band you just heard was Calliope’s Doom—music you can sink your teeth into.” He smirked, exposing two very white fangs. His entire demeanor gave Pamela the creeps. Angela smiled benignly and Kent nodded. The vampire Master of Ceremony gazed out at the audience and slowly ran his tongue around his lips. “Our next group is Pandemonium Passion. Let’s give them a warm, wet, bloody welcome.” He demonstrated a sharp applause and the audience followed. Then he lifted his cape and swirled it around before exiting through a curtained door in the back wall. Pandemonium Passion trudged out on stage. The five musicians were all in black. Surprise, thought Pamela. Now, she wondered, will they or won’t they have fangs? That’s about the only question left. As she stared at the group, Rocky returned to their table, no drink in hand. He sat down and bent to her ear, speaking with agitation.

  “I’m not sure. It’s really dark, but I’d swear that’s Ted Ballard sitting at the bar.”

  “What?” gasped Pamela. “Where?” Rocky attempted to discreetly point at a man seated alone. He was wearing jeans and a simple t-shirt. “Kent,” she whispered to the young man at her table, gesturing for him to come closer, “Does that man sitting alone at the bar look like Ted Ballard to you?”

  “What do you mean, look like him?” asked Kent, peering around Pamela, attempting to get a view of the man in question.

  “Mom,” said Angela, “you’re making a scene. People are trying to listen to the band.”

  “Sorry, honey,” said Pamela, “I just need to know if Kent recognizes someone.”

  “I can’t tell, Dr. B,” said Kent, “He’s turned away.”

  “I may be wrong,” said Rocky, “I just remember him from seeing him in Trudi’s office from time to time. It can’t be him, obviously. But it really looks like him.”

  “Let me check,” said Kent.

  “Wait!” said Pamela, “What if he recognizes you?”

  “Dr. B,” explained Kent, “What’s there to recognize? It can’t be Ballard. He’s dead. It’s probably just someone who looks like him. Let me check him out. I’ll be careful—and casual. I promise.” Without waiting for her answer, Kent rose from the table and wove his way through the crowd, past the man at the bar and went into the men’s room.

  “Now where’s he going?” whispered Pamela, following the young man with her eyes.

  “You told him to be discreet,” said Rocky, pulling on her arm, “He’s just following directions.
Calm down.”

  “You two are driving me crazy!” exclaimed Angela, glaring at her parents. “I knew this was a ridiculous idea! I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life!”

  As Pamela looked up, she saw Kent weaving his way back from the restroom. He reached their table and dropped into his chair beside Angela. “Hey, Ang, miss me?” he quizzed the young woman who scowled at him. He chuckled and gave her shoulders a squeeze.

  “Did you get a look at him?” asked Pamela.

  “He really kind of looks like Ballard, doesn’t he?” asked Rocky, seeming to need validation for his original identification.

  “He doesn’t just look like Ballard,” said Kent, causing Rocky to deflate, “he is Ballard.” Kent let his words sink in around the table.

  “You mean he looks like Ballard,” said Pamela.

  “No,” said Kent, “I’ve seen Ballard at clubs, many times. Even up close. This man is a little neater than Ballard usually looks, but it’s him. I’d swear to it.”

  “How can that be?” asked Angela. “The guy is dead.”

  “I know,” said Kent. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I can’t explain it either,” ventured Pamela, “but whether he is Ballard or just really looks like Ballard, our predicament is the same.”

  “How?” asked Kent and Angela.

  “I think she means that we have to do something,” said Rocky, “I mean, we’re obligated to contact the police. Let them figure out the significance of this man—whether or not it is Ballard.”

  “We can’t just go up to him and suggest he go to the police,” said Kent.

  “And I don’t think we’d better attempt to talk to him,” added Pamela. “I mean, there may be a perfectly innocuous reason for this seeming clone of Ballard, and if we approach him, maybe he’d respond to our request to explain or contact the police….”