Michael Palmer - The Last Surgeon

“As I was saying,” she managed, “if you knew my sister, you’d know she wouldn’t take her own life.”

“Have you hired a PI? You know, somebody familiar with the ins and outs of police work, who can review the case file with fresh eyes.”

“I’m a nurse. The detective I called wanted a retainer that would have just about wiped me out. In the weeks since my sister’s death, I’ve taken a leave of absence and made finding her killer my life’s purpose. I’m hoping somebody out there knows something and has the courage to come forward and help.”

Clemmons clicked over to a second caller.

“Go, you’re on the Rick Clemmons Show.”

“Yeah, lady, why don’t you come over to my apartment and I’ll help you do some real detective work.”

Clemmons disconnected the call and signaled for a commercial.

“Sorry. Even though I think it’s true, maybe the tall and gorgeous thing was a little unnecessary. Ralph,” he called out to the producer, a beanpole with a head resembling an ostrich egg, “what in the hell kind of calls are you letting through?”

“We ain’t got a very big selection, Rick,” the man replied from the tiny control booth. “Besides, you know as well as I do, that kind of call is why people keep tuning in. You’re on in three, two, one… and… now.”

“What happened to respect, people?” Clemmons barked at his audience. “There was a time when you callers at least had some sense of decency. Come on, Night Owls. How about some thoughts about the journal and Jillian’s theory? You know, tonight’s topic? How about some comments on that? How about those comic books she found? Doesn’t it seem weird for Belle Coates to be collecting Nick Fury comics?”

Jillian looked again at the studio walls, adorned with pictures of Rick Clemmons glad-handing with celebrities she recognized. Maybe she had read him all wrong. This wasn’t a dream gig for him. He had mentioned getting fired from a much bigger station in Atlanta, but hadn’t said what he did wrong. Rusted trailer or not, it was starting to sound as if his concern might be genuine.

“Sorry about these callers tonight, Jillian,” he said on air. “Okay, everyone, the truth is what matters most on the Rick Clemmons Show, starring me, Rick Clemmons, broadcasting on WMEW 82.5 FM, where the weather is still the same as it was ten minutes ago when I last told ya’, fifty-five degrees and dark outside.”

Clemmons signaled to Jillian that it was her time to talk.

“I think whoever killed Belle knew her,” Jillian said. “There was no sign of a break-in or a struggle.”

“A young nurse with an obsession for comic books dies under at least suspicious circumstances. Her apartment is locked up solid from the inside. Theories, people. Theories.”

A lone light on the phone bank began to blink, along with a message from Ralph on the small LED display announcing the caller’s name.

“Hey there, Joe from Monroe,” Clemmons said, “nice rhyme. You’re on the Rick Clemmons Show, you got any four-one-one for us?”

The caller laughed. “For this crackerjack? No. Nada. You’re nuts, Clemmons, for having this whack-job on.”

“Joe, get ready to be blown up. That your real name?”

“My real name is Officer You Don’t Need my Name, of the Charlotte PD. And yeah, I got info. I was one of those who investigated this case. And I’ll tell you this much. This lady is way off base. What are you trying to say? That we don’t know how to do our job?”

“No. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I just want somebody to listen to the facts I’m presenting,” Jillian answered, her voice again husky with frustration. “My sister would never, ever have-”

“The fact is that comic books or not, your sister killed herself. Look, we got it bad enough out there with dopers and killings and carjackings, without you making things worse by questioning our ability. We investigated Belle Coates’s death. We investigated it good. Those Internet printouts with the comics were years old. Years. She made the choice. She took the pills. She died. Case closed. Don’t blame us for it, lady. Blame her.”

“I… I…”

There was a click and a dial tone.

As she emerged from the dimmed lighting of the trailer, the morning sun took Jillian by surprise. Her focus during the broadcast had been so unwavering, she had completely lost track of time. Pausing in the weedy gravel parking lot, she blinked until her vision had adjusted to the glare. Then she checked her watch and sighed.

The only four hours I could get you on any broadcast and I let you down.

She tried, with some success, to convince herself that Joe from Monroe was nothing more than a twisted prank caller. Cop or not, though, his words still cut and had hurt her deeply.

… She made the choice. She took the pills. She died. Case closed. Don’t blame us for it, lady. Blame her.

In the studio, she had suppressed the urge to shout names at the callers that would have embarrassed Howard Stern. But she couldn’t risk upsetting Clemmons and possibly having him cut the broadcast short.

When the morning crew arrived, Jillian was in a somber mood, still reeling from the horrific experience. Despite what had just transpired in the trailer, from Clemmons’s wandering eye to his legion of moronic callers, she still managed to pitch the newly arrived morning show producer for more airtime. He politely declined.

It wasn’t until Jillian reached her rental and unlocked the door that she heard footsteps behind her. Turning, she saw Rick Clemmons, straw hat in hand, hurrying toward her.

“You did great in there,” he offered. “Thought maybe you and I could head on down to WaffleTown for some eggs or somethin’. Talk about the show and all.”

Then he winked, as if he needed to make the subtext of his offer perfectly clear.

Jillian shook her head in disgust. “Clemmons, you really amaze me. You know that?” she replied. “I mean, don’t you have any appreciation for what I just went through in there? And you’re not making it any easier out here by hitting on me. My sister is dead and you were my best hope for catching her killer.”

“Show still might help,” Clemmons said, seeming not the least bit affected by her harsh words.

“Okay, I’m sorry for snapping at you. Your show wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I wrote and asked for a spot on it, but at least you gave me a chance. I owe you for that. But a thank-you-nothing more.”

Clemmons’s cheeks reddened slightly, and he was about to say something when the trailer door flew open and the pale, ovoid face of his producer poked out.

“Got a phone call ’bout the show, Rick. Guy says his cell ran outta juice afore he could get through. He wants to talk to our guest here. Won’t tell me what it’s about.”

Jillian groaned. She knew the call would most likely be crude or abusive, but she trudged back up the trailer stairs anyway. For Belle.

“Hello? This is Jillian,” she said, slightly breathless from fatigue and the short climb.

“Ah, hey there, Jillian. Name’s Roach, Kyle Roach, from out Oak-bridge way.”

“Yes, Kyle. Do you have information for me?”

Jillian tensed at what she was certain was going to be a crude retort.

“Tough callers t’night. Real bottom-feeders if ya ask me.” He sounded like all the others, and Jillian was about to thank him and hang up when he added, “But I ain’t one of them, I assure you. I have a wife and two kids at home. I listen to Rick Clemmons because I work the night shift at the Daimler plant, and those idiot callers he gets keep me laughing and awake.”

“I’m listening,” Jillian said.