Nova’s laugh is short and dry. “I don’t think the police psychologist has listened to his radio in thirty years. We’re going to have to play it by ear. The cops will be monitoring our calls. They want to be in the control room with me. I told them that having the boys and girls in blue hover while you do the show will freak you out, and when you freak out, everybody freaks out.”
“Except you,” I say. “You’re unflappable.”
“After nine years, I’ve learned to fake unflappable,” Nova says. She glances at the clock on the wall. “Thirty seconds to air. I’d better get back in the control room. I knocked together an introduction. It’s on your computer screen.”
I pull my chair close to the desk, put on my earphones and adjust the microphone. It’s time for talk radio-the place where everyone can be who they want to be. The music comes up. The drummer from the Dave Matthews Band counts the band into our theme music: “Ants Marching.” I live for this moment-the moment when Charlie Dowhanuik, the freak with a face like a blood mask, disappears and I become Charlie D, a guy who is cool, commanding and in charge.
The words on the screen are Nova’s, but I make them my own. Like everyone in my business, I’ve created a voice that works for my audience. My radio voice is as soothing as dark honey. For a guy who fears intimacy, it’s surprisingly intimate. The voice of Charlie D is my armor, and as long as I can fake it, I’m bulletproof.
“It’s March twentieth, the first day of spring-the season of looooooooove,” I say. “The Roman philosopher, Cicero, said that love is madness. Lovers sure act crazy. We’re reckless. We forget to eat. We can’t sleep. We can’t work. We’re consumed by our lover’s voice. Her touch. Her taste. Her scent. Her being. Scientists tell us that Prozac can cure love, but who wants to be cured? It’s fun up there on the merry-goround. But what happens when the merry-go-round starts spinning too fast, throwing off the other riders, making us sick?
“You are listening to ‘The World According to Charlie D’ and we are coming to you live from coast to coast to coast. Tonight’s topic is Erotomania-the delusion that someone, usually somebody famous, is secretly in love with you and sending you signals that reveal their love.
“Remember the movie Misery where Kathy Bates uses a sledgehammer and a block of wood to break Jimmy Caan’s ankles because she’s ‘his number-one fan’? Remember Jody Foster’s number-one fan, John Hinckley? He showed Jodie how much he loved her by attempting to assassinate the president of the United States?
“What is it about love that makes people crazy? Any thoughts? Ever been called a stalker? Ever been a stalkee? Give me a call. My name is Charlie D. Our lines are open, and we are ready to talk about looooooooove-craaaaaaaazy love.
“While you ponder the question of whether you’ve ever crossed that thin, blood-red line between love and madness, here are The Police with their anthem to those who love truly, madly and deeply: ‘Every Breath You Take.’”
I turn down the volume on the music. When we’re on air, Nova and I are separated by the glass partition between the studio and the control room. Nova’s control room is brightly lit, but I like the studio dark. We communicate through hand signals and our talkback microphone. We’re like fish in neighboring aquariums, seeing one another but unable to connect. Many times, especially lately when I know she’s worried about the baby, I wish I could reach out and comfort her. Tonight is one of those times. As she sits behind the desk with the phone nestled between her ear and shoulder, peering over her wirerimmed reading glasses at her computer monitor, I know she’s frightened.
“Hey, Mama Nova,” I say. “Are you doing okay? I can hear your heart beating on the talkback.”
She turns to give me a thumbs-up. In the blink of an eye, the thumb disappears and she raises the middle finger of her right hand at me.
“So you’re mad,” I say.
“Just scared,” she says. “But I don’t know which finger to use for scared.”
“Next time tell me sooner,” I say. “I can be scared with you.”
Her voice is resigned. “Or you can pull your disappearing act. That’s when we all get scared: me, the network and, most importantly, our audience.”
I feel the familiar lick of guilt. “I’m not that important to anybody, Nova. If I walked away, the network would have another guy here within a week. Within two weeks, Charlie D would be just a memory.”
“You’re wrong,” she says flatly. “As far as our audience is concerned, you’re irreplaceable. Our show works because you make every member of our audience feel as if they’re alone with you in their room. When you start to disintegrate on air, they fall apart. And I have to deal with the meltdown. That’s when the mail gets scary: FedExed chicken soup, mass cards, panties, guides to aura adjustment and some really alarming letters. I’m not just protecting you; I’m protecting me. We’re back in ten seconds-and our first caller is Emo Emily.”
Emo Emily is the poster girl for wallowing in heartbreak, and she is familiar territory. “The one who broke into my house and stole all my shoes,” I say, and I grin.
Nova doesn’t grin back. “Don’t blow Emily off, Charlie. Anyone who could discover where you live and crawl in through the basement window…”
“Could murder three people?”
“Find out.” Nova raises her hand and points her index finger at me. It’s my turn now. I’m on the air, and I have one hour and fifty-three minutes to find a murderer.
CHAPTER THREE
As “Every Breath You Take” fades, I sing along. Nova’s right. Our audience is sensitive to my moods. They tell me that when I sing along, they relax because they know I’m going to make it to the end of the show. The day my beloved died, I took off my earphones, walked out of the studio and didn’t come back for a year. The people who listen to “The World According to Charlie D” worry a lot that I’m going to give them a repeat performance. I worry about that myself.
You can tell a lot about people from their voices. Words can lie but voices can’t. Emo Emily talks endlessly about heartbreak, death, despair and betrayal, but when she says, “Sometimes I think I can’t go on,” there’s a fizzy giggle in her voice. Emily knows that she’s going to hang in long enough to blow out the candles on the cake her great-grandchildren will place in front of her on her hundredth birthday. Our listeners get a kick out of her. So do I. When I greet her on air, my tone is lighthearted.
“Our first caller tonight is one of our regulars. Good evening, Emo Emily. Hey, did you notice that line ‘Every Step You Take’? Since you made off with my not-very-extensive collection of shoes, I’m down to my high school Keds. They’re getting mighty shabby. Any chance, you’ll return my other runners?”
“A man’s shoes carry him where he needs to be, Charlie,” she says playfully. “I’m making sure your shoes will be waiting when you realize your destiny is to be with me.”
This is not the first time Emily has talked about our fated love, but three murders have given her fantasy a new and disturbing potential. “So what are your thoughts about our topic tonight?” I ask.
Emily loves an open-ended question. “My heart goes out to anyone who hasn’t found love,” she trills. “On our break today, some of the other girls at the phone bank were talking about how boring their boyfriends are. They say all their boyfriends talk about is sports and getting drunk. I said you talk to me about everything. You’re beautiful…”