Dead
Air
A
Glenn Beckert Mystery
by
Cliff Protzman
Genre:
Mystery, Suspense, Thriller
Dead
Air signals trouble at the radio station. Glenn Beckert discovers his
high school best friend is shot in the head while on the air. Beck,
the owner of Blue Water Security, is employed to provide security for
the station.
He
becomes willingly embroiled in the investigation by the
not-so-innocent widow. The list of potential suspects is long,
gleaned from the numerous extramarital affairs of the victim and
widow. The pending sale of the radio station has created friction
between his now dead friend, Richie Zito and the major stockholders.
Motives for murder becomes increasingly murky after the search
reveals an encrypted file on Zito’s laptop.
Beck
enlists the help of an old flame, Irene Schade, to break the code,
revealing a money laundering network leading to the financial and
political powers of his beloved city of Pittsburgh. Their
collaboration ignites the flames of passion each had considered
extinguished.
A
former college teammate, police Lieutenant Paglironi delivers a
message to back off. Arrogantly, he ignores his friend’s advice.
The threats from less friendly sources are more ominous, forcing Beck
to move in an unfamiliar world. A startling revelation from his
client forces Beck to deal with his inner conviction of right and
wrong, challenging the gray areas of his ethical principles.
Betraying his client’s confidence could expose the killer. The
alternative is to confront the suspect and take matters into his own
hands. Either way his life is in jeopardy.
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CHAPTER 2
Back in my 35th
anniversary edition T-Top Camaro, the curving path of I-279 propelled me through
the North Hills of Pittsburgh. The driver's window was cracked open, allowing
the cool spring air of late March to cool my tense perspiration of fear. My
only exposure to murder had been from television or newspaper accounts, the
occasional murder mystery novel.
I was wearing a
zip-front warm-up jacket with the Blue Water logo over a pale blue golf shirt
concealing the Beretta 9mm worn on my belt holster. Black jeans and dark
athletic shoes completed the outfit. In order to hide male pattern baldness, I
had chosen to shave my head. Combined with steely blue eyes, I’m told I paint a
good picture of a man who owns a security firm – no one to fuck with but someone
you’d like to invite out for a beer.
Z-Rock was the
crown jewel for Open Air Communications and owned by Richie Zito, my best
friend in high school and best man at my wedding. The station was by far the
ratings leader in the Western PA market. Richie was not only the owner, but
also the Saturday night DJ for Z-Rock. Richie believed that he had to spend
time on the air to keep in touch with his audience and business.
I tuned the car
stereo to Z-Rock, hearing nothing but dead air. I was on my way to a murder
scene. My thoughts were jumbled. I needed to behave like a professional:
detached and analytical. On the other hand, the murder victim was a long-time
friend. We had a history of shared experiences that were part of our life
story. Now he was dead. Maybe it was a mistake, just some accident, and Waner
had gotten it wrong.
I approached the
Fort Pitt Bridge, passing between PNC Park and Heinz Field. Suddenly, Phil
Collins burst out “In The Air Tonight” over the car stereo, Z-Rock was back on
the air. My dashboard clock showed 9:12. I crossed the bridge, through the
tunnels, and up Green Tree Hill. You couldn’t drive in this city without
crossing a bridge or going through a tunnel.
At the top of
the hill, I pulled into the parking lot at the Z-Rock studios and noticed three
cars in the lot, a police cruiser entering from the opposite side. The
cruiser's emergency lights were flashing; the siren was silent. I parked beside
a silver Jeep Liberty.
Bernie Allen
exited the police car. Bernie had worked for me while he attended the police academy.
He'd been a dependable worker, always on time and conscientious. He was still
young, mid-twenties, with a stocky, muscular build, reddish-brown hair, and a
round face that gave him a perpetually boyish look.
I headed to the
back door. This was the employee entrance, accessible only with a swipe card. The
door wasn't alarmed, though there was a surveillance camera. I looked up to
make sure it was in place. The red light showed it was operating.
When he spotted
me, Bernie seemed a little surprised. “Beck, what are you doing here? You’ve
never come out to my sites when I had a problem.”
“You never had a
murder on site.”
Bernie stopped
abruptly and he looked startled. “No one said anything about murder. I was
there when the dispatcher took the call. The call was for a possible suicide.”
Suicide. The
thought had never occurred to me. Richie wasn't a suicide candidate. Surely the
guy I knew in high school wasn't capable of that. I felt a numbness creeping
through my body.
Bernie began to
pace in front of the door in short steps, shaking his head. As far as I knew,
he'd never been involved in a homicide, but then again, I was such an expert.
I said to
Bernie, “Waner called me and said that Zito had been murdered. You remember John,
he was always a nervous wreck. I told him to call the police. What exactly did
he say?”
Bernie blinked,
still trying to shake off his shock, but managed to speak in a professional
tone. “The caller reported a shooting. It looked like suicide. An ambulance is
on the way.” He reached for his shoulder mic. “Dispatch, this is unit 4. I am
at Z-Rock with Glenn Beckert from Blue Water Security. His people are reporting
a possible murder.” Bernie waited for a reply, staring at the door like he
expected a murderer to come charging out any second.
Bernie's
shoulder mic crackled. “Unit 4, backup is on the way. Secure the scene.” The
voice continued in a sterner tone, “Beckert may be in charge of security but
you're in charge of the scene. Keep him on a leash.”
Bernie cringed
but quickly regained his self-control. He put his hand on my chest and I
immediately flinched, reminding myself he was an on-duty cop. “Beck, I see you
have a gun, so leave it in your holster and keep your hands in your pockets.”
Waner buzzed the
door open after I used the intercom to call him. Bernie pulled the door open
with his left hand, right hand on his weapon. The rear door was aluminum with
no window.
We walked a fifty-foot
hallway that led to the main entrance. There was a hallway to the left of the
lobby, leading to the production studios. To the right were the on-air studios.
There were two stairways on either side of the reception area going to the
offices on the second floor. The lobby contained the security desk in the middle,
the front entrance facing out to Greentree Road.
John Waner was at the desk. His strong cologne
let you know from about three blocks away that here was a ladies’ man. He wore
his dirty blonde hair high on top, similar to an Elvis impersonator. He had
been hired for my original team assigned to Z-Rock when I got the security
contract eight years ago. In spite of his experience, he was very unsure of
himself. He would regularly call with questions or reports of the smallest
nature. He looked like he was pacing even when he was standing still.
John said, “Beck,
how ya doing? I can't believe this happened.” He even spoke in a deep baritone,
reminding me of Elvis saying, “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“Not exactly a
quiet night, huh?” I said to him. “Tell me what you saw from the beginning.”
He acknowledged Bernie.
“Good to see you, Bern.” John turned to face me and continued, “I just came
back from rounds. When I reached the desk, there was dead air. I went back to
the studio, and there was Richie. He was leaning to the left in his chair and
there was blood everywhere.”
Bernie
interrupted, “Did you touch anything?”
John shifted his
weight from side to side. He said, “No, the door was locked; I didn't go in. I
looked through the studio window and saw Richie.”
“There's another
car in the lot. Who does it belong to?” I asked.
“Ron's. He's on
the emergency call list.” Ron was Richie's younger brother and a shareholder of
the radio station. He functioned as the Operations Manager for Z-Rock, I had
worked with him in the past, sometimes more often than I worked with Richie.
“Is he in the
building?”
John hesitated. “Well,
yes. He’s setting up programming for the rest of the night in Studio Y.”
Bernie looked at
me as if I knew what the next move should be. I looked at John and asked, “Where
is Richie?”
John seemed to
flinch and replied, “In Studio Z.”
“Okay. Stay at
your post; we'll check things out.”
I turned to
Bernie, indicated the right hallway, and said, “Let's go.”
Cliff was born and
raised in Pittsburgh, PA. Cliff’s family relocated to Northeast
Ohio when he was in high school. Immediately after graduation he
returned to his hometown to attend the University of Pittsburgh.
Cliff planned to major in journalism and write the great American
novel. Instead, he switched to Business Administration and began a
30-year career in accounting and finance.
Cliff rekindled his
passion for writing acquired as a reporter for his school newspaper.
He published his first novel, DEAD AIR: a Glenn Beckert Mystery in
September 2017. Cliff also writes short stories. He was a winner in
the Unfinished Chapters anthology in 2015. Cliff is a member of the
Mystery Writers of America and Pennwriters.
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