Page 20

Jenna pulled her phone from her pocket, pushing the remains of her scone to one side.

The café around them had emptied somewhat, leaving their corner booth secluded enough for the call she needed to make.

She glanced at Jake, as she scrolled through her contacts and found Spelling’s number.

The colonel would have answers about Astral Voices – she was certain of it.

“I’m putting this on speaker, though not very loud,” she told Jake, placing the phone on the table between them. “I want you to hear everything.”

Jake nodded, setting down aside his coffee cup and bending forward to listen.

Spelling answered on the third ring, his voice crisp and official. “Colonel Spelling.”

“Colonel, it’s Sheriff Graves. I’m here with Deputy Hawkins.”

“Sheriff. What can I do for you?” The formality in his tone was familiar territory – Spelling never wasted words.

“Colonel, I need to add Chief Morgan to this call. Is that possible?”

There was a brief pause. “Hold on.”

The line went quiet for a moment, and then Spelling’s voice returned. “Morgan’s joining now.”

A click, followed by Morgan’s gruff voice. “Chief Morgan here. What’s this about, Sheriff?”

Jenna leaned closer to the phone. “Chief, Colonel – we’re investigating a connection between our two murder victims and we need some historical information. What can you tell us about a pirate radio station called Astral Voices?”

“Well, that’s a blast from the past,” Morgan said, surprise evident in his tone. “Astral Voices. Haven’t heard that name in over twenty years.”

“You remember it?” Jake asked.

“Remember it?” Morgan let out a short, humorless laugh. “Colonel Spelling and I helped shut it down back in ‘98.”

Jenna’s eyes met Jake’s. A direct connection – better than she’d hoped for.

“What was the nature of the programming?” she asked.

Spelling answered first. “New age nonsense mostly. Conspiracy theories, paranormal events, supposed government cover-ups. But it wasn’t harmless entertainment. The broadcasts were designed to incite panic and paranoia among listeners.”

“Some folks took it too seriously,” Morgan added. “Followers stockpiling supplies, quitting jobs, pulling kids from school. One family sold everything and moved to a cave system because the ‘Midnight Voice’ told them electromagnetic waves were controlling people’s minds.”

“What can you tell me about the person called the ‘Midnight Voice’?”

“That was their star broadcaster,” Morgan explained. “Had this hypnotic quality to her voice. Smooth as honey but with an edge that got under your skin. She’d come on at midnight – hence the name – and spout the most alarming theories. Had quite a following.”

“The station was run by a man named Ray Tucker,” Spelling said. “When we finally pinpointed the broadcast location, we found him operating out of the abandoned Ozark Sole Works shoe factory with equipment that would’ve made a professional studio jealous.”

“Did he serve time?” Jake asked.

“No prison time,” Morgan said. “But the FCC hit him with massive fines. Equipment seizure, cease and desist orders, civil penalties. Financially destroyed him for years.”

Jenna made another note. “And now? Where is Tucker today?”

“Still in Pinecrest, last I heard,” Morgan replied. “He’s running a podcast called Breaking Tide these days. Same kind of content as Astral Voices, but legal since it’s not broadcast on regulated frequencies.”

Jake leaned forward. “And what about this Midnight Voice? Did you ever identify her?”

“We never did,” Spelling said. “Tucker was protective of his on-air talent. Refused to give names, even when facing charges.”

“Said it was a matter of journalistic integrity,” Morgan added with obvious disdain. “As if what they were doing resembled journalism in any way.”

“So Midnight Voice could still be in the area?” Jenna asked. “Maybe even working with Tucker again?”

“Possible,” Spelling conceded. “Though I’d be surprised if she maintained the same level of... extremism after all these years.”

Morgan cleared his throat. “I guess I’m not supposed to ask what put Astral Voices on your radar after all this time, Sheriff?”

“That’s right, Chief,” Spelling cut in. “Leave it alone.”

Morgan responded with a sigh. “Right. Well, if you need Tucker’s current address, I can pull that up for you.”

“That would be helpful,” Jenna said.

There was a pause, and then Morgan said: “He’s at 1875 Ridgeline Drive in Pinecrest. Operating Breaking Tide from his home studio there.”

“Thank you, Chief.” Jenna wrote down the address. “And Colonel Spelling, we appreciate your help as always.”

“Keep us updated, Sheriff,” Spelling replied. “Whatever connection you’re following, be careful with it.”

“Always am, Colonel.” She ended the call and looked up at Jake.

“It’s not much of a stretch to connect radio towers to a former pirate radio operator,” he said.

Jenna nodded, pulling out her tablet. “Let’s see what Breaking Tide is all about before we pay Mr. Tucker a visit.”

A few taps on the screen brought up the podcast’s website. The design was amateur – black background with neon graphics that reminded Jenna of late-night television from the 90s. The logo featured a stylized radio tower with waves radiating outward.

“Fringe science, government conspiracies, unexplained phenomena,” Jake read from the site’s description. “Looks like Tucker hasn’t strayed far from his roots.”

Jenna scrolled through recent episode titles: “Surveillance Through Smart Devices,” “Psychic Communications with Other Dimensions.” Then she stopped, her finger hovering over an upcoming episode scheduled for tomorrow: “Murder at the Tower: The Truth Behind Trentville’s Ritual Killing.”

“Jake.” She turned the tablet toward him. “Look at this.”

His eyes widened as he read. “Promising to reveal the truth about the murder? How would he know anything about it unless …”

“He’s involved in some way?” Jake put in.

Jenna shut off the tablet and slipped it back into her bag. “Let’s go talk to Mr. Tucker.”

They paid for their coffees and scones and headed out to the cruiser. Jenna spent the drive trying to organize her thoughts. If Tucker was responsible for both murders, what was his motive? Publicity for his podcast seemed too simple, too obvious. But she couldn’t dismiss it either.

Ridgeline Drive curved through an older residential area of Pinecrest. The homes were modest single-story structures, most built in the 1970s. Number 1875 sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, its weathered brick facade partially hidden behind overgrown hedges.

“Not exactly what I pictured for a conspiracy personality,” Jake commented as they parked at the curb.

A concrete path led through the neglected front yard to a weather-worn door. Jenna knocked firmly, and they waited, listening to movement inside.

The door swung open to reveal a man in his late fifties with thinning gray hair pulled back in a short ponytail. He wore faded jeans and a black t-shirt bearing the Breaking Tide logo. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on a nose that had been broken at least once.

His expression shifted from annoyance to curiosity as he took in their badges. “Law enforcement? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Ray Tucker?” Jenna asked.

“The one and only.” He offered a smile as he looked at Jenna’s badge. “Sheriff Graves and...” He squinted at Jake’s badge. “Deputy Hawkins. Come in, come in.”

He stepped back, gesturing them inside with a flourish that struck Jenna as theatrical.

The living room had been converted into a makeshift studio, with sound dampening panels attached haphazardly to the walls.

A desk dominated the center of the room, crowded with audio equipment and multiple computer monitors.

“You caught me just in time,” Tucker said, closing the door behind them. “Was about to start recording today’s episode. But for Genesius County’s Sheriff, I can certainly delay it a while.” He said this with a wink that made Jenna’s skin crawl.

“We won’t take much of your time, Mr. Tucker,” she said, keeping her tone professional. “We have a few questions about your podcast.”

“Breaking Tide? Going strong for three years now.” Pride colored his voice. “Nearly fifty thousand subscribers. Not bad for independent media.”

Jake gestured to one of the monitors displaying the episode schedule. “We noticed you’re planning a special episode about a recent murder discovered near Trentville.”

Tucker’s eyes lit up. “Ah, you saw that! Yes, absolutely fascinating case. Body bound to a radio tower? The symbolism alone is worth exploring.”

“And what theories do you plan to share with your listeners?” Jenna asked, watching his face carefully.

Tucker leaned against his desk, clearly delighted by their interest. “Well, I’ve been researching ancient binding rituals.

Did you know that several civilizations practiced similar methods for sacrifices?

The victim bound to a structure that connects earth to sky?

” He gestured dramatically upward. “I believe what happened in Trentville is part of a much larger pattern of ritual killings designed to open portals between dimensions.”

Jenna kept her expression neutral, though she found it increasingly difficult. “And you believe this theory?”

“Of course! The evidence is compelling.” Tucker reached for a notebook and flipped it open. “The positioning of the body, the stage of the moon that night, and its proximity to—”

“Mr. Tucker,” Jake interrupted. “Where were you on that night?”

The question caught Tucker off-guard. His animated expression faltered for a moment before understanding dawned.

“Am I a suspect?” He didn’t sound frightened – if anything, there was a note of excitement in his voice.

“Just answer the question, please,” Jenna said.

Tucker straightened, adjusting his glasses. “I was here, working on the podcast. Alone, unfortunately. No alibi, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“And last night?” Jenna pressed.

“Last night? Same thing. Here alone. Why? Did something else happen?”

Either he was genuinely unaware of the recent murder, or he was a skilled actor. Jenna couldn’t be sure.

“One more question,” she said. “We need to know the identity of the broadcaster who called herself the Midnight Voice.”

Tucker’s demeanor changed instantly. His shoulders stiffened, and the theatrical flair vanished. “I can’t tell you that. Professional confidentiality.”

“This isn’t a journalistic shield law situation, Mr. Tucker,” Jake said. “This is a murder investigation.”

“I gave her my word years ago.” Tucker crossed his arms. “She trusted me …”

Jenna stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Mr. Tucker, if you withhold information relevant to our investigation, we can charge you with obstruction.”

Tucker stared at her, weighing his options. Finally, his shoulders slumped.

“Fine. But this isn’t going to help your case.” He sighed dramatically. “Diana Wells. She owns that new age shop in town – Avebury Visions.”

“Diana Wells,” Jenna repeated.

“She’ll deny it if you ask her directly,” Tucker warned. “She’s built a respectable business image. Being associated with Astral Voices again could damage that.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Tucker,” Jenna said, already moving toward the door. “We might have more questions for you later.”

“Hey, if you need any insight into the symbolic meaning of these murders, I’m your man,” Tucker called after them. “I could even have you on as guests!”

Jake closed the door firmly behind them, cutting off Tucker’s voice. They walked in silence to the vehicle.

Once inside, Jenna pulled out her phone. “We need to update Morgan and Spelling.”

She put the call on speaker again, and both men answered promptly.

“Any updates on Claude Davis?” Jenna asked, referring to the sound engineer who’d had a falling out with Sandra Reeves.

“Still searching,” Morgan replied. “He’s not at his registered address, and his phone goes straight to voicemail.”

“We just finished speaking with Ray Tucker,” Jake said, starting the engine. “He’s planning a podcast episode about the first tower murder, claiming to have special insight.”

“And his alibi?” Spelling asked.

“None for either night,” Jenna replied. “He was alone at home, by his account.”

“You think he’s involved?” Morgan’s skepticism was clear.

“Can’t rule it out.” Jenna glanced at Jake. “It might be worth having plainclothes officers keep an eye on him.”

“I’ll arrange it,” Morgan said.

“We also confirmed the identity of the Midnight Voice,” Jake added. “Diana Wells. Owns a new age store in Pinecrest called Avebury Visions.”

“Wells?” Morgan sounded surprised. “I know that shop. Never made the connection.”

“We’re heading there next,” Jenna said. “We’ll keep you posted.”

After they ended the call, Jake pulled away from the curb, heading toward the main street of Pinecrest.

“What do you think?” he asked after a moment. “Tucker seems like a charlatan, but a murderer?”

Jenna gazed out the window at the passing houses. “Would someone kill two people just to have material for a podcast? It seems extreme.”

“Could be an act,” Jake suggested. “The eccentric podcaster hiding a calculating mind.”

“Or he could be exactly what he appears to be – a conspiracy theorist looking to capitalize on a tragedy.”