"He ju...He ju...He just can't seem to keep his pants on, that guy..."
The sound was unmistakably a bit from Bill Crash Kradich's Monday show. It was part of an over all audio production. A little movie for the ears of the KCI listener intended to draw them to that evening's program.
"Crash Kradich chews up another one and spits it into Lake Michigan..." Then a tinny version of the same rich baritone voice: "Spits it into the freaking lake."
Then the voice of Bill Crash Kradich himself: "You are so far up my ass...do me a favor and pick my nose from the inside for me, will ya'!"
"Tonight, Seven to ten on KCI!" The 'KCI' part of the announcement was so low, so deep it was barely human at all.
Renko Rivillo, the nuts and bolts producer of the Crash Kradich show, was rushing the job. His calm, focused expression belied a growing agitation. The promo should have been done - and in the computer system that fueled the radio station - twelve hours earlier.
Standing unnoticed in the studio door was Daniella Drabek; a person Bill Kradich called a pistol. No more than five foot one, she kept her dark brown hair short and shot huge, piercing blue eyes from behind narrow rimmed glasses. Hers was the demeanor and uniform of the young, mostly female pistons that ran the engine of modern media. Dani did two things well: Radio and kickboxing. The presence she projected, from the minimal makeup and preference for black pantsuits, to her turned down smile and powerful low voice, was both disarming and charming.
"Kradich called, he wanted to know why the promo wasn't ready for morning drive?" Dani stoke between chaotic bursts of audio assaults; sounds seemingly out of place in the immaculately organized work area. This is so not my office.
"He did! When?" There was instant panic in the young producer’s voice.
"Never, numb nuts. But you should have finished that last night after the show?"
"Yeah, I had someplace to be." Renko calmed some, realizing that the star of the show was not immediately aware of his negligence. "I pulled the old one, at least."
"At the very least. What the hell is wrong with you?" Dani plopped down in the leather office chair behind an array of microphones. She studied her co-worker. The neatly kept goatee, shampoo-fresh hair and scrubbed face gave him the appearance of a 20-year old girl heading for a Halloween party. This morning he was still clean, still Renko, but not so perfectly Renko. What went wrong?
Excerpt from The Radio Murders: The Caller