Dial Mtv for Murder

“That’s illegal, Slater,” O’Malley said.

“So’s jai-alai,” I shot back. “Have you found any leads?”

“This cassette tape was left behind. Listen to it, see what you think.”

I took the tape and headed back out to my car.  I put it in. Soaring electronic chords and a synthesized saccharine voice stung my ear like a nun’s ruler.

You were the last one Oh-a oh Video killed the radio star. Video killed the radio star. Video killed the radio star.  It was a recording of the whole slaying, from intro to coda.  I hit “stop” with a sick feeling in my gut, one that two more lines couldn’t blow away. I see a lot in my line of work, but this guy was a real sicko: I mean, what kind of bastard kills a man to New Wave? I popped the trunk and took out my cell phone.  The battery was dead, so I hooked it up to the DeLorean and gave it a jump.  I needed to put in a call to Sal.  If something seedy went down on this godforsaken isle the Indians stuck us with, chances were better than even Sal knew who was in on it.

“Sal, it’s Ray. Heard anything about a guy named Video?”

“Sure, I’ve heard of him.  He hangs out at that new club, The Electric Spanking, down on Ludlow.”

“Thanks Sal, I owe you one.”

“Since you mention it Ray, I’ve got a shipment of rhinestone gloves coming in on Saturday from Korea, and I could use a little reassurance. You know, that there won’t be any problems getting ‘em through.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You do that.”

When I arrived at the club, I could spot the guy from across the room.  He was tall, maybe six five, and looked like the letter M.  On his left arm there was a tat that said “TV”—weird, but it takes all kinds in this burg. Anyway, it wasn’t his fashion sense that attracted me; I had O’Malley for that. It was his eyes, full of static, and a guy on the Moon. Dead eyes, the kind that only ever blink at money. Mr. M was in a corner booth, with Pat Benatar on his right and two-fifths of Duran Duran on his left.  This guy was connected.

I knew he was the killer.  The blatant confession in the song was there to taunt me; the smug look on his face said he knew he couldn’t be touched.  I turned and left the club.  What do you do with a suspect above the law?  Answer: You wait.  No king reigns eternal.

We sat on the case. Built it up piece-by-piece, year by year.  We finally got him with DNA evidence.  MTV left no prints, but he left semen; there is always semen. But when we finally brought him down, it hardly seemed to matter anymore.  The judge barred MTV from playing music videos, thinking he was making some grand statement about Justice, but by that time MTV had been out of the music video business for years. These days he makes his living trolling the bottom, broadcasting reality shows of has-beens and never-will-be’s.  His accomplice VH1 got the far harsher sentence: twenty to thirty years of loving the 80’s.

“That’s the thing you learn as a cop. The guilty don’t get punished; they prosper. They diversify. They launch Nickelodeon and buy up Comedy Central. I’ve seen it a million times. Meanwhile radio…hell, even Howard Stern can’t bring that back to life.

My kids don’t get why I turn the channel whenever Wow! Wow! Wubbzy! Comes on. But if they’d seen that radio star—that guy with the golden pipes and a ground beef face— they’d understand.