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possible matches from the rolls of missing persons.”
    “It’s sick, all right,” Garth said. “I mean, what kind of monster kills someone and cuts his body up into pieces?”
    “A psycho, that’s who,” Rick said. “Some stunted Anthony Perkins wannabe.”
    “Is that your official position?” Winn asked, then cleared his throat and delivered the news, the same smooth delivery he practiced daily. “The detective I spoke with says they’ve reviewed the air-check from the night he called. Said it sounded like the killer used some type of electronic voice-disguising gizmo. That’s why it sounded so flat. We’re sending him all our on-air tapes. He’s hoping the killer will call back. Either as himself or disguised as another caller. Maybe they can run some kind of voice analysis. I don’t know, really. And I don’t think the cops know much either.”
    “Yeah, that police dude in the control room doesn’t look too happy to be here. Probably a Garrison Keillor fan,” Garth said, dark eyebrows shifting.
    “Well, I hope the psycho has moved on. I’m ready to forget all about him,” Rick said.
    “I think you should diss him right over the air. Chew him up good,” Garth said. “Your show is better for that than mine.” He glanced around the room. “Actually, Tin Man should do it. That freak has no conscience at all.”
    “Thanks for the suggestion, but why don’t you just stick to playing music for your twisted fans? Leave the long-term strategy to those who know radio,” Winn said, an edge to his voice. Experience clashing with youth.
    Garth squinted at him, and without speaking, rose and sallied to the vending machine tucked away in the corner of the room, next to the ancient coffee machine.
    Rick spotted the glint of victory in Winn’s eyes. Rick sometimes overheard the interns taunting Winn about his old-time sensibilities. To them, Winn was like the curmudgeonly old grandfather scolding the young ’uns for roughhousing in the living room.
    The break room door slowly swung inward on its squeaky hinges, and the tippy-top of a little blond head poked around the corner. Then Livvy burst in, bee-lining for Winn. A single hop later, firmly ensconced in Winn’s lap, she brushed his moustache with her sticky hands. “Hi, Uncle Winn. Ready? Ready? Ready? Where are we going today? Can we go ice skating?”
    “Hello Miss Olivia, my little princess. How are you?” Winn tried to squeeze in his greeting but the words got steamrolled by a three-foot dynamo with curly hair.
    “Can we? Can we go to the mall first? To the toy store? Can we, Uncle Winn? Please?”
    Rick reached over, touched his daughter’s smooth cheek with the back of his hand. “Hi sweetie. Good to see you.”
    “Hi Daddy. Hey, are you talking on the radio right now? Am I talking on the radio?” Her eyes darted around as she searched for the hidden microphones. “Am I?”
    “No, not right now. This is where we take breaks. I’m not on until later. Where’s Mom?”
    “She’s coming. She was talking to the pretty lady. Mrs. Pez.”
    “It’s Ms. Perez, honey.”
    “I know, Daddy.” Livvy rolled her eyes at Winn.
    Rick followed suit, rolling his eyes at Winn. That’s all he needed. Barb getting into it with Celia. If Barb got riled and tore into his boss, he’d find himself on overnights in Boise.
    Garth returned to the table with a package of Ding-Dongs. Livvy stopped chattering and peered over Winn’s shoulder. “Hi. My name is Olivia. But you can call me Livvy. Everyone does.”
    Garth smiled when he realized Livvy was speaking to him. “Hi there. My name’s Garth. Livvy’s a nice name. Don’t think I know any other Livvys.”
    “Me either. I know another Olivia, but nobody calls her Livvy. I think maybe I’m the only Livvy on the whole earth,” she said. Her eyes seemed to be transfixed on Garth’s lone earring. The ornate silver cross pendant sparkled as it bobbed around.
    A moment later, Barb entered the room. She