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Prime Mover

John Ragusa

    The band Pop Salad was in the studio, recording their latest album. It was not going smoothly.
    “What’s the problem, guys?” their producer, Mike Turnbull, asked.
    “We can’t get it together,” drummer Dick Hiatt said.
    “I think Freddie’s singing is off-key,” guitarist Al Basham said.
    “Don’t you go blaming me, Al,” Freddie Morlant said. “My vocals are perfect, as always.”
    “Come on, let’s not bicker,” bassist Joe Bruce said. “We can work this out between us.”
    “Maybe I was wrong,” Basham said. “Let’s do another take.”
    Turnbull approved the next take, but Basham was still unhappy with it.
    Al Basham was not the leader of Pop Salad, but his songwriting took the group to the top of the charts. He and singer Freddie Morlant didn’t see eye to eye, though.
    The public assumed they were the best of friends. They hugged each other onstage, and in interviews, they praised each other’s talents.
    But Basham wanted a change, and he wanted it soon. He did not like the way things were going.
    That night, Basham spent some time with his girlfriend, Loretta.
    “I’m not satisfied with our band,” he told her.
    “What’s wrong with it?” Loretta asked.
    “We’re not reaching our full potential. I’m a perfectionist. I can tell when Freddie’s singing is bad.”
    “He doesn’t notice it?”
    “Of course he doesn’t. He can’t hear himself sing out of tune.”
    “He needs someone to tell him about it.”
    “I informed him of it, but he didn’t agree with me.”
    “If you’re not pleased with Pop Salad, you can quit and join another band. Or, better yet, you could go solo.”
    “I couldn’t do that. I’m too dependent on the other members’ instrumental abilities.”
    “You should discuss this with Freddie. Maybe he’ll let you sing sometimes.”
    “That would be great. We’d share the attention and acclaim if I sang occasionally.”
    “Mention that to Freddie when the two of you are alone.”
    “I think I’ll do that.”

* * *

    “Can you spare a moment?” Basham asked Morlant after a rehearsal.
    “Yeah, sure,” Morlant said. “What’s on your mind?”
    “Your singing leaves something to be desired. I think my vocals are better.”
    “That’s your opinion.”
    “The fans would agree with me.”
    “In your dreams.”
    “Look, you’re always hogging the spotlight. Don’t I deserve to shine once in a while?”
    “You’re just jealous of my popularity.”
    “It isn’t like that at all!”
    “You crave all the glory.”
    “I should get some recognition. If I sang sometimes, I’d receive my share of fame.”
    “That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Your ego needs to be gratified.”
    “Our band is ready for a change of pace. Our records all sound the same when you’re singing.”
    “You can’t argue with success, Al. We’re the top group on the charts. My singing is largely responsible for that.”
    “I see I’m getting nowhere with you,” Basham said. “I’ll have to talk to our producer about this.”
    “Mike isn’t about to change things with Pop Salad,” Morlant said. “Don’t forget that our albums are still turning platinum.”
    Deep down inside, Basham knew Morlant was right. A record producer doesn’t fix what isn’t broke.
    Basham would just have to accept things the way they were and not complain about them.

* * *

    One day, Basham saw a book titled Telekinesis in the library. Curious about it, he checked it out.
    He read that telekinesis is the occult ability to move objects through sheer concentration.
    Basham wanted to find out if he had this ability. As an experiment, he placed a pencil on a table and concentrated hard. A minute later, the pencil rolled off the table.
    He did have telekinetic powers! But how could he use them to his advantage? He’d have to think it over.
    He got a pizza from the freezer in the garage. It had been raining heavily that day, and the roof was leaking. He put a pail under the leak.
    He went back into the house and turned on the TV set. The news was on.
    The anchor said, “Charlie Westcott was electrocuted last night when an electric radio accidentally fell into his bathtub. He was pronounced dead on arrival at St. Matthew’s Hospital.”
    Basham turned off the set. He had gotten an idea.
    He knew that Morlant listened to his radio while taking a bath in the afternoon.
    Basham now had the solution to his problem. He hoped it would work.
    He concentrated for a minute. Then he drove to Morlant’s house.
    The front door was unlocked. Basham entered the house and went into the bathroom. Morlant was lying in the tub, the radio in his lap. He had been electrocuted. Basham had concentrated and moved the radio until it fell into the tub.
    Basham felt some pity for his friend. There would be no more good times with him. But better days were ahead. Now he could sing on all of Pop Salad’s songs.
    But he realized that Morlant’s death would look suspicious, being so similar to Westcott’s demise. Basham had to make it look like Morlant had been electrocuted in another way.
    After hearing a clap of thunder, Basham got an inspiration. He carried Morlant’s body into the bedroom, where he dressed him. Then he took the corpse, his guitar, and his amplifier to his car and drove to his home.
    In his garage, Basham sat Morlant in a chair beneath the leaking roof. He put the amplifier on the floor next to him. Finally, he placed the electric guitar in Morlant’s arms.
    Then he called the police with the bad news.

* * *

    “It’s obvious what happened to poor Freddie,” Basham told Lt. Hammett. “He was playing his electric guitar when it started raining through the hole in the roof. The rainwater fell on him and he was electrocuted.”
    “That sounds logical,” Hammett said. “But it won’t wash.”
    He knelt down and picked up a cord.
    “Morlant’s guitar wasn’t plugged into the amplifier,” he said. “So he wasn’t electrocuted here.”
    Basham knew that it was all over but the shouting.
    “Now,” Hammett said with a nasty grin, “tell me how you really killed him.”

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