No, it’s not the podcast I keep threatening to do. But it is about a podcast…
“Okay, so we’ve got our notes…” the man with the beard said, then looked up to the webcam and said, “You ready to start?”
Just then, the doorbell rang. “Shit, DJ, hang on – someone’s at the door.”
“No worries,” DJ said. “Trace, make sure to tell that pizza guy he’s got shitty timing!”
“Heh, will do,” Trace said standing up and hurrying out of the office where he recorded his side of their podcast. He opened the door to a man and woman in dark suits.
“Trace Kehler?” The woman asked.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“I’m Detective Allen,” the man said holding open an ID and badge from Los Angeles Police Department. “This is Detective Simmons,” he gestured to the woman who held out her own ID and LAPD badge. “You record the true crime podcast ‘The Cold Case Collective?’”
“Umm,” he stammered. “Yeah, me and DJ. What’s this about, detectives?”
“Do you mind if we come in?”
“Do you have a warrant?” Trace replied instinctively.
Detective Allen smiled to himself, “No, we don’t. We’re cold case investigators. We just want to ask you some questions about your friend, DJ.”
“DJ?” Trace asked. “What’s up with DJ?”
“Well,” Simmons asked, “We’re not sure he is who he says he is. And if he is who he says he is, then we’ve got some bigger questions.”
“Look, Trace,” Allen said, “No one’s in trouble. We’re just trying to figure out something of a mystery.”
“Well, we were just about to record next week’s episode. DJ’s waiting–”
“He’s here?” Simmons asked in astonishment.
“What? No, we have each other up on webcam while we record locally. Seeing each other makes for a lot more natural interaction.”
“Do you know where he’s calling from?” Allen asked.
“His home studio.”
“Have you been there?” Simmons asked.
“No. He lives in LA. Pandemic, man, come on.”
“You guys have been recording The Cold Case Collective for more than a year now. You didn’t visit him before the pandemic?”
Trace shrugged. “No. Look, it’s not that odd. I’ve been doing various podcasts for years and it’s not unusual not to meet someone in real life. Sometimes it’s geography, sometimes it’s just a scheduling thing. We see each other when we’re recording and that works. Mutual friends introduced us.”
“You guys have built a decent following,” Simmons started, “You haven’t done any live shows or anything?”
“Like you said, it’s been a little over a year since we started. We’ve only really started getting recognition for the last six to eight months. And like I said: pandemic. No one’s doing live shows.”
“Hey Trace,” DJ’s voice came out of the monitors in the office. “Quit shagging the pizza dude and let’s get this show on the road!”
“I’ve got to go,” Trace said uncomfortably. “Look, I can put the stream up on the TV in here if you want to stick around until we’re done.”
Allen looked at Simmons and then said, “Sure, that’d be great.”
Trace led them inside his apartment, turned on the TV then used his phone as a remote to bring up a split screen with DJ looking impatient on one side of the screen and an empty mic – presumably Trace’s webcam. “I’ll be out as soon as we’re done.”
As he went back into the office and appeared in front of the webcam DJ quipped “You clean up quickly!”
“Heh, you think this is my first rodeo?”
“Giddy-up!” DJ said with a faux-southern accent. “Hit ‘record’ let’s start this shit!”
“Alright,” Trace said, “I’m recording…”
“Okay… me too,” DJ said. Then he affected his podcast voice and said, “Welcome to the Cold Case Collective!”
“That’s right, DJ, welcome to another episode where we look to thaw out a case that a police department has let go cold. I’m Trace Kehler…”
“…And I’m DJ Peterson, and, boy do we have a good one for you this evening.”
“You’re not lying, DJ. This case takes us to Saint Paul, Minnesota where police responded to a 9-1-1 call and found an apartment full of bodies and came away with a lot of questions and not a lot of answers.”
“First, though,” DJ said, “we need to thank our sponsor, Dreamy Mattresses who make the best foam mattress on the market…”
Watching from outside the closed door of the office, detective Simmons was struck at how odd just hearing the voices of these two men whose podcast she’d listened to for so many hours. She realized they’d put the music in during post production but it still struck getting to watch how the proverbial sausage was made.
…
“Thanks for joining us for another episode of the Cold Case Collective,” DJ wrapped up.
“We’ll be back next week with another case plucked from the crime fridge,” Trace said.
“Count on it… and… that’s a wrap. Do you want to go over ad copy for the post-roll?”
“I’m exhausted,” Trace yawned – a genuine yawn, Simmons thought. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, no worries. I’ll clean up my audio and get it uploaded for you. Want to call same time tomorrow?”
“Works for me,” Trace said. “I’ll talk to you then.”
“Cool, man. Get some rest,” and DJ’s screen went blank.
A moment later the office door opened, and Trace came out and sat in a loveseat opposite the detectives. “Okay, so what’s this about? You guys are cold case investigators?”
“Are you familiar with the deaths of the 2013 murder of the Peterson family in Los Angeles?”
“Yeah, DJ keeps pitching that one to cover.”
“And you haven’t” Allen asked.
“Nah,” Trace said. “There’s better cases. I mean, DJ literally brings it up every time and it’s kind of become like this joke – not that the case is a joke, but that he mentions it so often. I don’t know, we’ll likely get to it, we just haven’t yet. Why? Are you guys re-opening it?”
“So, you haven’t done any research on that case?” Simmons asked.
“No. I’ve got enough research, production work, and ad sales on my hands. Honestly, DJ does most of the preliminary work of finding cases and pitching them. Once we have a case we’ll both dig into it together, but I don’t have time to chase these down until then.”
“The husband, Daniel Peterson, his wife, Amelia Peterson, and their three kids, Simon, Taylor, and Eliot were killed in their house in San Fernando Valley.”
“Right,” Trace said, “Neighbor called it in when they noticed none of the cars had moved for a few days. I know the outline – like I said, it’s been pitched relentlessly.”
Simmons opened a leather folio and took out a picture. “Does the man in this picture look familiar?” She handed it to Trace. The picture was of a smiling couple.
“Yeah, that’s DJ. I don’t know the woman… ex?”
“You could say that,” Allen said.
“That’s Daniel and Amelia Peterson,” Simmons said.
“Wait, what? No, that’s DJ.”
“Daniel Jacob Peterson,” Simmons confirmed.
“What the hell?” Trace said. “You’re saying DJ is involved with those murders?”
Allen looked at Simmons and nodded. She sighed and took out another picture, started to pass it to Trace but stopped. “This one is pretty graphic,” she said.
Trace rolled his eyes, “I’ve seen my share of crime scene photos.” But when he looked at the picture he felt a rush of cold from his head to his feet and he wasn’t sure he could breath. The picture was classic crime-scene: bodies and blood on a floor in the living room of a house. But what chilled his blood was the man in pool of blood with the bullet hole in his forehead that stared sightlessly at the camera. “Jesus,” he said, “That’s DJ. What the fuck? He’s… dead there? But I just got off a call with him where me most certainly wasn’t dead.”
“Now you understand why we have questions?” Allen asked.
“Daniel Peterson did not leave that apartment on his own, so we want to know who is this DJ Peterson,” Simmons said. “Do you think you could get him back on the line?”
“I.. I…” Trace stammered. “…yeah, I think so.” He pulled out his phone and sent DJ a text asking, “You up? Chat?”
The response came back almost immediately: “Yeah, at the computer. Call when ready.”
“He’s there. I’ll go bring it up.” Trace stood up slowly, unsure of his own legs. He walked into the office, sat down, and brought up the video conferencing software and double-clicked the entry for DJ Peterson.
DJ’s smiling face filled the screen and all Trace could think of was the crime scene photo and the bullet hole in the forehead. DJ’s smile dropped immediately, “Whoa, Trace? Are you okay, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Yeah, man, I… shit…”
“What’s up?”
“DJ, that wasn’t the pizza guy earlier.”
“Who was it?”
“Guys?” Trace called to the detectives who crouched to get into the webcam image.
Allen showed his badge, “Daniel J. Peterson?”
DJ froze. Trace thought for a moment that the connection literally froze up, but he saw DJ blink and realized he was just speechless. Finally. “Yeah… yeah, that’s me.”
“The same Daniel Peterson who was married to Amelia Peterson?” Simmons asked.
“And who lost three beautiful children,” DJ added. “That’s me.”
“How…?” Trace asked.
“Trace, buddy… does it make more sense why I kept pitching the Peterson killings?”
“That’s your cold case,” Trace said through numb lips.
DJ nodded. “The one I want solved the most,” he said smiling sadly. The image cut to black as the video call disconnected.
