Manhattan Murders Podcast
I sit down in my large, leather office chair. It rolls ever so slightly on the plastic covering the carpet under the small wheels and the black desk. You know the covering I’m talking about. The ones you only see in offices and they leave small indentations in the carpet.
After a few seconds of assured silence in my office—which doubles as my studio—it’s time to start our new episode. With my mic placed just a few inches from my mouth, I look at Lee and silently ask, “You ready?” He gives me his universal signal of a thumbs up and pushes record.
“Hello, listeners,” I speak smoothly into the microphone.
“Yeah. Hey fuckers,” Lee chimes in. Both of us end the welcome in quiet laughter, but loud enough to be in tonight’s episode.
The listeners love that. It makes them feel like they’re listening to “real people,” not just some person doing it for the money.
Besides, the two of us already have enough.
We do it for the connection we have with other people who love true crime as much as we do.
You have to make sure you include your characteristics when running a podcast show.
Those are what people look for. It's the tiny details that matter.
“If you’ve never tuned in,” I continue in the same smooth tone, “you’re listening to the Manhattan Murders Podcast. I’m your host and escort through this spine-tingling adventure, Alan Jones.
And to my left, for you visual viewers, is the talented Lee Reynolds.
” I end the greeting by leaning back in my chair.
My arms instinctively fold across my chest. The creaking sound of the chair echoes in the mic.
“Hey, everybody,” Lee starts. “What kind of shit show do you have for us today, Alan?”
“Well, every episode is a shit show, I’d say. People don’t come here to listen about good times, my friend.” I incline closer to the mic when I talk.
“That’s true. Well, in that case, what kind of sick fuck will we be talking about then?” He mirrors my actions and moves closer to his mic. He leans his tattoo-covered arms against the desk. “The listeners and I want to know.”
“The sick fuck as you speak of is none other than David Berkowitz,” I answer with an ounce of humor added to my voice.
“The Son of Sam himself…” Lee adds, voice trailing off to create suspense.
“That’s right, my friend. The Son of Sam. Or as some people would call him, the .44 Caliber Killer.”
“He was a sick fuck.” Lee adds matter-of-factly. “Sick in the head, I mean.”
We continue bantering, which adds a certain finesse to the episode. People seem to eat that shit up.
You have me, the smooth talker type, and a bit more eloquent if you will.
I’m the one with the facts and information on the cases and the serial killers themselves.
While Lee, on the other hand, brings his “I don’t give a shit” attitude, which helps lighten the mood a little as we talk about what we- well, mostly I -are interested in.
If you haven’t gathered, it’s the “sick fucks” of Manhattan.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t quite have the ring to it that we needed.
So, we decided to stick with Manhattan Murders.
We try to stay within the lines of talking about true crime occurring in or around Manhattan.
Lee thought we needed to be specific, something that makes us stick out from everyone else.
I agreed since he usually knows what he is talking about when it comes to the media and what people gravitate towards.
After a small pause in the discussion of The Son of Sam, I take a large swig of my coffee from my dark gray colored mug sitting just a few inches to the left of the mic. It’s nothing special, just one of those plain mugs that cost way more money than they should.
“Alan, what are you drinking in that mug of yours?” Lee asks into his mic.
“What the hell do you think it is? It’s a coffee mug. I’m drinking coffee.”
“Coffee! Who the fuck drinks coffee on a Friday night?” Lee, the bastard, makes me laugh.
It’s not what he says, it’s how he delivers it.
He has a talent for enunciating specific words in the best comedic timing.
The sound of me spitting coffee out through my laughter will be on next week’s episode.
The listeners will love it. Maybe they’ll even laugh along with me.
“What about you, what are you drinking? You got something good in there?” I tease, already knowing what it is.
“Whiskey, because I’m not a little bitch.” He takes his glass and lifts it to his mouth. The little ice cubes clank in the glass as he sets it back down on the coaster on his desk. Another clip of my laughter is added to the episode.
“Not all of us are liquor connoisseurs," I answer again in the mic before taking another drink from my mug.
“For as long as you have known me, you should be by now.” Lee’s sipping sound sends the listeners a reverberating uniqueness into their headphones. “This guy and his fucking coffee.”
We continue the episode, adding more and more banter and facts about The Son of Sam.
Where he lived—right here in New York. What his home life was like—not the best, some would say.
Whether or not the voices in his head were demons or if he was just insane.
I would tell you that’s up to your own beliefs.
We usually add when the killers had their first kill, what drove them to do it, and when they were finally caught.
Just your generic timeline of events. What sets us apart from everyone else is that we add our twist to our version of a true crime podcast. We are real, and we aren't trying to be like every other serial killer documentary. We’re true crime enthusiasts, and we love diving deeper into the darker parts of New York City.
Only, we add in our charming personalities.
“Well, that’s all the time we have today, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll see you in next week’s episode.”
“You got any hints on who we’ll be talking about next week?” Lee asks with his glass up to his lips.
“Just know, he was one sick fuck.”
“Oh, another one of those?” Lee laughs and plays our show’s exit music. It’s a tune made up in one of his editing sessions.
“We’ve got to have our own thing. Something people will remember.” He’d said when we first decided to come up with the idea for The Manhattan Murders Podcast. I’ll give it to him, it' s pretty catchy. A lot of bass and a hint of unsettling Lofi ambiance.
Lee clicks the record button on the computer so it is no longer highlighted in red. We both gently lay our headphones on the black desks.
“What are you doing tonight? What kind of trouble are you and the ol’ lady getting into?
” The Ol’ lady he is referring to is my wife, Ashley.
I assume at this point she is sitting in the living room on the couch with her phone or her Kindle.
Most likely reading something full of sex, and something social media told her to read.
She could also be lazily lying down while texting her friends from her book club.
“It’s probably another night in for us.” The thought of going outside in the pouring rain and doing anything around people in a crowded restaurant or bar makes my skin crawl.
“You should let me take you out one of these days after we record. Just us guys,” he puts an exaggerated s at the end of the word guys.
“Yeah. Sure.” I nod. That’s the last fucking thing I want to do. The idea of being around drunk people I don’t know sounds like a terrible idea.
“Yeah. Sure,” he repeats. His eyes roll in disbelief.
“You know, Alan, there is more to life than serial killers and the documentaries made about them. I’m sure she won’t mind if I take you out.
” Honestly, I’m sure she wouldn’t. Whenever she is home, which is rare, might I add, she’s glued to her phone, Kindle or asleep.
Her charming husband isn’t on her list of activities .
“I’ve got to get ideas for next week’s episode, my friend.” I politely counter. “I’m sure she wouldn’t care if I went out. If she’s home and has her phone and that couch, she’s set.”
“Well, shit. She has all of that. Let’s go!
We just finished an episode. I’m sure you need a break from all of the psycho research.
” Lee grabs his black leather coat from the back of his seat, which is identical to mine.
He swings it around so that his tattooed arms can slide right into the silk-lined sleeves.
“Maybe another night.” The sound of the rain getting heavier hits the roof just at the right moment.
“I’m going to hold you to that, Alan.” He tips his glass back, leaving it empty aside from a few drops. I'm looking forward to it. I give him a small, upturned smile that I know he can see right through.
Without another word, he walks out of my studio and makes his way to the front door through my large living room. With nothing else to keep him here, Lee lets the door shut loudly behind him.
A few seconds later, I watch him climb into his black Mustang. From the large window in my living room, my mind fills with a small twinge of envy, focusing on how the light reflects from the street lamps and the raindrops enhance its pristine condition. Lucky son of a bitch.
He lives the single life of a thirty-two-year-old man.
The New York bachelor life, the mirrored image of the lifestyle of the hero you see in movies.
The same one that all men say they dream of.
He's a pretty good looking guy, business owner through his father’s inheritance, a ladies man by his account, and of course a co-owner of a podcast .
I shut my white curtains after I watch him—the feeling of covetousness worming its way into my chest—driving past a few houses.