Script #21 July 18th The Day Bobby Spoke

On a sweltering summer night, a skeptical medium agrees to one final séance for an elderly man who has been searching for answers since 1966.

What begins as routine theater quickly turns unsettling when a name appears on the board—and a voice from the past refuses to stay silent. What follows is the story of a brilliant young rock & roll talent, his meteoric rise in the 1960s, and the strange, disputed circumstances surrounding his death.

From homemade echo chambers and chart success to shadowy industry figures, mob rumors, and unanswered questions, this episode traces both the life and the mystery left behind.

Was it an accident?
Suicide?
Or something far darker?

This is Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast—where music history meets the silence between the notes.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production

DISCLAIMER: This podcast contains discussions of sensitive topics...Listener discretion is strongly advised. While the stories you’ll hear are rooted in real events, not every detail is strictly historical—some moments are dramatized with creative license to bring the narrative to life. Please keep this in mind as you listen.

Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.

Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
And welcome in. I'm Johnny Hartwell and this is Johnny's
Dead Air Podcast, a production of iHeartRadio. I'm going to
tell you something that could ruin my reputation. That's kind
of funny because my reputation was never built on honesty
to begin with my name. It really doesn't matter. If

(00:20):
you've ever paid someone to contact the other side, you've
probably met a version of me, a calm boys and
dim lights and meaningful pauses, and of course the little
details I couldn't possibly know. In truth, I wasn't speaking
to the dead. I was speaking to the living. People
grieving will tell you everything if you let them. They

(00:41):
want answers, they want forgiveness, they want to know their
loved ones didn't die alone. I learned the tricks, cold
readings and body language, patterns of speech, and yes, Ouiji boards.
I didn't think there was anything on the other side
until one night a few years back it came looking
for a man named Randy, and the truth buried for

(01:02):
nearly sixty years. Before we get to that, let me
start where it really began, with me, with a lie
and with the last seance I ever performed. This is
strip twenty one July eighteenth, the day Bobby spoke Act one.
You need to understand the kind of life I lived.

(01:24):
Back then. I rented a narrow, tired little space, wedged
in between a nail salon and a vape shop and
a strip mall. I painted the walls a deep, theatrical purple,
hung cheap velvet curtains over the front window. It always
smelled like incense. My table was round, scarred and older
than I was. A flea market fine, but I told
people it had seen generations of spiritual work. In reality,

(01:48):
it had seen generations of spilled beer and cigarettes. But
in dim light everything could look sacred. You learn fast.
In my line of work. People don't come because they
believe in ghosts. They come because they can't stay and
not knowing. Was he in pain? Does she forgive me?
Did he suffer? Is she happy now? So? I just
gave answers. I had tricks, scripts, certain phrases that worked

(02:11):
on almost everyone. He wants you to know he's at
peace now, she says, stop blaming yourself. He keeps showing
me a chair by a window. Does that mean something
to you? It always did. I used wigee boards before. Sure,
not the toy store kind not anymore. I had one
custom made by a guy who burned the letters into

(02:31):
an old piece of oak and stained it with something
that smelled like, I don't know, pine and regret look
great on Instagram. Gotta admit gave people chills. What they
didn't know was that the plant sheet, the little pointer thing,
had felt pads on the bottom with just enough friction
that if I pressed my fingertips on it just so,
I could guide it without anyone ever seeing my muscles move.

(02:55):
So when they came to me in grief and they
wanted to see the plant sheet slide to yes, I
gave him yes, and I slept at night, usually until
the first time I saw him him. It was late
a Tuesday. I had just finished with a client, a
woman whose son had overdosed. She left mascara tracks on

(03:17):
her cheeks and three folded twenties on my table. So
I blew out the candle straight in the board and
reached from my jacket. When I felt it, a sudden
pressure in the room, like the air had thickened. You
know the sensation when you walk into her room and
someone's been arguing and you can feel the left over
anger in the walls. It was like that, but sharper.

(03:40):
It smelled like hot asphalt, like the inside of a
closed car in July, and underneath it a faint smell
of gasoline. I told myself it was just my imagination.
I was tired, hungry, the incense was getting to me,
so I locked up, went home and forgot about it,

(04:01):
or tried to. Two weeks later, the sensation came back,
the same sudden heaviness in the air, the same smell,
just for a moment, enough to make the hairs on
my forearms stand up. I just kind of shook it
off again. Then one evening, as I was tallying receipts,
I saw a shadow move across the wall where nothing

(04:21):
could have cast it. The shape was lean, narrow shouldered, hair,
a wild mess. I blinked and it was gone. I
told myself that it was a city bus passing outside,
or a truck of light. I told myself a lot
of reasonable things. And then one muggy evening in late July,
he walked in. No, not the shadow, the man who

(04:42):
was chasing that shadow for over sixty years. His name
was Randy, and with him a man John Act too.
They came in just before closing. Randy and say about
eighty something, small, wiry eyes, sharp as nails. John mid fifties, nervous,
the kind, and a man who carries someone else's sadness.

(05:02):
You'd a medium, Randy asked, most days? I said, he
sat without waiting to be invited. I ain't telling you
his name, not yet. If you get it right, we'll
keep talking. This about a loved one, I asked my brother.
Randy said, died young, real young. I want to know
what really happened. John leaned in. He's been coming to

(05:24):
mediums for decades, every July eighteenth, every year going back
into the sixties. That date July eighteenth. I didn't know
its weight yet. As we talked, the air started to change,
not metaphorically, I mean literally, the room felt a fraction
warmer too, like the ac had was on the fritz.
And there was that smell again, faint distant, like it

(05:46):
was coming through a wall, hot metal, old upholstery, and
that smell, that smell of gasoline. All right, let's do this.
We placed our fingertips on the plant chet and me,
Randy and John take a deep breath. I said, my
usual script, returning like muscle memory. We welcome any peaceful,

(06:07):
loving spirits who wished to communicate. We ask for clarity, honesty,
and protection. If you are present, if you have waited
all these years to speak to your brother, give us
a sign. I added the tinest bit of pressure on
my fingers, ready to guide the planchet to guess and boop.
It moved fast. We all flinched. Hey, John said, sharply,

(06:30):
looking at me. I didn't, I started. Randy's eyes narrowed.
You felt that, he said to John, Yeah, John said,
His voice dropped. Wow. I forced to laugh. Randy goes
ask him his name, spirit, I said, cautiously, please spell
your name. The pointers started to move slowly, deliberately, b

(06:56):
oh B. Planchet moved around the board again and landed
on B again. Then why, Randy choked up. Oh my god, Bobby,
is that you? The room tightened. He pulsed through the wall.
Something brushed the back of my neck. I squeezed my
eyes shut, and when I opened them, John John was

(07:16):
staring at me with a strange expression. His eyes rolled
in the back of his head. He slowly turned to
the older man and whispered. Whispered in a voice it
wasn't fully hises, Randy, it's me. Act three next Act three,

(07:49):
es Randy, it's me. Once hearing the voice that came
out of John, Randy and I instinctively took our hands
off the planet. Yet John's hand wasn't touching anything. Yet
he seemed to be controlling the plant chet with the
wave of his hand. It circled the board like it
was pacing spirit. I asked, tell us something only the

(08:11):
family would know. John's hand stopped. Suddenly the plant shad obeyed.
John's eyes remained white, nothing else. Then the pupils were
turned looking at me, more like looking through me, dark
haunting eyes. Without anyone touching the plant chet, it spelled
m U s I see. Then the voice came out

(08:37):
of John once again, sick music. I was so confused.
The board continued to spell sing, then record hit than car.
My chest tightened. This wasn't vague, it was very specific.
Then the full name came and it was violent and unstoppable.

(08:58):
F you F L L E R. Then the ghostly
voice returned. I was born Robert Gaston Fuller. Randy covered
his mouth started to sob tears, rolling Bobby, it's you,
it's really you. The candles bent like something walked past them,

(09:22):
the heat in the room climbed, and then the voice returned.
I didn't die the way they said I did at
four next at four. Now, before I go any further,

(09:46):
I need to tell you something that I didn't know
that night. I didn't know who Bobby Fuller was, not
until the next morning when I typed his name into
the search bar. And so let me catch you up,
because knowing who Bobby was makes what happened even even
stranger now. Bobby Fuller was born in nineteen forty two
and was the kind of kid who didn't just play music,

(10:06):
he engineered it. He grew up in El Paso, Texas,
sun scorched dust blown miles from any Polish studios in
Los Angeles. But the kid had ambition. While other teenagers
were messing around on cheap guitars, Bobby built a full
recording operation in his parents' home. He installed an echo
chamber in his backyard, created homemade reverb plates, and obsessed

(10:28):
with every take. Buddy Holly wasn't just an influence, he
was practically a blueprint. You could hear it in every
early demo that Clean tex mex punch, the clarity that
relentless energy. Bobby's band, the Bobby Fuller four, which included
his brother Randy, started as neighborhood kids trying to keep
up with his perfectionism. But as Bobby got tighter, so

(10:50):
did they. He wasn't just good, he was something special.
By nineteen sixty four sixty five, he wasn't a garage
kid anymore. He was a force, and El Paso couldn't
contain him. The regional radio scene started buzzing, but with
that rise came attention, not all of it friendly talent.

(11:10):
Scouts sniffed around, Producers circled. And that's the part that
hit me hardest when I learned, because it matched the
energy I felt in that seance. There was always someone
around Bobby, watching, listening, evaluating he had something they wanted
before he ever knew what he had. Then came the breakthrough,
the hit that pushed everything into orbit. In nineteen sixty five,

(11:34):
Bobby released a cover of a Buddy Holly related track
written by Sonny Curtis. I fought the law, and the
law won. He didn't just cover it, he mastered it,
made it his own. His version was tighter, sharper, rebellious
in a way the original never quite managed. Radio loved it,
teenagers loved it, and labels loved it too. Suddenly the

(11:56):
Bobby Fuller four was all over La doing ta shows,
playing packed clubs, and recording at a break neck pace.
Bobby was young, driven, and absolutely poised for a long,
successful career. People who saw him live said he had
a movie star confidence, a stage presence you could bottle
and sell. He was going to be huge. Everyone knew it.

(12:18):
And then Bobby signed with Bob Keen, and this is
where the story darkens. Keen was a talented producer, no doubt.
He helped discover Richie Vallens and understood youth energy and
early rock and roll. But Keene had another side. He
was tied to men like Morris Levy, a name whispered
with caution in music circles. If you know music history,

(12:40):
that name carries weight. Levy wasn't just a record executive.
He had ties, deep ties to organized crime. And then,
on July eighteenth, nineteen sixty six, Bobby Fuller was found
in his car, doused in gasoline, bruised dead. Police called

(13:01):
it suicide or accident or misadventure, but the inconsistencies were glaring,
and the rumors never stopped. So now that you know
who Bobby was, the life he lived, the death he suffered,
and the shadows behind his rise, Let's get back to
that seance because Bobby wasn't done talking, and we'll get

(13:26):
to that next and Act five. Act five, the candles
flickered violently. When we placed our hands back on the board,
the room felt thinner, like the wall between worlds had
begun to peel. Randy leaned in, Bobby, did you take

(13:47):
your own life? The planchet moved to know did someone
hurt you? The pointer then moved slowly to the part
of the ouiji bar where it said yes. Randy's voice shook.
Were they from the label? John's posture became upright once again,
his eyes rolled in the back of his head, his

(14:07):
chest spasm as if he was about the vomit. Bobby's
haunted voice returned. I then whispered, Bobby, did you try
to leave? Yes? I tried. A gust of heat rolled
through the room. Randy steadied himself, what happened? What happened

(14:29):
that night? Bobby came late? Had my nore no time?
I asked, did they take you somewhere. The plan chat
moved a yes. Did you know them? Some of them

(14:52):
not all. John's head started to shake as if he
was in pain. His lips parted, hands heat car help.
Randy's face fell into his hands. Were you alive when
they put you in? It was a long pause. The

(15:14):
plan chef moved to yes. Then John whispered again, do
what wanted out? They wanted more? Who? Bobby? Who wanted more? Keen?
Suddenly the heat in the room became unbearable. The flames

(15:35):
on the candles row six or seven inches above the candles.
The plan chef became frenzied, moving to letters, then numbers,
then letters again, almost randomly, too quick for us to understand.
And then all of a sudden we heard it. I
was worth more dead than alive. And Randy knew it
was at insurance policy, Keene's insurance policy. Wasn't Bobby? Wasn't it?

(15:57):
The second he finished his words, all of a sudd
all the candles were doused, plunging us into darkness. The
room suddenly felt impossibly light. I turned on the lights
and there it was. The planchette added one final message.
It rested on goodbye John blinked, confused, as if he

(16:20):
was waking from a long fever dream. Wo what just happened?
Randy rose slowly, trembling but steadier than before. He placed
a hand on John's shoulder. It's okay, he whispered, you.
You did good, You did really good. They didn't say
much more. They didn't need to. The room felt emptied,

(16:44):
peaceful in the saddest way possible. Whatever Bobby Fuller had
been holding on for these fifty plus years, he let
go of just enough, and for Randy, that was everything.
Randy placed a roll of bills on the table. He left, quickly,
walking out into the summer darkness, as if carrying something

(17:05):
fragile between them and I. I just sat alone with
that board, waited for the room to feel normal again
in it, and never did never, never did. I sat
alone until the candles burned down to nothing. Act six

(17:27):
the epilogue. Next, Act six, the epilogue. You know, I
can't tell you that what happened in that room was
the god honest truth. I can't tell you that Bobby
Fuller really spoke through a man named John. I can't
tell you that the Ouiji board wasn't guided by nerves.

(17:48):
I can't tell you that mobsters or recordmen or anyone
tied to Morris Levy had anything to do with Bobby's death.
But I can tell you this, Bob Keene did cash
in and eight hundred thousand dollars insurance policy on Bobby.
Now that's worth eight million dollars in today's money. Now
people have argued every ankle suicide and accident, murder, bad

(18:11):
police work, mob retaliation, insurance fraud. All I can tell
you is what happened to me on that day. I
know what I believe, and it was enough to make
me quit the medium game for a good. The Bobby's
music it lived, it still lives, every riff, every sunburned
cord of that boy from El Paso who fought the

(18:33):
law and lost far more than anyone ever deserved. And
I'll leave you with this. If you ever find yourself
sitting in front of a Ouiji board on December eighteenth
on a breathless, hot, heavy summer night, and you catch
a faint smell of gasoline drifting from the dark, just no,

(18:54):
you wouldn't be the first. I hope you enjoy. Script
twenty one July eighteenth, the day Bobby spoke. This has
been Johnny's Dead Air podcast. I'm Johnny Heartwell, thank you
so much for listening.