Glancing at the officer’s name badge, Samantha asked, “Officer Hardy, did you discover the body?”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I was on patrol early this morning, up along Spring Garden Street, just across the interstate.” He pointed in the general direction of interstate behind them. “I patrol that area a lot. There’s a couple of homeless folks that I know up there. One of them—Roger, don’t know his last name—flagged me down this morning up on Spring Garden. Said he’d been down here about an hour before and saw the body. I guess that’s what you’d call it.” The officer paused momentarily to look over Samantha’s shoulder at the mummified body, and then continued, “Anyway, Roger said he wasn’t going to report it, but when he saw me coming up the street, he had a change of heart.”
“Do you know where we can find Roger? I’m going to need to talk to him,” Samantha said.
Officer Hardy shook his head. “I don’t know where he stays. I just see him on the streets occasionally.”
Samantha replied. “If you see him again, pick him up and bring him in.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Turning away from the officer, Samantha gave her full attention to the corpse and the surrounding crime scene. She knew that it would take a miracle for forensics to find any footprints on the hard asphalt surface beneath her feet. She peered at the body, which looked as if it had been resting on the ground in that very spot for centuries. There didn’t appear to be any signs of violence, although she wondered how one could tell on a body in this condition. Samantha was careful as she circled the corpse to not step on the four small white buttons lying on the ground where they had landed after popping their threads. The shirt was of particular interest to the detective as she once again knelt alongside the body. The front of the victim’s shirt had been neatly tucked in his pants, but the back had become untucked at some point, possibly when the body had slid down the wall during or after death. Samantha made a mental note to have forensics look for fiber traces on the brickwork above the corpse’s head.
She rose to her feet, and started to slowly move down the alley toward the river, scanning the ground carefully as she walked. Reaching the end of the alley, Samantha stood near the chain link fence, which served as a barrier along the edge of the pier. The fence was six feet high, and looked like it had seen far too many years of service. The posts were rust-covered, and even the chain links were heavily corroded with oxidation. Samantha examined the fence, looking from right to left as well as up and down. She didn’t know what, if anything, she was looking for, but she had learned long ago to look in even the remotest areas. In most circumstances her browsing, as her previous partner had called it, didn’t come up with anything. But sometimes she found something. This was one of those times. Along the top edge of the fence, Samantha’s eye caught sight of a small piece of cloth flapping gently in the morning breeze. It was only a small fragment, and she couldn’t be sure that it was related to the corpse in any way, but Samantha planned to send the forensics team down to do a thorough sweep of this end of the alley. She momentarily gazed through the links in the fence, and watched the dark waters of the Delaware River churn in the morning breeze. Samantha could hear the faint sound of the water crashing against the concrete pylons that supported the pier on which she stood.
Someone calling her name suddenly interrupted her thought process. She spun around to see her partner, Peter Thornton, waving to her from the other end of the alley. Retracing her steps, Samantha quickly headed back toward Peter.
“You wanted security footage? I’ve got security footage,” he said with a smile.
“That was fast,” Samantha remarked.
“The club owner is working in the office this morning. He’s waiting for us.”
_______________
With his clothing wrinkled, Jerry Rickett looked as if he had spent the night sleeping on the leather sofa in his office. Samantha noted that his hair looked as if he had tried in vain to remove any trace of his “bed head” look. The bags under his eyes gave away the fact that he had not gotten much sleep the night before. But, despite his condition, she was grateful for his cooperative attitude. There were few club owners in the city that would welcome the police into their facility, let alone share security footage with them.
“There’s thirty-four cameras in total set up around the club, both inside and out,” the club owner explained. “Everything’s recorded, and I mean everything, to a DVR. After a week, the oldest footage is erased to make room for new stuff.”
Peter said. “Thirty-four? That’s a lot of cameras.”
“I’m in a business where it’s best to protect yourself as much as possible,” Rickett explained. “When there’s two thousand people crammed into a building like Pulsar, anything can happen. That’s why I spared no expense when it came to the security system. Top of the line burglar alarm, security cameras, and even fire detection. If someone lights up a cigarette in the john, I’ll know about it.”
Leading the two detectives into a small office, Jerry Rickett flipped on the lights to reveal a large desk against the opposite wall. Hanging above the desk were thirty-four square computer monitors, each showing a different camera angle of the interior and exterior of Pulsar. Samantha could see the empty dance floor from at least a dozen different viewpoints. She caught sight of the cameras she had earlier identified in the alley, showing the arrival of the forensics team. She had to admit that it was an impressive arrangement. The owner of Pulsar hadn’t been lying when he said he had spared no expense.
“Everything’s time stamped. What time do you want to see?” asked Rickett.
“Not sure yet. Can we skip around without watching hours of footage?” Samantha inquired.
Jerry nodded. “I can jump to any time you want.”
Samantha thought for a second, and then replied, “Start by checking the top of each hour for the past twenty-four. Once we find the right hour, we can dig deeper.”
Jerry Rickett slid into the chair in front of the desk, and tapped on the keyboard. The screens went dark momentarily before they all began to play video in sync. The timestamp displayed on the screen was from the previous morning.
Peter pointed to the monitor displaying images from the camera in the rear of the alley. “No corpse.”
Jerry Rickett tapped again on the keyboard. “Ok. Next hour.”
This cycle continued as the club owner skipped the video footage ahead hour by hour. They caught a brief glimpse of a delivery truck arriving with the club’s alcohol order, the postman delivering Friday’s mail, employees arriving for work, and then patrons as they began to arrive the previous evening. But they had not yet seen a corpse appear in the alley. The alleyway had remained the one constant image throughout all thirty-four screens. No one seemed to give the alleyway even a second’s glance. However, when Jerry Rickett brought up the video for one in the morning, the persistent image changed. Suddenly, leaning against the wall was the mummified corpse, alone in the alleyway.
“There it is!” exclaimed Samantha. “Can you rewind back to the previous hour?”
Jerry Rickett tapped on the keyboard, and all of the screens began to show the midnight hour footage. They watched as the throng of people on the dance floor swayed to unheard music. The lights on the dance floor blinked and flashed, but were not anywhere near as impressive in the black and white security footage. The alleyway was still empty. The two detectives observed people approaching the bars, placing their orders, and walking away with their drinks. The alleyway remained empty. Then, at twelve forty, the security camera that covered the front of the club caught a couple staggering out of the building tightly clasped in each other’s arms. They paused outside the main club door, and embraced with their lips locked in a passionate kiss. The man in the video spun the woman around and gently pushed her back against the wall beside the door. They continued to kiss as his hands groped up the woman’s
tight dress. Lost in the heat of passion, the couple didn’t even notice as two other couples exited from the club.
Samantha was feeling uncomfortable watching the security footage, as if she were some kind of voyeur. The couple seemed oblivious to the fact that their every action was being videotaped. After a moment, a large bulky man stepped out of the club, and approached the couple.
“That’s Harry. He’s my doorman and bouncer,” explained the club owner.
The large man seemed to speak briefly to the couple, which moments later walked out of view of the camera. The bouncer turned and re-entered the club. But it wasn’t more than a few moments before the couple reappeared in the alleyway, apparently having felt that it was a safe place to continue their passionate activities. Samantha and Peter watched as the couple locked in another long passion-filled kiss. The brief interruption from the bouncer didn’t appear to have dulled any of their fire, as the man and woman groped and fondled each other with growing intensity. With sudden aggressiveness, the woman pushed the man back against the wall, kissing him deeply and lustfully. The video showed the woman’s hands reaching for the man’s shirt and tearing it open, exposing his bare chest. The two detectives watched as the woman’s hands roamed freely across the man’s chest in rampant passion. They kissed again as the woman’s hands slowly slid up his chest until they reached his neck. With one hand firmly planted on either side of the man’s nape, the woman arched her head back, and gazed up toward the sky.
Stunned speechless, they watched the video screen, as the man’s head jerked back suddenly in agonizing pain. Samantha gaped at the screen as she watched the man’s body writhe, contort, and shrivel away into nothing more than mummified remains. The video was far from perfect, but it was good enough to observe the skin shrink around his bones. Samantha could see the tightening of the man’s flesh on his flailing hands. It had been quick, but, even in the grainy black and white security footage, it was plain to see that it had been far from painless. When it was over, the woman guided the body down to the ground, and then, glancing to the right and the left, fled down the alleyway toward the river, disappearing from view.
The small room was silent for several minutes as the three occupants absorbed everything that they had just seen. Samantha suddenly realized that she had been holding her breath during the horrifying video, and she let out a long exhale. Jerry Rickett had slowly slumped down in his chair, staring in disbelief at the video monitor, while Peter remained motionless, in shock at what he had just witnessed.
Regaining her composure, Samantha said, “Mr. Rickett, I’ll need a copy of that video.”
“Uh, yeah,” he stammered.
“I’ll have one of the forensics team come in and get it from you,” she said.
Jerry Rickett slowly spun his chair around to face the two detectives. “Does this mean I can’t open the club tonight?”
Samantha replied, “I don’t know yet.”
Chapter Six
Stepping out of the elevator into the parking garage, Jack Allyn slid a pair of Oakley sunglasses onto his face and he walked to his motorcycle. He had just relinquished control of the WPLX studio to Ron Michaels after finishing his shift. After his night at Pulsar, Jack had returned to his apartment, and slept most of Saturday away, rising late in the afternoon. He had spent Saturday night in a small bar on South Street called the Philly Brewing Company. With its locally brewed beers, it had quickly become his favorite weekend haunt. Being a friend of the bar’s owner, Jack ended up remaining until well past closing time, playing five-card draw in the bar’s back room. Sunday had passed with Jack in deep slumber through most of the daylight hours. He was back in the WPLX studio Sunday night to start another week of overnight shifts.
With the first of his five nights on the air over, Jack was feeling hungry. As per his usual routine, he mounted his Harley Davidson, and headed to Monk’s Cafe on the corner of Broad Street and Washington Avenue. Jack once told Jason Spinacker that it would take an act of god to keep him from going to Monk’s Cafe for breakfast every morning after work. The small restaurant had two reputations throughout Philadelphia. On the one hand, it was known as dive, which had been closed on several occasions by the Philadelphia Health Department. On the other hand, it was reputed to serve the best breakfast in the city. Jack Allyn ate there every weekday morning.
He slid into his usual booth in the far corner and patiently waited. It was only a few moments before the young, petite waitress approached, giving Jack a wide smile. A red and white checked apron hung from her neck, covering her black denim jeans, and black t-shirt. Her hair was as black as tar, with a white streak down the left side.
“Howdy, Jack. You havin’ the usual?” she asked.
“Yeah, Meg. Hook me up. Extra crispy bacon this time,” he replied.
As Meg went off to arrange for his meal, Jack reclined in the booth, enjoying the peace and quiet that came with being the only patron in the restaurant. He knew it wouldn’t last long. Checking his watch, he calculated that he only had another five minutes of solitude before the breakfast rush started rolling in. As the first customer stepped through the door, Meg returned carrying a large white plate with two eggs sunny side up, crispy bacon, hash browned potatoes, and two pieces of white toast. The mixture of aromas was heaven to his nostrils, and reminded Jack of just how hungry he was.
Eating slowly, Jack watched as people came and left Monk’s Cafe; some stayed to eat, while others got something to go. Despite its reputation, the little restaurant had a good breakfast clientele that were regular as clockwork. Jack recognized many faces; some even recognized him. It was as if they were all part of a secret club, and Monk’s Cafe was their secret handshake. With the occasional nod of his head, Jack would exchange a quick greeting to the nameless faces that were daily visitors.
It was close to nine in the morning when Jack paid his bill and strolled out into the March sunlight that bathed Broad Street in springtime warmth. He slid into the seat of his motorcycle, perched his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, and hit the starter. The engine ignited with a loud rumble, and Jack sped off up Broad Street. As he made his way through the streets of Philadelphia, Jack was forced to admit that he could be in worse situations. He had a job in the field of his choosing. He was making decent money. It wasn’t as much as he once made, but it was enough for him to live comfortably. Granted, he worked at a station that played a music format that he despised, but at least he was still in broadcasting. He had known a few radio personalities in his time that had been drummed out of the business for saying far less on the air than what he had said. Ever since Nipplegate, when Janet Jackson exposed her breast during the Super Bowl, the Federal Communications Commission had been cracking down hard on broadcast obscenity. Many television and radio stations simply wouldn’t be willing to take the chance on someone who already had made a mistake. He ended up being lucky in the long run.
His mind wandered to his early days in broadcasting, as it often did during his morning ride home. He could still see her face, and almost imagine she was riding on the back of the motorcycle, her arms wrapped around his waist. Jack still carried her photograph in his wallet, even after all these years. He wondered if things would have been different . . . if only he hadn’t—
His thought, however, was interrupted as a maroon Ford Focus pulled out in front of him, causing Jack to slam on his brakes and skid to a halt. As the car sped away, Jack raised his middle finger as high as he could as he shouted a long line of disparaging words in the direction of the departing driver. Moving on, Jack thought, I hate this city.
Outside his work at WPLX and Pulsar, Jack Allyn had only one guilty pleasure. It was the one thing on which he would allow himself to spend big. Every few weeks, he would trek into Center City to indulge in his passion. The bell overhead jangled as Jack pushed open the door to his favorite comic book shop, Den of Heroes. For Jack, comic books weren’t for reading,
and he wasn’t one to simply buy any comic book off the shelf. He was a collector of rare comic books. His collection had grown significantly over the past ten years, but he rarely read the comic books that he collected. He’d sealed them in plastic and stored them away. Jack had invested a good deal of money over the years, but he had seen some of his collection show decent growth in value. Among others, Jack had been lucky to get his hands on a mint copy of the issue of Amazing Fantasy in which Spider-Man had originally been introduced to the world. He had bought it for ten thousand dollars nine years’ prior, which, at the time, his friends said was crazy. But, the last time he had checked, it had more than tripled in value. He also had a copy of the first Fantastic Four comic book from 1961, which was worth an easy five figures. However, most of his collection was worth far less but, like most investments, Jack knew it took time.
The small comic book shop was brightly lit, with three long tables spanning from one wall to the other. Lined up along the tables were rows of cardboard boxes, each stuffed with comic books. Hanging from the ceiling were large replicas of spaceships from various science fiction films and television programs. Most of them Jack didn’t recognize, but he knew some of them as spacecraft from Star Trek, Star Wars, and he even recognized the blue police box from Doctor Who. To the left of the door was a glass display case, which ran along the wall. In it were various sized figurines of comic book superheroes, alien monsters, and film and television characters.
Jack paid no attention to the comic books in the boxes. His interest was in the far end of the glass display case. That was where the more valuable comic books were kept, and Jack made it a point of stopping in every so often to see if anything new had arrived in the shop. Behind the glass display case stood a young man in his mid-twenties, with wavy brown hair on either side of his square face. Bryan Salisbury broke the mold of what Jack had always thought a comic book storeowner should look like. Bryan’s physique was trim and muscular, and he was always well dressed. He had bright, intelligent-looking eyes and, although his jaw held some prominence on his face, Bryan was a good-looking man by all standards. It was a far cry from what Jack had been accustomed to with comic book shops in the past.
Sirens in the Night Page 5