Sirens in the Night

by Bradley, Michael;

  The long hot shower washed the sleep from his eyes and brought him back to life. The hot water flowed down his naked body, burning at first, but then soothing not only his body but also his mind. He lingered under the showerhead longer than usual, savoring each drop of scalding water. Deciding not to shave, Jack left two days’ worth of stubble on his chin, dressed, and then headed out for his usual Sunday evening dinner.

  Before heading to the elevator, Jack made a quick stop at apartment 4C, giving a quick rap on the door with his knuckles, and waited. After a few minutes, he knocked a little harder. There was still no reply. Assuming that Jason was out on the town, Jack shrugged his shoulders and moved toward the elevator. As he listened to the rattle of the elevator cage rising from below, Jack felt a slight uneasiness. It was unusual for Jason to not be at home on Sunday evenings. Must have been a damn good weekend, thought Jack.

  Walking the two blocks to Geno’s Pizza on South Street, Jack hovered outside the door for a few moments. The malfunctioning sign above his head had lost two more letters, and now read “no’ Pizza”. His eyes drifted down South Street, watching the anonymous faces of those who ventured along the street that evening. There were millions of people living in the city of Philadelphia, and he wondered if any of them knew his name. There had been a time, while he was in Dallas, when he couldn’t walk down a city street without someone recognizing him. After all, the radio station he worked for at the time had plastered the listening area with his face on a hundred billboards. Now, the only people who knew who he was were those to whom he had introduced himself. He had become just another anonymous face on the street. He glanced at the door of Geno’s Pizza and decided that he wanted something different tonight. Change is good, he thought, even if it is just a little one.

  Finding an open booth in a Greek restaurant called The Acropolis Bistro, Jack ordered a lamb gyro with chips and a cup of coffee. He sat quietly while waiting for his meal, feeling a mild pang of guilt over his decision to eat somewhere other than Geno’s Pizza. He had been eating there every evening before work for the past nine months, and he felt as if he were now committing adultery by partaking somewhere else. The restaurant was small, with only ten round bistro-style tables, each covered with a red and white checkered tablecloth and a single lit candle in the center. Three of the tables were occupied, one with a young couple, and the other two by solitary individuals like himself. Photos of Greek landmarks such as the Delphi Theatre, the Temple of Zeus, and the bistro’s namesake, the Acropolis of Athens, hung along the walls in a fruitless attempt to instill some sense of connection between the little bistro in Philadelphia and the romantic beauty of ancient Greece. Beyond a brown paneled counter was the kitchen with steam rising from the grill, and the sound of clanging pots and pans echoing out into the dining area. Hanging from the ceiling to the right of the counter was small flat screen television, which was airing another Sunday night drama that Jack didn’t recognize. Working the shift that he did made it difficult to keep up with prime time television, so he had given up trying.

  As he dined on his meal, Jack watched as people entered the small bistro, picked up their orders, and left. Two young men with jet-black hair and pale faces entered the bistro, both wearing black leather trench coats, and sporting multiple lip, nose, and ear piercings. They picked up their takeout order without saying more than three words to the older man behind the counter. Then an elderly man, with a receding hairline and a single bushy eyebrow that covered both eyes, entered to retrieve his takeout order. Moments later, three teenage girls wandered in, placed a takeout order, and hovered around the counter waiting for it to be prepared. If nothing else, Jack thought, they have a good takeout business.

  Jack had just finished his gyro when he looked up at the television. The local ABC news had come on, and Jack was mesmerized by the caption on the screen. Unable to hear the audio, Jack could only see the news anchor with a caption that read “Attempted Murder at Nightclub”. The image switched to another reporter, apparently at the location of the attempted murder. His eyes widened as Jack recognized the background behind the reporter. It was the parking garage next to Pulsar. Frustrated that he couldn’t hear anything that the reporter was saying, Jack simply stared at the screen; his eyes took in every image until the newscast flashed a photo of, he assumed, the victim.

  “Shit!” he muttered quietly.

  _______________

  Jack arrived at the studios of WPLX at eleven fifty, which was far later than normal. Scott Anderson, a local college student who worked Sunday evenings part-time, was in a state of panic when Jack walked into the studio.

  “Damn it, Jack!” exclaimed Scott. “I was getting worried you weren’t gonna show up.”

  Jack didn’t like Scott Anderson. He hadn’t liked him since the first night he had met Scott. There was simply something about the nineteen-year-old that rubbed Jack the wrong way. He couldn’t be sure if it was his overly perfectionist attitude, or the way that Scott blew everything out of proportion. Whatever it was, Jack simply didn’t care for Scott Anderson at all. Jack knew that, as an experienced radio personality, he had a lot to offer Scott in the way of guidance, mentoring, and helpful advice. But mentoring had never been his forte. The tall college student looked emaciated and malnourished. He’s thinner than most bulimic swimsuit models, Jack had thought when he had first met Scott. A bony face, black horn-rimmed glasses, and neatly trimmed sandy hair projected a studious and conscientious image, which Jack simply couldn’t stand. Scott’s overblown sense of concern over his supposed tardiness merely fanned the flames of Jack’s disdain. Dropping his headphones down on the counter, Jack laughed. “Scott, I’ve told you before. If I’m not going to make it, I’ll call you.”

  The nineteen-year-old grimaced. “Dude, what if you couldn’t get to a phone?”

  Jack frowned at the young man’s words. He couldn’t remember the last time he called someone “dude”, but, to his dismay, the word was apparently making a comeback. “Scott, I’m here now. There’s no need to panic.”

  “I was just gettin’ worried . . . I’ve got a big exam tomorrow, and couldn’t stay late tonight. If you hadn’t shown up, I don’t know what I’d have done,” said an exasperated Scott, as he stepped away from the console.

  Jack plugged his headphones into the console, adjusted the chair to his preferred height, and, deciding to change the subject, asked, “Any idea what happened at Pulsar this weekend? I just saw it on the news, but couldn’t hear the details.”

  Scott ran his hand over his short hair. “Dude, you don’t know? Some guy was attacked in the parking garage next to the club. They got him over at Philly General, and he’s not in too good of shape. Some young couple saw the whole thing and chased away the attacker.”

  “Hmm,” was all Jack said in reply.

  Scott rested both hands on the counter and leaned forward. “It happened Friday night! Dude, it could’ve been you in that garage. You need to watch yourself. They’ve been showing the victim’s picture all weekend on TV.” He paused, and then, wide eyed, leaned toward Jack. “Hey, you were there Friday night! You probably saw the guy! Dude, you might be a witness and not even know it!”

  Gritting his teeth, Jack had counted three “dudes” in less than a single minute. He figured one more would be enough to grate his last nerve.

  Jack shook his head, and then lied. “No, I can’t see anything from up in the booth.”

  Scott stood back up, and shrugged. “That sucks.”

  When Scott had left the studio, Jack leaned back in his chair, and thought long and hard about Friday night. He had instantly recognized the face of the victim when it was displayed during the newscast early in the evening. He would know that face anywhere, not because it was a remarkable face by any stretch on the imagination, but because of his dancing partner. He vividly remembered the dirty dancing couple from Friday night, and the victim’s face belonged to the man dancing
with the blonde woman. The question now weaving its way around in his mind was what to do with his knowledge. There was no way to know for sure that he knew anything other than what the police already did. And, really, what did he know? He knew that the victim was getting all hot and bothered on the dance floor on Friday night with a beautiful woman. He knew that they left together in what appeared to be a sexually charged hurry, with destination unknown. He could probably provide a description of the woman, but that was all he knew. Was it worth bothering the police with that minute amount of information?

  _______________

  The night had gone slower than he would have liked. He wasn’t sure if it was an overabundance of slow love songs, or “dreaded love mush” as he often called it, or just his overwhelming boredom with his job. Either way, Jack felt like his shift had lasted decades, instead of six hours. Ron Michaels was in a foul mood when he arrived, and did nothing but complain about everything from the lousy coffee that he got earlier that morning from his local 7-11, to the smell of the studio. After some further prodding, Jack discovered that Dana had called out sick that morning, meaning that Ron had to fetch his own doughnuts.

  “Jack, consider yourself lucky. You’ve got a shift all to yourself. You don’t have to share the spotlight with anyone,” Ron said. “You have no idea what it’s like to work with Dana. She’s not been the same since management started paying her to be on MY show. Do you know, she actually refused to go get coffee and doughnuts one day last week? Downright refused!”

  Out loud, Jack merely said, “I’m sorry to hear that.” Yet in his mind, he thought, Serves you right, you fat bastard!

  “I heard there was some more trouble down at your little club this weekend,” said Ron.

  Standing by the door of the studio, Jack replied, “Yep. I heard that too. But, not my club, not my problem.”

  Before Ron could reply, Jack pulled the studio door opened and exited with his headphones in one hand and his coffee cup in the other.

  _______________

  Two hours later, Jack parked his motorcycle in the small parking garage attached to his apartment building. There had not been any production work waiting for him after his shift, so he left the WPLX offices earlier than usual. Breakfast was served in his usual corner booth at Monk’s Cafe, where Meg, knowing Jack’s connection with the club, inquired about the attempted murder at Pulsar.

  “I heard some guy got jumped in the parking garage. This city’s goin’ straight into the shitter if one can’t go clubbing without getting clubbed!” she had said.

  Jack gave a half-hearted laugh, telling her to keep her day job. The usual Monday morning crowd made their way through the small restaurant and Jack, having finished his breakfast, slipped out quietly, giving Meg a quick wave as he exited.

  Everyone seemed to be talking about this attempted murder, and Jack was getting irritated by the fact that they all felt like he should know all the gory details. Just because he worked there didn’t mean he kept up on the activities of all the club’s patrons. If a man wanted to wander out of the club with a woman, and then let her beat him up, who was Jack to say no?

  _______________

  As the elevator halted on the fourth floor, Jack pulled the old grate door aside and stepped out into what he expected to be an empty hallway. His expectation was shattered when he found three uniformed police officers standing outside of the open door to apartment 4C, Jason’s apartment. The officers, who had been talking amongst themselves, had become silent when the elevator doors opened. Jack slowly approached his own apartment door, aware of the fact that three sets of eyes were watching him intently. Sliding the key into the lock, Jack turned the doorknob, and pushed the door open. He felt a faint chill overcome his body as he entered his apartment and pushed the door closed. Leaning back against the wall, Jack was silent as his mind raced through the various reasons the police might be in Jason’s apartment. Jack knew that his friend periodically dabbled with marijuana, and Jason had more than once bragged about the occasional bit of insider trading, but none of that ever amounted to much.

  He hadn’t seen Jason all weekend, and began to wonder if his friend had been in an accident. Jack couldn’t help but snicker at the thought. He could remember Jason’s frequent jokes about getting so drunk that he needed one of those home medical alert systems because he had “fallen and couldn’t get up”. But then Jack frowned at the thought that Jason may actually be hurt.

  Turning the knob on the door, Jack returned to the hallway. The three police officers turned toward him as he approached. Two of the officers were wearing pale blue uniform shirts, and looked like young, fresh members of the Philadelphia Police force. The third officer, wearing a white shirt, was older with a level of policing experience that showed in his round face.

  “Can I help you?” asked the older officer.

  Jack glanced at the officer’s nametag. “Captain Reynolds, I just wanted to check on my friend.”

  Putting his hand forward to block Jack’s progress, the captain replied, “I’m sorry, sir. This is an active crime scene. I can’t let you go any further.”

  Jack was shocked. “Crime scene? What the hell are you talking about? What’s happened?”

  Captain Reynolds frowned at Jack. “I’m not at liberty to discuss details with you.”

  Getting frustrated, Jack replied, “Can you at least tell Jason that I’m out here?”

  “Are you acquainted with the deceased?” the captain said, only to regret his slip of the tongue moments later.

  “Deceased?” exclaimed Jack.

  To the surprise of not only the police officers, but also Jack himself, he charged past the three sentries, sweeping aside their flailing arms. Without thinking, he dashed through the door of apartment 4C, and stumbled past a man and a woman into the living room. He abruptly halted when he saw the corpse sitting on the vintage Chesterfield leather sofa centered along the wall. Jack could barely hear the shouting voices behind him, and he hardly felt the rough hands grabbing at his shoulders and arms. He could only focus on what was sitting before him.

  The sofa had been a prized piece of furniture in Jason’s apartment. Jack knew that his friend had paid several thousand for it, and it looked worth every bit. The dark brown leather had a distressed, understated look to it that made the sofa seem luxurious. Jack could find no words to describe what sat atop the supple leather cushions of the Chesterfield sofa. He might have called it a corpse, but he had always assumed that the word corpse was reserved for those that were recently deceased. This looked more like something he might find in a museum, or freshly exhumed from a grave. The skin of the body was almost as brown as that of the leather sofa, and had an uncanny similarity in texture as well. The eyes were fixed in a wild stare that Jack could only have imagined in his worst nightmares. Long, bony fingers rested, palms up, on either side of the body. The face had sunken in around the skull, and white teeth gleamed from the parched and cracked lips. The pink polo shirt and acid washed jeans were the only things that provided Jack with proof to the identity of the corpse lounging on the sofa.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Wednesday morning sun reflected brightly off the chrome handlebars of the Harley Davidson as Jack Allyn leaned into a left turn onto Walnut Street as he headed into Center City. For the first time since being at WPLX, Jack had taken a few days off, stating that he required some time to get over the shock of his friend’s sudden death. Monday had quickly become a blur as he spent most of the day being questioned by the police. The man and woman who had been in Jason’s apartment at the time of his entrance had been quickly identified as Philadelphia homicide detectives. Jack vividly remembered being manhandled out of Jason’s apartment, and cuffed in the hallway by the three uniformed officers. Jason’s death had hit Jack harder than he would have expected. He spent the first fifteen minutes shifting between sobbing, hyperventilating, and nausea, as well as vom
iting twice while sitting on the floor of the hallway.

  When Jack had calmed down, the trim, auburn haired detective knelt beside him and introduced herself. Her partner, the tall, dark-skinned man, stood behind her with his hands on his hips.

  “I’m Detective Samantha Ballard.” She had glanced at his wallet, which one of the uniformed officers had wrestled out of Jack’s back pocket. “Mr. Allyn. Jack. I know you’ve had a shock. Have you recovered enough to answer a few questions?”

  Lifting his cuffed wrists into the air, Jack had replied, “If you’ll take these bracelets off . . .”

  With a gesture of her hand, Samantha Ballard had signaled for her partner to remove the handcuffs. As the detective inserted the small key into each cuff, Samantha provided an introduction.

  “This is my partner, Peter Thornton. I realize seeing your friend’s body in that condition was probably unexpected, and you’re most likely very confused. But I’m going to need your full cooperation if we are going to discover what happened.”