Murder in the North Tower

by Greg Smith

  “Good morning, Ewan. How are you today?” Nadia greeted the stranger, placed the new clothing on the dresser.

  As he had the previous morning, the stranger simply stared straight ahead, remained silent. Nadia’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. After hearing him speak the night before, she’d hoped to get a response from the tall man.

  “You don’t remember me? You don’t remember speaking last night?”

  The phrase was more a statement than a question. Nadia already knew the answer. She considered that she may have imagined him speaking.

  Though she still wasn’t sure whether or not the tall stranger could hear or comprehend what she said, she recited what would become her mantra for the week.

  “My name is Nadia. This is my apartment. I found you wandering in the street. You had an accident. You were hurt. I took you in. Griggor stitched you up. You slept for three days. You woke up yesterday. You’re suffering some sort of trauma. From your head injury no doubt.”

  The stranger remained motionless, stared absently.

  “Well,” Nadia said, slumping her shoulders dejectedly. “I bought you some new clothes. You can dress while I make breakfast.”

  Returning some minutes later, she found the stranger sitting in the same spot. Wearing the same clothes he’d arrived in. After helping him change into the clothes she’d bought, she led him into the front room, sat him down in front of the television, turned it on. Just as they had the day before, images of the Twin Towers appeared. Only to segue into first the South Tower collapsing then the North Tower tumbling down. Nadia guided the stranger into the recliner, watched him closely. Once again the tall man’s eyes seemed to lock onto the television screen. He appeared to be mesmerized by the news of 9/11. Nadia, however, couldn’t determine if he was absorbing the information…or simply staring indifferently.

  Again, she’d receive no readings, though she’d touched the stranger several times. She wished he’d speak again. If only to prove she hadn’t imagined it.

  Beginning the following morning, the stranger and Nadia would spend the next few days replicating their disconcerting welcoming scene. Following a daily routine that was as repetitious and predictable as a wall clock.

  The tall man would wake up each day, remembering nothing. Nadia would greet her guest, deliver her mantra, observe the tall stranger carefully. Looking for any hint of change. Any clue indicating he was becoming more aware, more cognizant. That he was more than just a blank slate. She would sponge bathe and dress him for the day. Prepare and serve him breakfast. She’d check in on the stranger several times throughout the day. Between her appointments as Madam Magda. She’d serve him lunch. Dinner. Finally, prepare him for bed.

  She longed to hear his voice again.

  But the tall man remained in a near-catatonic state. Sitting for hours in front of the television. Bombarded by the media’s onslaught of 9/11 coverage. Sometimes, he’d eat the food Nadia put in front of him. Just as often, he’d leave it untouched.

  He’d experience random flashes of memories. Nanosecond snapshots of his past. Appearing and disappearing erratically. A struggle with a large, blurry shadowman. A blond woman being strangled. An older man wearing a tank top smoking in a kitchen. A black, two-headed eagle. A gypsy woman serving him food. An attractive auburn-haired woman laughing. The reflection of a tall man in a mirror. A pair of vivid blue eyes. Staring. Lifeless. All forgotten moments after arriving.

  Meanwhile, not far away, the tall stranger’s twin brother worked mechanically on The Pile. Cleaning up the aftermath of the event the stranger would witness anew each day on television. Neither was aware of the other’s existence. The jogger believed his twin brother was dead. The stranger was unaware of even his own identity.

  Like many volunteers helping to remove the stain 9/11 had left on New York City, the jogger had fallen into his own mindless routine. Each morning, he would wake up, head off to his tedious task on The Pile. Each evening, he would return to PS #234. To shower, eat, sleep. New gear was available whenever he needed it. He replaced gloves, boots, respirators every few days.

  At some point during that first week, word had spread like contagious laughter among the volunteer force that William, the self-appointed Red Cross-shirted leader of PS #234, had been removed from the site by police. Apparently, he hadn’t been a Red Cross volunteer after all, but an imposter. Rumor had it his true identity remained unknown, but the police had released him because they had more important issues to contend with. Some claimed William was an angel. 9/11 being such a catastrophic event it, apparently, required heavenly assistance.

  Whether with the assistance of divine beings or not, work on The Pile continued unabated.

  The act of passing one five-gallon bucket after another to the next volunteer requiring no thought, the jogger was mentally disconnected. Emotionally detached. Spiritually absent. Sheer exhaustion helped. Functioning in a semi-consciousness state of perpetual fatigue. Sleepwalking through each day.

  He existed that way for nearly a week

  He spoke to no one. Watched as others broke down from the psychological stress and trauma. Ordinary citizens, as expected, stunned by the magnitude of the horrific devastation. The colossal loss of life. Strong, valiant men, as well. Men who ordinarily stood resilient in times of disaster. Invincible in the face of Death. Firefighters who had lost comrades. EMTs overwhelmed from dealing with the immense agony and distress. All broken by the enormity of this atrocity.

  After several days of near comatose existence, the jogger found himself slipping more and more frequently into moments of reverie. While his body automatically went through the robotic motions of passing along one bucket after another, his mind wavered back and forth between the present and the past.

  Remembering life in the Bagdasarian home.

  • • • • •

  CHAPTER 17

 

  “If things had gone differently, as your Gjysh (jish: grandfather) Zogu wanted, your Halle (Ha • luh: aunt) Fatime (Fah • teh • mah) would be serving you breakfast right now,” Armend Bagdasarian told his twin sons. “And you would be…eh…” he held out one hand, teetered it back and forth. “…somewhat roly-poly,” he chuckled. “And maybe only as tall as you would be wide.”

  The twins broke into laughter. Standing near the stove, Mirlinda smiled.

  The boys loved hearing the story of how their parents had met. Of how Armend had come to America from Albania. Arriving in New York City in 1964 at the age of nineteen. Only a small suitcase, a few dollars and the name of his father’s best friend in his possession. Of how Hamit Zogu – now their grandfather – had given his best friend’s son a job as a machinist in the Brooklyn shop where he’d worked since arriving in America himself nearly three decades earlier. Of how their Gjysh Zogu had tried to fix Armend up with his oldest daughter, Fatime. The aunt the boys secretly called “Halle Fat Time.” Though they loved her dearly.

  Hamit Zogu and his wife, Earta, had five daughters, no sons. The surly, chain-smoking Albanian had immediately taken a special liking to Armend. It wasn’t just that the boy was the son of Hamit’s closest childhood friend. The scrappy youngster was a hard worker. He was polite, respectful. Stayed out of trouble. He showed up for work. On time. Every day. Hamit soon arranged for the boy to meet his oldest daughter, hoping the two would take a liking to one another. Hoping he’d soon have the Albanian son-in-law he so badly desired.

  Armend had seen nothing attractive or appealing about the short, plump Fatime Zogu. To the contrary, he’d found her to be both abrasive and demanding. In return, the eldest Zogu daughter had not been impressed with the scrawny young man who seemed content with his current position in life.

  Instead, the Albanian youth had found himself enamored by the Zogu’s youngest daughter, Mirlinda. Only fifteen at the time, Mirlinda was slim, pert, joyful. She seemed to enjoy Armend’s obvious discomfort with Fatime as they ate dinner and conversed. Armend found his eyes wan
dering more and more frequently in her direction.

  Despite the unpleasantness of that first meeting, Armend continued to accept invitations to dine with the Zogus. The Albanian family believed Armend was courting Fatime. He was actually visiting in hopes of spending more time in Mirlinda’s presence. He was soon teasing the younger daughter mercilessly, much to Fatime’s consternation.

  Armend knew Mirlinda was too young for dating by Albanian family standards, didn’t initially pursue her. However, he would not be dissuaded for long. He found out where she went to school, showed up to walk her home one day. The two were soon seeing each other secretly. Sneaking out to movies and diners.

  It hadn’t been the most pleasant occasion when Armend and Mirlinda finally revealed their love for each other to the Zogu family. Hamit had been furious over the secrecy and deceitfulness Armend had exhibited toward him. Armend expressed sincere remorse for his apparent disrespect, and the Zogu women helped smoothed things over. Hamit eventually gave the two his blessing. And got the Albanian son-in-law he wanted.

  Armend and Mirlinda married a week after she graduated from high school. They settled in the Kensington neighborhood in Brooklyn, where they would eventually raise their twin sons, Aleksandre and Stepan.

  Aleks and Step. Step and Aleks.

  Their twinness was inescapable. It permeated their lives. When the boys were young, no one other than their parents could tell them apart. Though even their father wasn’t difficult to mislead. His sons took great pleasure in fooling Baba by occasionally switching identities. The only person they couldn’t deceive, much to their own consternation, was their mother. Yet, they always found humor hearing her playful scolding.

  “You can fool some of the people all of time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool Nene!” she’d tell them in an admonishing, sing-song tone.

  The boys grew up with the belief that being identical twins made them special, unique. That it was…magical!

  ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, for your viewing pleasure, I present…myself!”

  Dressed in black pants, white shirt and black coattails, holding a black hat in one hand, a cane in the other, Aleks made the introduction. He finished with a bow to the audience of friends, family and neighbors who had assembled in a homemade backyard theater at the Bagdasarian home.

  He spoke loudly, meticulously enunciating each syllable Step had scripted.

  “I am the Amazing Albanian. The Preposterous Prestidigitator. The Illustrious Illusionist. The Magnificent Magician of Manhattan. Stepan the Stupendous!”

  After another bow, he quickly disappeared behind a makeshift curtain. A loud clap drew the audience’s attention to the back of the crowd. Step appeared, dressed in identical clothing, complete with black hat and cane. It seemed as though Stepan the Stupendous had disappeared in front of the audience, reappeared at the back. The audience applauded as Step made his entrance down the middle aisle to the stage, waving both his hat and cane as he pranced along. Those who didn’t know the Bagdasarian twins watched with amused astonishment.

  Standing in front of the audience, Step bowed, placed both his cane and his hat on a card table that waited patiently nearby. He held up a single finger, produced a deck of cards with a flourish of his arms, fanned them out to the audience.

  “Pick a card, any card!” a voice boomed.

  Step’s lips hadn’t moved. From his hiding spot behind the curtain, Aleks had spoken the words for his brother.

  “I’ll need a volunteer from the audience,” Aleks said.

  Much too shy to speak in front of a crowd, Step had come up with a unique solution for his act. While the bashful twin performed his feats of magic, Aleks, offstage, spoke for him. The ruse led the audience to believe that Stepan the Stupendous was not only a pretty good magician, but a remarkable ventriloquist as well.

  They were ten years old. Step was just beginning a magician phase that wouldn’t survive adolescence. The boys would put on an occasional backyard show featuring several card tricks, some basic magic tricks. Cutting a rope and restoring it. Pushing a glass through a table.

  For the most part, Step was content to use Aleks to introduce the act. To speak for him. To perform simple vanishing and reappearing tricks. Aleks would walk behind a curtain on one side of the stage, Step would appear walking in the opposite direction from the other side. It was obviously contrived, but the audience found it entertaining. Step, however, was intrigued with the idea of exploiting their identical appearance. He soon choreographed a simple routine that made him appear to split in two, then merge back together.

  Step would walk out, stand upright in front of the audience. Aleks would sneak out from behind a curtain to stand directly behind his brother, out of sight. Step would bow, momentarily exposing Aleks’s upper torso. Jumping sideways in opposite directions, the twins would split apart. For a moment, there would be two Stepans standing before the stunned audience. They would perform a couple of mirror-image movements, then merge back together. Aleks would slip behind the curtain, Step would return to his original position, bow again, this time without Aleks behind him.

  The resulting illusion made it appear as though Stepan the Stupendous had split in two before morphing back together again. The boys often separated and merged three or four times during the routine, throwing in duplicate movements while split. The illusion was fascinating to watch. Even those in the audience who knew the Bagdasarian boys were twins were impressed with their timing, the precision of their identical movements.

  • • • • •

  CHAPTER 18

 

  Saturday, September 22: Day 11 post-9/11

  The jogger awoke on a cot on the second level of PS #234. Where he’d crashed each night after laboring on The Pile. For ten consecutive nights. He sloughed off the last vestiges of sleep. Like a dog shaking off a dip in a lake. Running both hands down his long face, he noted the length of his beard. He yawned, rubbed the slumber out of his eyes, sighed despondently at the memory of the magic act. How he missed those carefree childhood years. When he and Binyak could just take off on their bikes. Ride through the neighborhood. Through Prospect Park. The Ravine.

  The recollection forced a reluctant smile onto his face.

  The thought of heading off, yet again, to volunteer on The Pile distressed him. He couldn’t bear standing another ten or twelve hours in a bucket line. Knew he couldn’t last one day longer at Ground Zero without a break. Not only from the labor, but from the mechanical state of non-existence. He needed to be a person again. He needed a day off.

  He’d been mulling over the idea of going to his apartment. Stopping in at Binyak’s as well. Maybe he was seeking a foothold on his life as it had been before 9/11. Before he’d taken his brother’s life. Maybe he was hoping to find solace by reconnecting to a place of familiarity.

  Maybe he just wanted to check his email.

  It felt odd, at first. Not reporting to his place in the bucket brigade. He felt like a kid skipping school.

  He had to contend with checkpoints along the way, show proof of residency to get into his neighborhood. Binyak’s license served the purpose. The empty streets, the amount of litter, the invasive ash all combined to create a sense of apocalyptic, end-of-time spookiness.

  He approached his apartment building with some trepidation. Something in his subconscious told him it would be best to enter the building unseen. To remain among the missing for the time being. It turned out that wasn’t a problem. There area was still a ghost town.

  His finger was seconds away from punching his code into the keyless lock to his apartment when he thought he heard voices inside. He leaned close, put an ear to the door. The voices were arguing. In a harsh foreign language. He quickly hugged the wall on one side of the door.

  Russians! he thought with alarm. They’ve found me!

  He walked swiftly down the corridor, around a corner, peered back to see if the Russ
ians had heard him. Apparently, they remained unaware their quarry was so close.

  He couldn’t believe Russians were holed up in his apartment. Waiting for him. Despite 9/11. Despite Lower Manhattan still being closed down for the most part. They’d somehow managed to circumvent the checkpoints.

  To do what? Kidnap me? Send me “on holiday”? Like Eva?

  He headed immediately to Binyak’s building. He doubted any Russians would be camping out there, didn’t think they were aware he had a twin brother.

  He surveyed the front entrance to Binyak’s apartment from across the street for several minutes. There was little activity. He was about to cross when two large men emerged from the building. He immediately retreated, watched them carefully. The men lit cigarettes, appeared to be arguing while they smoked, their voices deep, gruff. He didn’t think they were speaking English. Their conversation was accompanied with much hand waving and gesturing.

  He was already panicky from the close call at his own apartment, didn’t want to risk a possible encounter with more Russians. Head down, he hurried away. Backtracking the way he’d arrived.

  It was not yet noon. The jogger could think of nowhere to go. He found himself wandering, eventually crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. Once in Brooklyn, he realized he was heading toward his boyhood home in Kensington. He knew he’d made the decision to go there the moment he’d woken up thinking about his childhood that morning. It took him less than an hour to reach the Grand Army Plaza entrance to Prospect Park.

  He ambled through the park, remembering again how he and Binyak had ridden their bikes there as kids. Against strict orders from their parents to avoid the area. They’d loved the park. Even in its woeful, pre-reclamation days. They’d often ridden through the Ravine. Past the Boathouse. The Peristyle. The Carousel. They’d particularly loved visiting the Zoo.