by Alan Marble
Jonah could do nothing but stare in horror as an innocent man was murdered less than five feet away. His hands and feet felt like they were made of stone, his jaw heavy as lead as it gaped open. “Oh my god …”
Inky black eyes snapped up and looked straight in his direction. Instantly the paralysis that he felt fled from his muscles, and Jonah wheeled around, fleeing down the hallway. He didn’t have time to think, didn’t have time to cry, to mourn for the fallen. He was probably pissing in his pants as he ran, but he didn’t even have time to think about that. His legs urged him onward, his brain imagining that murderous bulk of a man pounding down the hallway after him. Making for the end of the hallway, Jonah kicked open the door and burst out into the fading light of the afternoon, shielding his eyes before glancing first in one direction, then the other, getting his bearings. Hardly pausing, he turned to the left and ran across the asphalt as fast as his feet would take him.
The man had to be behind him. He couldn’t afford himself the luxury of turning to look back, sprinting for the end of the little strip mall, arms flailing as he turned to the left again and made his way for the parking lot out front. His motorcycle was there, tucked safely beneath the shade of a tree, and wordlessly he thanked himself for parking it facing out, away from the parking space. His feet pounded anxiously at the pavement. All he could do was hope and pray that he could make it before that man caught up to him. Fishing for the key in his pocket, he pulled it out and had it ready as he ran right up to the side of the bike.
He almost reached for his helmet strapped to the back, but the thought in the back of his mind of that man chasing him down made him forget all about it. Throwing his leg over the seat, his fingers fumbled with the key, trying to line it up with the ignition, taking what felt like far, far too long. Finally the key slid into the slot, turned to the side with a click, and his thumb was on the ignition. The bike roared to life beneath him, breathing out a high-pitched whine as he abandoned all sense of pacing, popping the clutch and twisting the throttle, clinging on to the machine in a sense of desperation as it lurched beneath him, the tire squealing for a brief second and then shooting out of the parking space. He thanked his stupid luck that the little parking lot was mostly empty as he careened through spaces that might otherwise have been blocked, hazarding a glance in his mirrors, catching a glimpse of the dark, foreboding man standing angrily where his bike had been parked only seconds before.
Hardly pausing to take a breath, Jonah guided his bike out of the parking lot, zipping right out into the roadway in spite of the traffic. The angry beep of a horn to his side made him almost jump out of his skin, but again he twisted the throttle, shooting away down the road, defying the speed limit as he sought to put as much distance between himself and the coin shop, as fast as he possibly could.
Half a minute and half a mile down the road, however, the rush of adrenaline wore off and the reality of the situation caught up with him. A little ball of tension in his stomach was beginning to writhe, and Jonah suddenly feared that he might throw up. Turning down a side road, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t followed, he finally pulled over at the side of the road, cutting the throttle, leaning forward and let out a long, painful scream.
Sam was dead. He had just witnessed the friendly old man murdered. He had just spent the last handful of minutes running for his life. These kinds of things weren’t supposed to happen, not to quiet, normal guys like himself. He did not know how to react. His scream died off, and the sour knot in the pit of his stomach suddenly rose up in his throat - he had to lean over and empty the contents of his stomach onto the sidewalk next to him.
Empty, his stomach still churned and heaved. His legs began to quiver and feel weak, and Jonah feared he might black out. With barely enough sense to put down the kickstand of his bike, he stepped unsteadily off to the side, collapsing onto the sidewalk and rolling onto his back, clutching his stomach and moaning.
The sound of footfalls coming in his direction suddenly made him panic - had the man followed him, after all? Sitting up, he spied a man, much smaller, eyes wide with concern. “Hey! Hey are you all right?”
“No,” he said miserably. He was not all right. Falling to his back again, he stared up at the fleeting clouds in the sky, and then closed his eyes as he felt another wave of nausea coming over him. “I’m not all right …”
The bystander spoke with a heavy Indian accent, but clear enough for Jonah to hear. “Is there anything I can do for you, mister?”
“Call the cops … please … I’ve just seen a murder …”
TWO
Jonah found himself in a room that was an embodiment of sterile serenity: plain, off-white walls, diffuse fluorescent lighting that cast only indistinct shadows, a quiet little oscillating fan sitting in the corner and pushing the air around at a leisurely pace. The little round table in the center of the room was plain and unadorned, as well, save for a conference phone installed in the middle. The plush executive chairs were comfortable, and helped to lend to the room a sense of calm and quiet, the perfect environment for introspection.
Introspection was the last thing that Jonah cared for. In the silence, he could still hear the deafening roar of a shotgun, the sickening crunch of a neck being broken, the dull thud of a lifeless body collapsing to the ground. When he closed his eyes, he could still see murderous black orbs gazing back at him through the darkness. It was enough to recall the sour feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. Cringing, he reached for the little bottle of water that had been left for him, hoping it might calm the churning sensation.
The quiet sound of the door creaking open, then, was something of a welcome distraction to Jonah. He looked up to see what was presumably another police officer walking in, this one wearing a simple white shirt, dark slacks and a blue tie. He seemed somehow stereotypical for the role, sporting a trimmed mustache and well groomed, salt and pepper hair cut close. Bright blue eyes locked on to him, seemed to observe him from the doorway, before the unnamed officer shut the door quietly behind him and pulled open a plain manila folder. “Hello, ah, Jonah. I’m Detective Franklin, I’ll be here to ask you a few more questions, take a few more statements from you so we can get this whole thing wrapped up.”
Jonah was already beginning to tire from the questioning. After the initial call to the police, he had been checked out by an EMT before being escorted to the nearby police station, where they had asked him to fill out a number of forms, making a number of sworn oaths about what he had witnessed. He understood that, for something as serious as a murder, the police would have to be thorough with their investigations, and they wanted to get as many details from him while the memory of the events were still fresh in his mind.
Still, Detective Franklin was the third such officer to come asking for some statements. Gritting his teeth, Jonah sat upright in his chair and set the bottle of water back down. “All right, fire away.”
“All right, Jonah. First, I just need to inform you that your statements are being recorded,” the detective said, gesturing to the conference phone in the center of the table. It was no different than what the first two had told him. “Also, just for the record, I need you to state your full name, age, and place of residence.”
“Jonah Fischer, 27, Fort Lauderdale.”
“Can you provide your full address, please?”
Jonah could not help but to sigh. “Look, I’ve already written it down on like a dozen forms already, you have all of the information there …”
The officer looked genuinely apologetic, but nodded as he sat down. “I’m sorry, but, there are important procedures to follow …”
With a nod of resignation, Jonah rattled off his full address for the machine to record. He also listened to the detective go through a short spiel about all of his rights, about the legalities and technicalities involved, how it was important that he be as thorough and truthful as possible. Again, nothing he had not already heard.
Satisfied, Fran
klin nodded and made a little note in his manila folder. “Thank you, Jonah. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, can we just start with a quick statement, describing what you witnessed at the coin shop?”
He shot the officer an exasperated look, but the one he got in response made it clear that he would have to go through this again. “It was at Woolworth Coin Gallery, four in the afternoon or so. There were no other customers in the shop. This short but stocky man, black hair, black eyes, strange accent tried to buzz in but Sam wouldn’t let him. Said he looked suspicious. The man punched his way through the door, demanded something. Sam shot him, he got back up, and the man …” Jonah had to force down a little swell of gall in his throat, snagging his bottle of water to guzzle down a swallow. “The man broke his neck. I had to escape out the back door, ran to my bike, and called the cops. Do you want all the gory details, again?”
“No, that’ll be sufficient for now,” the detective said, scribbling another note or two down in his folder. “Can you tell me what you were doing at the coin shop?”
“I was browsing,” he replied, with a blink. This was new.
“Browsing?”
“Yeah, you know. Just checking out some new stuff that Sam had.”
Another nod, and another scribble in the folder. “I see. You’ve said in a previous statement that you personally knew Sam Woolworth?”
Jonah breathed a sigh, slumping back in his chair some. “Yeah, for a few years, anyway.”
“How did you know Mr. Woolworth?”
“From his store.” Again he took a swig of the water, closing his eyes and trying to relax.
“You’d been shopping there for some time then? Without knowing Mr. Woolworth previously?”
Jonah peeked his eyes open again, looking back at the officer quizzically. Franklin did not betray any emotion, simply watching him expectantly. “Four, five years maybe. I’d heard it was a good shop, checked them out, and went back enough that Sam and I were on a first name basis, yes.”
“So, you’re a … coin collector, then?” The officer asked the question with a faintly dubious tone.
“Numismatist,” Jonah corrected, feeling faintly irritated. “Why?”
The question was not answered, the detective choosing to move on with his own questioning. “So you’ve been purchasing items from Mr. Woolworth for some time?”
“Yes. I’d just bought a coin from him, just before the incident, in fact.”
“That’s not in your previous statements,” Franklin noted, scribbling in his folder. “Care to show it to me?”
“Yeah, sure,” Jonah said, still frowning in irritation as he reached into his pocket, fishing around for the little coin that he’d bought. His fingers brushed against his keys, a piece of gum, and a few random quarters that he plucked out and spread apart in his palm, but the strange coin seemed to be gone. “Dammit … shit, I must have lost it when I was trying to get on my bike …”
The detective nodded to that, grunting, making a little note. “I see. Well, no doubt the transaction will show up on your credit card statement …”
Jonah shook his head at that. “No, I paid cash for it. Fifty bucks.”
“Cash?” Detective Franklin looked up from his little folder, pausing in his scribbling, gazing at him with those bright blue eyes again. “I don’t suppose you always paid for cash, at Mr. Woolworth’s shop?”
“Actually … yeah I did …”
The officer set the folder down on the table in front of him, folding it shut, and looking right across at Jonah. “So, basically, there’s no real record of you having ever purchased something at the coin shop?”
“No, I guess not,” Jonah began, and then stopped when a creeping suspicion began to rise up in his chest. “Wait … what are you getting at?”
“Nothing, Mr. Fischer. My job is to get at the facts.”
The answer was clipped and rehearsed, and made Jonah all the more uncomfortable. “Oh, god … you think I had something to do with it?”
“I didn’t say that,” Franklin said, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward, leveling a piercing gaze at him. “Perhaps there is something else that you need to tell me?”
“Look, I told you exactly what happened. It’s in two of your goddamned reports already, I’ve told you guys front and back the whole goddamned story,” he sputtered, feeling the sickness starting to creep up in his stomach again.
“Your recounting of the tale is certainly consistent,” Franklin said, an accusatory tone starting to creep up in his voice. “It’s a little outlandish, though, don’t you think?”
“It’s what happened.”
The detective shrugged, leaning back in his seat. “I'd like to believe you, really, I would. But I don't. Let me present a different take on the events. Based on the evidence that we’ve collected, so far.”
Jonah’s eyes began to go wide with disbelief as the officer cleared his throat, and began to speak again. “Sam Woolworth is sitting behind his desk, enjoying a quiet afternoon at his shop when a customer shows up. The fellow looks decent enough, friendly, young fellow who doesn’t look like he’s any trouble. He lets the man in, talks about some of his wares, shares just enough of his personal background with the man so that he could recount it at a later date.
“Then the man pulls out a weapon. A knife, a gun, who knows. Demands that Sam hand over everything in his register, all the gold in the display. But poor Sam, he can’t just let it all go. It’s his livelihood, his savings, his retirement, after all. He reaches under his display and pulls out a shotgun. Sam and the intruder have a little tussle; the shotgun goes off and misses. Hits the door, shooting a big gaping hole, and the rest of the glass falls out of place.
“Now our intruder is a little worked up at having been shot at. He reaches out and grabs the poor old man by his throat, strangles him out of retaliation, angry that he could have been killed. Poor Sam fights back, but he’s old, weak, and frail, and suffocates. Our intruder never really meant to kill the old man, just meant to steal his things, so when the old guy falls dead to the floor, breaks his neck, and the robber freaks out. Turns, and leaves the store in a hurry, without stealing a dime. Gets on his bike, has a flash of guilty conscious, so he calls the cops to make up some kind of story about what happened …”
The anger that was rising up in Jonah’s throat at hearing the story was making him quiver. “That’s not what happened,” he hissed, furious that someone might dare try and implicate him in the death of his friend.
The detective merely shrugged. “You tell me, Jonah. What’s more likely? My story, or yours? You really want to stick with your story about some supervillain who has the strength to tear through a reinforced glass door, who can take a shotgun blast to the chest - point blank - and stand right back up? Who can reach across the counter and snap an old man’s neck?”
Jonah wanted to argue. He was suddenly on the defensive; the cop’s story did make sense, but it wasn’t what happened. He wanted to defend himself, wanted to say something, but the little ball of sickness was growing more poignant in his stomach. Slumping back into his chair, he let out a deep sigh. “I think this is the part where I ask for a lawyer,” he said, feeling deflated.
“Might not be a bad idea,” the cop said, sitting back and smirking. “We don’t wanna complicate things any further with lawyers, though, so if you're done talking, I’ll tell you what. Much as I wish we could hold you on a hunch, we can't. You've got a clean record and no real reason to keep you here, so we’re gonna have to let you go for the night. But if you’re smart - if you’re really innocent - then you better do the right thing. Keep your head down, keep out of trouble, answer the phone when we call, and by god, don’t do anything stupid like try to skip town. Because our eyes are on you now, Mr. Fischer, and believe you me - the moment you try to take a step out of Broward County, we’ll be on you like flies on dogshit, and you won’t like what happens then.”
“But I work in Miami …”
“I�
��m sure you have plenty of time off saved up. Perhaps it’s best you take a little vacation from work for the time being. In case I wasn’t clear before, let me just say it again. We’re watching you. Not a foot out of the county, Jonah, and I mean it. Not a foot.”
Detective Franklin accentuated his last point by jabbing his finger into the table in front of him before sitting back. The man looked frustratingly smug sitting there behind his mustache, behind his little file folder, and it made Jonah want to reach over and strangle him, at least. For all the anger that he felt in his chest he realized that an outburst would only make things worse at this point, so he swallowed it down. “Are we done, here?”
“We’re done,” Franklin said, pushing himself up from the table and walking over to the door. Holding it open and gesturing, he flashed Jonah an insincere smile. “Your bike is right up front where you left it. Be a good kid and wear your helmet this time around, eh? And remember, nothing stupid.”
Jonah responded with a grunt of his own, hauling himself up out of the chair and pushing his way past the detective without so much as a word, when the officer spoke up behind him. “Remember. Nothing stupid. We’re watching,” he said, tapping his eyes with his first two fingers before pointing them back in Jonah’s direction.
It was too much. Fuming, Jonah turned on his heel, stalking his way out toward the exit that was indicated to him. There was no way he could get out of there fast enough.
#
At last, Jonah made his way home for the evening. Pushing the door to his apartment open and flicking the light switch with a heavy sigh, he tossed his keys into a little bowl on the counter leading into the kitchen. The old fluorescent tubes took a second to warm up and flicker on, blinking their own sullen greeting before casting the small apartment in flat tones.
The half-finished soda can and the empty Chinese containers still sat on the counter, still lending the remnants of their odor to the air, but Jonah still did not bother picking up after himself. If he had lacked the energy and interest to do so before, he suffered from the same tenfold tonight.
