“Jeez, you scared the crap out of me! Don’t you ever knock?” he said.
Jack laughed. “Sorry, Riley. Thought you heard me coming.”
“Hell, no!”
Only standing five foot three inches tall, Riley Stevens was the shortest personality working at WPLX. At fifty-two, he had been doing the night show for over five years, and the only aspiration he had was to retire from the station in another ten. With a long career behind him, Riley had little desire to make any more moves, and hoped that he could keep riding the status quo into the proverbial sunset. Having been a rocker for most of his broadcast tenure, his career had even included short stints at Classic Rock powerhouses in New York City and Los Angeles. Now, he just wanted a quiet ending to his long broadcast history, and was content to wind it all down at WPLX.
“Quiet night?” asked Jack.
Riley shook his head and snorted derisively. “The wackos are out in force tonight. I put the phones on hold an hour ago. Couldn’t take it anymore.”
Jack smiled. Phone calls from listeners had always been a double-edged sword in broadcasting. Every personality loved interacting with the listeners, and it made for great banter on the air. But sometimes the calls just got too weird, especially at night. Jack couldn’t help but be reminded of Clint Eastwood’s 1971 film, “Play Misty for Me”.
“It can’t be any worse than last night,” said Jack.
Riley reached for a pair of headphones sitting in front of the control console, and slid them over his ears. Pressing a red button on the console, he leaned toward the microphone, and, with a deep, sultry voice, said, “That’s Roberta Flack here on WPLX. It’s eleven forty-five on this crisp Monday night, which means that I’m just about out of here. Jack Allyn is coming up next to take you through till morning, and he’s got music lined up from Elton John, Barry Manilow, and Celine Dion.”
With a commercial playing in the background, Riley switched off the microphone and turned to Jack, who had raised his right hand and extended his middle finger.
“You just had to say her name, didn’t you?” mumbled Jack.
Shrugging his shoulders, Riley smiled. “Someone requested it.”
Chapter Three
Samantha checked her watch as she ran a brush through her hair one last time before the mirror. If there weren’t any traffic issues, Peter would be arriving in ten minutes to pick her up. They had plans to head to the city morgue first thing that morning to talk to the assistant medical examiner about his autopsy results. It had been three days since the discovery of the three “Broad Street Mummies”, as they had begun calling them, and every new fact that she and Peter had uncovered had simply made the investigation even more incomprehensible. When they had received the autopsy report yesterday afternoon, the two detectives couldn’t believe what they were reading. It seemed so insensible that they had decided to speak to the doctor in person the next morning.
Giving her make-up one final inspection, Samantha turned off the bathroom light, and walked into her bedroom. She picked up the black leather holster, which was lying on the bed, and extracted the Glock 9mm handgun. She ejected the magazine, checked the firing chamber, and then slid the magazine back into the weapon. It was a routine she followed every morning like clockwork. It was just another thing her father had taught her; always check your weapon before leaving the house each morning. Samantha returned the firearm to the holster, which she then clipped to her belt just above the right hip. Brushing a little lint from her navy trousers, Samantha gazed across the room at the framed photograph hanging on the opposite wall. It was of her father, wearing his Police Department dress uniform. A faint smile appeared on her face, as she thought about the day that it had been taken.
“I miss you, Dad,” she said quietly.
Staring at the photograph, she wondered what her father would have said to her if he were alive. Would he have been proud of her? Would he have been happy to see his daughter reach the level that she had on the force? How would he feel if he knew what she had done two years ago? Would he have understood the guilt that had hung over her head ever since?
The doorbell rang, shaking her out of her brown study, and indicating that her partner had arrived. She grabbed her badge from atop the dresser and headed to the front door. When Samantha stepped out of her townhouse, Peter Thornton was standing on her top step, holding two steaming cups of Dunkin’ Doughnuts coffee.
“I thought you might need one of these,” he said.
Wrapping her hands around the cup, Samantha smiled. “Perfect. Thanks.”
In the car, Peter steered his way through the city streets toward the Medical Examiner’s office on University Avenue. Samantha took a sip from her coffee cup, and realized that something was missing.
“Did you get sugar packets?”
Peter shook his head. “No. Sorry.”
“No worries,” she lied, thinking that Eddie Murdock wouldn’t have forgotten to get sugar packets.
She turned the past few days over in her mind. After spending the whole of Monday morning at the old building where the bodies had been discovered, Samantha and Peter had headed over to question Steve Rafferty’s wife. Betty Rafferty had confirmed what Stanley Henderson had already told them. Her husband had left the house at nine-thirty on Saturday morning with every intention of being home by lunch. He never returned. Betty stated that she had repeatedly tried to call her husband’s cell phone, but it kept going straight to voicemail. By then, she had left over a dozen messages. When Peter asked what her husband had been wearing when he left the house, Betty had simply stated, “An Eagles sweatshirt”.
Tuesday morning was spent at the historical society, questioning the office manager who was overly distraught by the news that her two bosses were missing. Thomas McKay and Robert Crosse had arranged to meet Steve Rafferty on Saturday morning to evaluate the potential historical significance of the find at the old building site. Thomas McKay, an older man with thinning grey hair, had a long career with the historical society, starting there in the 1980s as a researcher. Now he worked as the managing director for the small organization. Robert Crosse, on the other hand, was a young man with sweeping dirty blonde hair who had recently joined the society as a new researcher. According to the office manager, both men had left the office on Friday evening with plans to meet the next morning for breakfast before heading to meet Rafferty at the construction site.
Interviews with the families of McKay and Crosse brought about similar answers as those from Steve Rafferty’s wife. They had both left early Saturday morning, and never returned. McKay’s wife had been frantic all weekend trying to reach her husband, and Crosse’s live-in fiancé had been calling all of their mutual friends trying to find Robert.
The early forensic report had been delivered on Wednesday, along with the initial autopsy reports. There had been very little found at the scene of the crime. Fingerprints from the three men had been identified on the ladder, along with a large number of smudges of unknown origin. According to the forensics team, a number of footprints had been found on the dirt floor, which made things even more unusual. Besides the shoe prints of the three dead men, forensics had found three sets of distinctive prints of bare feet. And, judging by the size and shape, the forensics team had postulated that they were the prints of three different women.
Peter interrupted Samantha’s train of thought when he said, “Hookers. They were using the underground chamber to meet some hookers.”
Turning to glare at him, she replied, “Seriously? That’s all you’ve got? Hookers?”
Peter jerked the steering wheel to the left to avoid a bus pulling away from the curb, honked the horn, and then said, “It explains the women’s footprints.”
“Right, and exactly how did the hookers kill three men, and then mummify their bodies? Oh, and without leaving a trace?”
Peter shrugged his shoulders. “I hadn’t f
igured that out yet.”
“I’m still not convinced those were our three missing men.” Samantha shook her head. “It doesn’t seem possible.”
“Radcliffe confirmed the identities. It was all in his report.”
Samantha turned her head to gaze out the car window. “McGregor called me this morning.”
“What’d the Cap’n want?”
“The feds have already called to offer their assistance. They’re chomping at the bit to get in on this one,” replied Samantha.
“Shit!”
Samantha said, “He’s going to hold them off as long as he can.” She rubbed the sides of her forehead with her fingertips. “This case is already giving me a headache.”
_______________
The unassuming, tall brick building, which was the home of Philadelphia’s Medical Examiner’s Office, was located on University Avenue; across the street was Our Lord of Mercy Cemetery, a fact which lead to a never-ending string of jokes about extremely short trips from the slab to the grave. The building itself lacked any unique characteristic that would make it stand out over any of the other brick buildings in the surrounding area. It was a simple brick and glass structure, reflecting either a lack of imagination on the part of the architect, or a desire for significant cost cutting by avoiding any sense of style or adornment.
The two homicide detectives took the elevator down to the basement, and, when stepping out, could feel a distinctive drop in the temperature of the atmosphere around them. Samantha, who had been down to the morgue more times than she could count, had grown accustomed to chilly air. But Peter, who lacked the same level of experience as his partner, shivered at the cold.
“Damn! It’s cold down here.”
The wide hallway was just as cold and uninviting as the air in it. The whitewashed cinder block walls and concrete floor looked sterile and unwelcoming under the bright illumination from the fluorescent tube lighting. Down the hall, they found a set of swinging double doors which led into the morgue. Pushing their way through, the detectives stepped into an odorous mix of antiseptic and death. The room which they had entered was narrow but long, culminating at the far end with wall-to-wall stainless steel. A single large door was centered in the steel covered wall, which, Samantha knew, led into the refrigeration unit used for storing the recently deceased. Down the length of the room sat four stainless steel autopsy tables. Suspended from the ceiling above each table was a hexagonal light fixture attached to a self-balancing arm. The four bright halogen bulbs embedded in the lights illuminated only one of the tables. Upon that single table lay the naked body of young man whose arms and chest were covered in tattoos. His flesh had the grayish blue hue of death, and his chest contained three distinct bullet holes.
Looking up from the body as they entered, a tall, scrawny man in his mid-forties crossed the room to greet the two detectives. He was wearing a long white surgical gown, elbow length surgical gloves, and a disposable face shield. He drew off the face shield to reveal a long, narrow face with deep set eyes, a long hawk like nose, and a tuft of disheveled black hair atop his head.
“Detectives Ballard and Thornton, it’s a pleasure to see you. May I assume that your visit is about the autopsy report I sent over yesterday?” he asked, with his usual air of pomposity.
Dr. Spencer Radcliffe was the assistant Medical Examiner for the city of Philadelphia, a position that he had held for over twelve years. As far as forensic pathologists went, Radcliffe was well known for being one of the best on the east coast. Despite being offered the Chief Medical Examiner’s position twice, he was content to stay away from the politics of being in charge, and preferred his work in the field and the morgue. Samantha had worked with Radcliffe for several years, and could never shake the idea that he looked like the quintessential Ichabod Crane from Washington Irving’s Legend of Sleepy Hollow.
“Yes,” replied Peter.
“Are we interrupting?” asked Samantha.
“No, no. That gentleman on the slab is just another poor victim of gang infighting. He’s in no hurry.” Dr. Radcliffe smiled. “He’ll happily wait for me.”
“I’m hoping you could elaborate on your report a little bit. I’m having a hard time believing that those three . . . mummies, for a lack of a better term, are Rafferty, McKay, and Crosse,” said Samantha.
The doctor peeled the surgical gloves off his hands. “Ah, I don’t know if I’d call them mummies. Based on the condition of their bodies, I’d say our victims are more like . . . beef jerky.”
Samantha shook her head. “Seriously?”
Dr. Radcliffe snorted loudly. “Just a little morgue humor, but not very far from the truth. Practically every drop of moisture was removed from the bodies. Blood, plasma, water, urine. Every drop, gone. Just like you get when you dehydrate beef to make jerky.” Radcliffe, with his hands behind his back, began to pace back and forth in front of the two detectives as if he were delivering a lecture to students. “I’ve marked the official cause of death as extreme dehydration, but that’s just a guess on my part. I suspect dehydration’s more of a result than a means. Your victims endured something—either naturally or artificially induced—that rapidly dried out the cells in their bodies, resulting in their deaths.” He stopped and glanced at the two detectives to ensure that they were still listening. “The human body is anywhere from 50 to 75 percent fluid. Over time, a corpse will lose moisture as part of the process of decay, and eventually end up in the same state as your three victims. Just looking at the bodies, I’d have sworn those three men had been dead for six months, possibly longer. It’s like something hyper-accelerated the rate of decay. Dental records were the only way I could identify them.”
“Are you certain about their identities?” inquired Peter.
Radcliffe nodded.
Samantha asked, “What about a fire? Could that have done this?”
“No. Far too much heat would be required. There would be residual signs of charring on the flesh.”
“Your report mentioned something about pin holes,” said Peter.
The doctor’s face lit up with excitement. “Ah, yes. I’d almost forgotten about that. Give me just a second . . .”
Radcliffe hurriedly made his way to the far end of the autopsy room, opened the heavy steel door of the refrigeration unit, and disappeared inside. As the detectives waited, they watched as wisps of vapor drifted out from the door to create a low lying fog across the floor. Samantha could see a body, covered with a white sheet, resting on top of a gurney. A pale foot, with a tag attached to the toe, stuck out from under the sheet. Moments later, Radcliffe rushed out of the doorway pushing a stainless steel gurney with a white sheet draped over its current occupant. The doctor kicked the door to the refrigeration unit closed with his foot as he passed.
“I’d like you to take a look at this,” stated the doctor as he pulled the sheet back, revealing one of the leathery bodies from the other day. Pointing to the corpse’s neck, he said, “Look closely at the neck.”
Samantha leaned forward and examined the area indicated by the doctor. She could just make out dozens of almost imperceptible holes in the skin; smaller than the smallest pin she had ever seen. The holes were located along the side of the neck, and extended up along the lower jaw. As she studied the markings, she began to realize that they formed a familiar shape: a human hand. She straightened up, and muttered, “A handprint?”
Dr. Radcliffe was smiling. “It gets better. Look at the other side.”
Samantha moved around to the other side of the table, as Peter leaned in to get his first look at the markings. She leaned forward, and was astonished to find the same marks on the left side of the neck as well. Just as with the opposite side, they formed the shape of a human hand, with the palm and four fingers on the neck, and the thumb along the lower jaw line. Stepping back from the table, she shook her head in amazement.
“
What is it?” asked Peter.
Radcliffe pulled the sheet back over the corpse’s face and said, “I don’t know. But they’re on the necks of all three victims. I’ve never seen anything like it. But I’ll tell you this. Whatever killed your victims, happened through those holes. The question remaining is how.”
Samantha’s head was spinning as she tried to make some form of rational logic out of what Radcliffe had just explained. The two detectives had come to the morgue hoping to make sense of what they felt had been an insensible autopsy report. But, if anything, she felt like they simply had more questions to add to their growing list. In Samantha Ballard’s five years as a homicide detective, she had seen enough to not be surprised by the ingenuity of the human race to find new ways to inflict death upon one another. Shooting, poisoning, stabbing, hit-and-run, and even good old fashioned lynching weren’t unusual in her line of work. She had seen beatings so brutal that DNA testing was required for a positive identification of the body. Two years ago when she was leading the Society Hill Serial Killer investigation, Samantha thought she had seen it all as she tracked down a serial killer who tortured his victims before killing them and butchering the bodies. It had been a long and grueling investigation, which had left its lasting mark on her; but she wondered if this new investigation might end up eclipsing it. She hoped it wouldn’t. Samantha wasn’t sure if she could go through it all again.
She shook her head and said, “It doesn’t make any sense. None whatsoever!”
Shrugging, Dr. Radcliffe replied, “I just do the autopsies around here. It’s your job to figure out the who, how, and why.”
Chapter Four
The arrival of Friday morning meant the start of Jack Allyn’s weekend. His shift at WPLX ended at six in the morning, as the “Breakfast Club” went on the air. The “Breakfast Club” was the name of the morning show on WPLX, hosted by Ron Michaels and Dana Brooks. Jack had listened to the show once, and, thinking that it was four hours of inane jokes, goofy sound effects, and stupid contests that even the dumbest listener could win, never listened again. Ron Michaels, an overweight forty-six-year-old, had a long mediocre career in small-to-midsize radio markets before coming to WPLX. Ron had been the previous occupant of Jack’s overnight shift until the station’s morning host was arrested on child pornography charges. Unable to find anyone else to take over the morning shift at a price they were willing to pay, the management of WPLX, as a last resort, allowed Ron Michaels to take the reins of the most coveted shift in radio—Morning Drive.
Sirens in the Night Page 3
