Sirens in the Night

by Bradley, Michael;

  “Hey, Jack!” Bryan said.

  Jack reached across the glass display case and shook Bryan’s hand. “How’s it going?”

  Bryan smiled. “Same old, same old.”

  “Get anything new in last week?”

  Bryan shook his head. “Probably nothing that would appeal to you.”

  “Try me.”

  Bryan pointed at the glass display, in which sat several comic books, each wrapped in a protective plastic sleeve. “I got the final issue of the original Star Wars series from Marvel Comics. It’s not as rare as the other stuff you’re looking for, but worth three figures.”

  Jack shook his head. “Nah. Not my style. Any leads on Detective Comics, Issue 140?”

  “The one with the Riddler’s first appearance against Batman?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Nothing. But I’ll keep my ear to the ground,” replied Bryan.

  Jack glanced around the shop, taking in the poster-lined walls in amazement at how comic books had changed since he was a kid. Comic books weren’t only about superheroes any more. He could remember the day when the two biggest comic book publishers were Marvel and DC. Now, he noticed posters from a dozen or more different publishers, representing titles he had never even heard of. Gone are the days of Batman and Superman getting top bill at the newsstand, he thought.

  “I heard what happened at Pulsar the other night, that murder,” said Bryan.

  Jack, puzzled, looked at the young shop owner. “What murder?”

  “You didn’t hear? The cops found a body in the alley next to Pulsar,” Bryan explained.

  “When?”

  “Saturday morning. Word on the street says there was some funky stuff going on with the body.”

  Jack responded, “Funky stuff?”

  “Yeah. Rumor has it that the body was dry as a bone.”

  “Bled to death?”

  “No. Everything. All that was left was a dried up husk,” explained Bryan.

  “You mean like a mummy?”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t wrapped in any bandages. Just bone dry,” said Bryan.

  Jack simply replied, “Hmm.”

  “Jack, there’s only one thing that can do that to a body.”

  Jack asked, “What’s that?”

  Bryan walked into a small office to his right and returned momentarily carrying a large paperback book. He set it down on the display case, and Jack saw that it was from Demons of the Myst, a popular role-playing game. Bryan flipped through the pages until he found the one he wanted. Spinning the book around, he pointed to a picture and said, “There.”

  Jack leaned forward and gazed at the picture and text. The picture was of a semi-naked woman, with flowing auburn hair. She had large breasts covered in a thin veil of cloth, which flowed over her body in thin folds. The artist had added long shapely legs, which were visible through slits in the translucent cloth. Her beauty seemed to jump from the page, and every curve had been accentuated by the stroke of the illustrator’s pen. But there was something else in the image that seemed to make the woman’s beauty take on a sinister air. A man was kneeling before this beautiful goddess, with his face filled with terror. With her hands on each side of his head, the beautiful woman seemed to be taking pleasure in the man’s agony. The caption below the image read, “A Seirene drains the life from her victim.”

  Jack looked back up at Bryan. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “If one of those is loose in the city, we’re all in trouble.”

  Shaking his head, Jack said, “I’ve known you for almost a year, and yet I never realized you were delusional.”

  “No, I’m serious. Have you ever heard of Homer?”

  “Simpson?” joked Jack.

  “Don’t be a dick! I mean Homer, from the Iliad and the Odyssey,” Bryan said.

  Jack nodded. “Yes, I know Homer. I had to read the Iliad in high school. But, Bryan, that’s all fiction.”

  “I know that. The Sirens, as Homer called them, were just creatures of Greek Mythology. That’s all they were.” Tapping the page of the still-open book with his finger, Bryan added, “But they’re based on these creatures. Believe me, these are far more sinister than anything Homer ever wrote about.”

  Shaking his head, Jack replied, “Look, Bryan. I like you. You’ve got a great little store here, and I’m even willing to call you my friend.” Picking up the paperback book from the counter, Jack waved it in front of Bryan and said, “But you need to get your head examined if you think this shit’s real.”

  _______________

  Pulling his apartment door closed, Jack gave the knob a quick jiggle to ensure it was locked. He glanced toward the elevator, and then in the opposite direction. He walked down to the door of the apartment 4C and, leaning against the jamb, rapped on the door with his knuckles. Moments later, it swung open, and Jason Spinacker stood in the opening, wearing black workout pants and a sweaty t-shirt.

  “Jack!” he exclaimed.

  “Just wanted to make sure you were alive. You were a no show on Friday night. I assumed you got a better offer,” explained Jack.

  Jason’s face broke out in a mischievous grin. “Oh, I did. I hooked up with this gorgeous redhead from our HR department, and—”

  Jack put up his hand and interrupted his friend. “I don’t need to hear any details.”

  Smiling, Jason replied, “Let’s just say we violated a number of HR policies.”

  “Too much information, Jason.”

  “Did I miss anything, or should I say anyone, on Friday night?” inquired Jason.

  “There was this one woman. She came in a few hours after we opened,” began Jack, as he thought back to the blonde who he had seen. To his own surprise, he found himself saying, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so beautiful.”

  Jason shook his head. “I don’t go for beautiful. I only go for hot. And, when I say hot, I mean smoking.”

  Jack thought back to that Friday night. “Trust me, she turned every man’s head. You would’ve been putty in her hands.” He paused. “And you should have seen the way she danced. She hooked up with some guy, and they were bumping and grinding like they were the only ones in the club.”

  “Hm. I might have to make an appearance on Friday. Maybe she’ll come back,” Jason said.

  Almost as an afterthought, Jack remarked, “Oh, and they found a body in the alley between the club and parking garage on Saturday morning.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t really know anything about it. Someone mentioned it this morning.”

  “That’s just insane,” replied Jason.

  Glancing at his watch, Jack said, “I gotta go. Just wanted to say hello.”

  “You heading into the station?”

  Jack nodded.

  “I’d say that I’ll be listening, but I can’t stand that music,” joked Jason.

  Jack shook his head. “You and me both.”

  Chapter Seven

  Samantha hugged her overcoat tightly to her body as a cold wind raced down Thirteenth Street and caused her to shiver. The whole of Tuesday morning had been colder than normal, and even though it was approaching eleven thirty, it had not warmed up more than a degree or two from when Samantha had first walked out of her front door. The overcast skies above heaved their grey undertones across the city of Philadelphia. Despite the fact that it was two hundred years old, the colonial townhouse before her looked pristine, with bright white trim around the door, windows that looked freshly painted, and red brickwork that looked as if it may have been cleaned just hours before Samantha’s arrival. Even the stained glass, which filled in the arch over the door, seemed to glisten as if it had just received a vigorous washing with a cloth and a bottle of Windex. Two police cars and a black van from the medical examiner’s office were parked in front of the townhouse,
blocking traffic along the narrow street. Yellow police tape had been stretched from lamppost to drainpipe to handrail, creating a flimsy barrier which flapped in the wind. The maroon door stood open, and framed within the doorway was Peter Thornton.

  “No sign of forced entry,” he said.

  Samantha nodded her silent reply and gazed at each of the first floor windows, which framed the door on either side. Black wrought iron bars had been fastened to the outside of the windows to serve as a deterrent for would be thieves. It was a common sight in the city, and Samantha was not surprised to find them on such an immaculately maintained home. Glancing at the second floor, a pair of windows, perfectly matched with those below, looked as undisturbed as those on the first floor. Maroon shutters matching the front door flanked each window, and looked just as fresh and clean as the rest of the townhouse. Above the second floor windows, the roof sloped back from the front facade, and two small dormer windows protruded from out of the grey shingles.

  “How about around back?” she asked.

  Shaking his head, Peter replied, “Nothing back there either.”

  “Whoever did it was let into the house.”

  Samantha climbed the three white stone steps toward the door, and, as Peter stepped aside, she strode into the house. The aroma of stale potpourri penetrated her olfactory senses as she crossed the threshold. The narrow hallway beyond was covered with a dark, highly polished oak floor. A small brass chandelier hung from the ceiling of the hall, casting a golden incandescent glow over everything. The walls were an off-white, and held a collection of family photographs in black frames. At the opposite end of the hall, Samantha could see a brightly lit kitchen with cabinets the color of honey. Along the wall to her right was a narrow staircase with an intricately carved white bannister and dark stained wood treads leading upward to the second floor. An archway to her left led into a spacious living room, furnished in an eclectic mix of modern and antique furnishings. Stepping into the living room, Samantha saw an oversized beige leather sofa being flanked by two end tables that were fashioned from old sewing machine tables; the word “Singer” was framed in black cast iron above the old pedal underneath. An antique casual chair sat across from the sofa, the seat back covered with four rows of buttons forming diamond patterns in the aged brown leather. At the opposite side of the room was a tall distressed ebony bookcase filled with leather bound volumes. Samantha glanced at the titles, seeing classic works from Alexander Dumas, Edgar Allen Poe, Jules Verne, Herman Melville, and Robert Louis Stevenson. Despite the presence of four other police officers in the room, the old grandfather clock, which stood in the corner, could be clearly heard ticking away the passing of each second.

  Samantha knelt beside the corpse that was seated in the leather chair; she was startled by how similar the skin of the body was to the distressed leather. The long, flowing brown hair had a touch of grey along the sides, and gold hoop earrings dangled from the withered ears. The mouth was open, revealing two rows of sparkling white teeth. A pair of turtle shell reading glasses rested precariously on the tip of the emaciated nose. Dressed in an oversized housecoat, the skeletal body seemed to drown amidst the floral fabric, and Samantha guessed that the dead woman must have been a bit more overweight in life than she now was in death. Noting the oversized diamond ring on the left ring finger of the victim, she said, “I doubt robbery was the motive. No thief in his right mind would leave that ring behind.”

  Samantha rose to her feet, walked to the other side of the room, and knelt beside the second corpse lying on the floor beside the bookcase. This body was smaller than the other, but just as horrifying. Dressed in white shorts and a pink tank top, the cadaver was the size of a child, perhaps in her early teens, by Samantha’s judgment. The honey-colored hair was cut short, and the teeth were just as white as the adult corpse. A pair of Nike tennis shoes, which may have fit the wearer once, now hung loosely from small withered feet. The arms and legs were contorted and sprawled across the floor, giving the impression that it had not been a painless death. Samantha glanced back at the other corpse, and then returned her gaze to the child. Their killer, whoever it may be, was not discriminative.

  “What do we know?” she asked.

  Peter flipped his notebook open. “The house belongs to Dr. George Hardwick. He’s a fertility specialist with an office over near Thomas Jefferson Hospital. He’s married with one child, a girl. His wife’s name is Susan, and their daughter’s name is Kelly. Presumably the bodies are the wife and daughter.”

  “Any sign of the doctor yet?”

  Peter shook his head. “None.”

  “Who found them?”

  “The doctor hasn’t shown up for work since last Thursday. His receptionist, Nicole Greenwood, couldn’t get any answer at the house, or on the doctor’s cell phone. She called us and asked if we could check on the family. Officer Macklin found the front door unlocked.”

  Samantha rose and stepped out into the hallway. She gazed down the hall toward the kitchen, and then looked up the stairs. “Kitchen’s in the back? Bedrooms upstairs? Anything of interest?”

  “Not at first glance. But I’ve only taken a cursory look so far.”

  Samantha glanced back in at the two corpses in the other room. She wondered what kind of man Dr. Hardwick might be. Could he have killed his wife and child? Could he have killed the other victims as well? After having seen the security video footage from Pulsar over the weekend, Samantha and her partner had been working under the assumption that their killer was a woman. Now, she was reconsidering that assumption. A doctor might have specialized knowledge, Samantha reasoned, of drugs, substances, or methods for rapidly drying out a human body. Could he have dressed like a woman, and lured Saturday’s victim out of Pulsar? Could he have dressed convincingly enough to fool another man? Samantha had seen enough in the city of Philadelphia to know that female impersonation was almost an art form. She had met transsexuals who, when dressed for a night out on the town, could have easily taken in even the most astute man.

  Turning to gaze at the row of photographs on the wall, Samantha asked, “Is Hardwick in any of these photos?”

  Peter pointed to a large photograph framed in black. At first glance, the portrait showed a family of three, seemingly happy to be together. But a closer look told Samantha that things might not have been all that they seemed. The backdrop of the photo was a cloudscape, not unlike that which Samantha had seen in dozens of photographs before, usually victim photos. The three individuals had been arranged by height, with the young daughter in front. Samantha guessed that the daughter must have been ten or eleven when the photograph was taken, making it at least two years old. Her hair was slightly longer than that of the corpse in the other room, but had the same honey color. The wide smile revealed the same bright white teeth, as well as a pair of sparkling blue eyes. The young girl’s round face beamed for the camera with a childlike charm. Standing over the girl’s shoulder was an older woman, who, Samantha thought, was in her mid-forties. The brown hair curled up under the chin of her pudgy face, a slight double chin beginning to show. Despite the smile, her forehead held lines of worry that seemed to run deep. The blue eyes matched that of the daughter’s in intensity, and Samantha noted that the woman had worn the same earrings for the photo that were currently dangling from her dead ears.

  Towering above the girl and woman was a gaunt man with a rectangular face and chiseled chin. His narrow hazel eyes peered down the bridge of a long, thin nose, and his greying hair was still thick on top, but receding up his forehead. He had large ears, which jutted out from the sides of his head, and his smile seemed forced. He stoically stared at the unseen camera with a certain level of pomposity, and with an eager sense of wishing to be somewhere else. The three in the photograph made an interesting trio: the beautiful young daughter, the overweight worrisome mother, and the distracted father. Samantha wondered about the root of the father’s distraction and the
source of the mother’s worry. Could they have been related? She allowed her mind to theorize, with the usual scenarios surfacing in her thoughts. Financial troubles at home? An affair with another woman? Dissension in the marital bed? It could be just about anything.

  Looking at Peter, Samantha said, “I’d assume that a doctor—even a fertility doctor—would have enough knowledge to know how to drain the fluid out of a body.”

  “Doctors and undertakers. They both spring to mind,” replied Peter.

  “Yeah, but no undertakers have disappeared, leaving behind their dead family. Hardwick wouldn’t be the first doctor to crack and start killing people.”

  Peter shrugged his shoulders. “It’s possible, but it doesn’t explain the woman in the security footage.”

  Samantha glanced back at the photograph of the doctor and his family. She peered at his face, studying the hard lines in his cheeks, and the deep crow’s feet around his eyes. For a moment, she wondered if the doctor could have disguised himself as a female, but she let the idea pass.

  “No one would’ve fallen for him disguised as a woman,” she said. “Certainly not enough to get frisky in an alley. But we should add him to our suspect list.”

  Peter smirked. “I didn’t know we had a suspect list.”

  “We don’t, but it’s time to start one. And Dr. Hardwick is at the top of that list.”

  “I’m no medical practitioner, but I can’t see how he could have done this without some pretty advanced equipment,” said Peter. “We both saw that security footage. There was nothing there.” Pausing, he added, “When I was in college, I took a course on ancient Egyptian history—”