Sirens in the Night

by Bradley, Michael;

  Chapter Eleven

  The ringing of her mobile phone stirred Samantha out of a deep sleep. Groggily, she groped at the bedside table in the dark searching for the device, which was blaring loudly throughout the bedroom. When her hand found the phone, she tapped the screen and placed the phone up to her ear.

  “What?” she muttered.

  “Sorry to bother you, Detective. But we’ve got another one,” responded the distant voice on the other end of the call.

  “Damn!” replied Samantha.

  “You haven’t heard the best bit. This one’s still alive.”

  Samantha suddenly sat bolt upright in her bed. “What?”

  _______________

  By the time she arrived at the Philadelphia General Hospital, it was closing in on four in the morning. It had taken her twenty-five minutes to pull on a pair of denim jeans and the Philadelphia Flyers sweatshirt she had been wearing the previous evening. Her Friday night had been uneventful and ended early when Samantha decided she was exhausted, turned off the DVD she had rented, and went to bed. It was the third time she had rented The Hunger Games, and it was the third time that she hadn’t finished watching it. A Friday night at home wasn’t unusual for Samantha; her lack of romantic involvement with anyone from the opposite sex had led to rumors among a few of her co-workers that Samantha might be a lesbian. They were rumors that she simply shrugged off. They could have their silly little fantasies, she would think. The truth behind her solitary evenings was one that was far different from the innuendo and rumors of her male counterparts. Samantha simply avoided romantic relationships. Having watched her mother suffer for years after her father was killed, Samantha refused to subject anyone to the same anguish. It was a lonely life, but one that she had chosen for herself. No loved ones in life, no one loved ones to devastate in death.

  The police dispatcher, who had disturbed her sleep, gave the detective only a brief hint of the details awaiting her at the hospital. Samantha had directed the dispatcher to call her partner, and have him meet her in the Emergency Room. Then, almost as an afterthought, she directed the dispatcher to refrain from calling the FBI. When she entered the hospital, all she knew was that a man had been attacked in the Penn’s Landing parking garage, and there were strange markings on his neck.

  _______________

  There were two uniformed officers, one in a pale blue shirt and the other in white, waiting in the reception area of the Emergency Room when she arrived. She knew one of the officers from her early days on the police force. Lieutenant Frank Gellar had only been a Corporal in Samantha’s district when she first joined the force. She hadn’t seen him in a few years, and was shocked at how he had aged. Gone was the acorn-colored hair to be replaced with a clean-shaven head. And Samantha couldn’t help but notice a slight expansion around the waist as well. She extended her hand, which he shook heartily.

  “Samantha, it’s good to see you again,” he said.

  “Lieutenant, I’m surprised to see you out in the middle of the night. Last I heard you were jockeying desks these days, and I mean days,” said Samantha.

  “It’s a bit of an unusual situation. I thought I might personally come and oversee things. I’m the one who had you called in,” explained Gellar. He gestured toward the other officer and added, “Samantha Ballard, meet Tony Maxwell. He was first on the scene and can give you all the details.”

  Samantha nodded toward the other officer. “What happened?”

  “My partner and I were patrolling down around Penn’s Landing area early this morning,” the officer explained. “It was twelve fifty-one when we circled past that night club—the place seemed to be really hopping—I don’t know if you’re familiar with the area, but there’s a parking garage right next to it. As we were passing, one of the stairwell doors opened. Out comes this woman, running like the devil. Darts straight out in front of us. She was lucky we were moving slow or she’d have been in the hospital as well.”

  Samantha interrupted. “Can you describe her?”

  “Absolutely. Won’t forget that face any time soon. But I doubt it’ll do you any good. She was wearing some kind of mask. She had to be. It’s the only way I can explain what I saw.”

  “Go on with your story. We can talk about her description in a minute,” directed Lieutenant Gellar.

  “So, her hands landed on the hood of the car, and she hissed at us before running off. As we jumped out of the car, the stairwell door opens again, and out comes a guy,” Tony Maxwell explained. “He’s chasing this woman. He sees us and says that he and his fiancé saw that woman attackin’ somebody in the garage. The woman was gone in seconds, so I called it in to dispatch. Then Brad—that’s my partner—and I followed the man back into the garage.”

  “Did you say she hissed at you?” inquired Samantha.

  “Yep. That’s what it sounded like,” Maxwell replied.

  “Go on,” commanded Samantha.

  “So, we get to the third floor, and there’s this girl kneeling beside another man. He’s in bad shape, just lying there, moaning. Called for a bus, but I wasn’t holding out hope that he’d make it.”

  Samantha asked, “Did you get a statement from the other man and his fiancé?”

  “Yeah.” Maxwell pulled a small notebook from his pocket, and flipped it open. “Steve Kinski and Dana Stark. They’d just come out of Pulsar, and they were parked on the third floor. He said they caught sight of this man and woman leaning up against the wall. He thought they were making out. But when they got closer, the man let out a loud scream, and it looked like the woman was choking him. Kinski said he shouted, and the woman let the man go, hightailing down the stairs. Steve chased her out into the street.”

  “Now give her the description,” ordered Gellar.

  Tony Maxwell seemed to hesitate for a moment before speaking. “If I hadn’t seen her face, I’d have sworn she was a model. One of those ones from Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. She was all curves, and they were all in the right place—if you know what I mean.” Maxwell glanced at Samantha for a moment, and then the young officer added, “Uh, pardon my comments, ma’am.” Samantha shook her head, and gestured for him to continue. “Long blonde hair, at least shoulder length. Skin-tight dress. Red, I think. But, her face . . .”

  The officer paused, reluctant to continue. “What about her face?” inquired Samantha.

  “It would have been the most beautiful face I’d ever seen, but her eyes . . . her eyes were glowing bright red, like fire. And, when she hissed at us, her teeth were . . . were like two rows of sharp spikes. That’s the best way I can describe them. It was like staring at some kind of wild beast.”

  The detective said, “Could’ve been a mask, like you said.”

  “If it was, it was a damn good one,” came Maxwell’s reply.

  “You and your partner didn’t give chase?” asked Samantha.

  Officer Maxwell shook his head. “By the time we had gotten out of the car, she had disappeared.”

  Samantha glanced at Gellar. “So, why call me? Sounds more like you need Animal Control.”

  “Come and see,” said the Lieutenant Gellar as he led her further into the hospital.

  _______________

  Pulling the curtain aside, Samantha stepped forward into the small examination area in the hospital’s Emergency Room. Before her was an occupied hospital bed, covered with a white sheet. Hanging from a post at the head of the bed were three IV bags, each connected to clear tubing that led down to the arm of the occupant of the bed. A nurse holding a clipboard was making notes while watching the heart rate monitor hanging from the far wall. Samantha gazed in amazement upon the unconscious figure lying in the bed. She estimated that the man was in his early thirties. The black hair on his head was disheveled, and his eyes closed. The flesh on his face had an indescribable dark tinge to it, and appeared taut around the eye sockets and chee
kbones. His arms, which she suspected would have normally been muscular, were thin and bony. She was certain that, at one time, he would have been a good looking young man, but now she found it difficult to even look upon his face without a sense of repulsion. It was one thing to see a corpse in that condition, but there was something horrifying about watching a living being in this state. Samantha watched with pity as the sheet across his chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.

  Lieutenant Gellar, who stood behind her, said, “I’ve seen some of the reports about this latest case. Take a look at his neck. Then you’ll understand why I called you in.”

  Samantha knew what she would find before she even looked. These marks, however, looked different than those that she had previous observed. Although the pinpricks still formed the shape of a human hand on either side of the victim’s neck, the pinpricks themselves seemed larger and fresher than those on the corpses of the previous victims. The flesh surrounding each hole was slightly raised as if still recovering from some invasive intrusion. Samantha gazed again at the victim’s face, feeling a mix of pity and helplessness. Helplessness because there was nothing she could do to stop this insanity from striking again. Pity because this latest victim had survived, and there was no telling what the impact would be on the rest of his life.

  “Have we identified him yet?” she inquired.

  “Yes. Sean DeMarco,” replied Gellar. “He’s thirty-one and lives in West Chester.”

  “What’s his prognosis? Is he going to live?” Samantha asked.

  “That depends on whether or not he’s left alone to get some rest,” came the reply from behind Lieutenant Gellar.

  The two police officers turned to face a tall, young-faced doctor in a striped, pale blue shirt and tan Dockers. A black stethoscope hung around his neck, and rectangular metal-framed eyeglasses rested on top of his long, thin nose.

  Introducing himself, the doctor said, “Doctor Alex Bock. I understand you’ve a job to do, but I’d appreciate it if you’d let my patient get the rest he desperately needs.”

  Samantha and the Lieutenant stepped out of the examination area, pulling the curtain closed behind them. The hectic bustle of one of the city’s busier ERs was all around them, with nurses moving quickly from one examination area to another. Heart-rate monitors beeped in an asynchronous rhythm, and voices from the hospital’s overhead paging system occasionally interrupted the controlled chaos going on around them. Leading them through a door marked “Staff Lounge,” the doctor gestured toward the coffee machine in the corner, and then took a seat at a round Formica-topped table.

  “Help yourself to coffee,” he said.

  As Lieutenant Gellar poured himself a cup of coffee, Samantha slid down into a chair across from Doctor Bock. Glancing around the cramped room, she saw a long row of lockers, not unlike the ones she remembered from high school gym class, lining the far wall. A pale peach-colored vinyl-covered sofa, which matched the chairs around the table, sat along one wall. It looked far from comfortable, and Samantha realized the style matched those that were in the Emergency Room reception area.

  Noting her gaze, Doctor Bock said, “It’s a leftover from when they refurnished the front waiting area.” Gesturing to the chair in which he sat, he added, “So are these charming objects of comfort.”

  “Only the best for the staff?” joked Samantha.

  “You could say that,” Bock replied. “They’ll spare no expense ensuring the front facade of the building is exquisitely architected, but . . .” He paused, and then said, “Well, you didn’t come to hear a young doctor whine about the spending habits of his hospital. You want to know about Mr. DeMarco.”

  Samantha smiled. “Could you give me an update on his condition?”

  “His condition? He’s lucky to be alive. That’s his condition. I’ve seen some weird shit come into this ER, but nothing like this.”

  Lieutenant Gellar inquired, “What do you mean?”

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that Mr. DeMarco had been lost in the desert for two weeks,” explained the doctor. “He’s lost at least twenty percent of his bodily fluid, possibly more. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen overnight. Yet, he’s dressed like he was heading out for a night on the town.” The baffled doctor shrugged his shoulders. “His BAC shows he’s had a few drinks in the last few hours. But, based on his condition, he shouldn’t have the strength to pick up a glass, let alone dress himself for a party. So I don’t know what to make of Mr. DeMarco.”

  Samantha asked, “What’s his prognosis?”

  Shaking his head, the doctor replied, “It’s hard to tell. He’s suffering from extreme dehydration. We’re trying to rehydrate with IV fluids, but we’ve got to be cautious. If we do it too quickly, we run the risk of causing osmotic cerebral edema.” The doctor rose from his seat and crossed to the coffee machine. As he poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup, he added, “He’s being transferred up to ICU shortly, but it’s going to be touch and go for a while. We can’t tell what damage his system sustained until we get him stabilized. In all honesty, I’m not even sure he’s going to survive the day.”

  _______________

  Half an hour later, Samantha was standing at the exterior entrance of the hospital’s emergency room, sipping a lukewarm cup of coffee. She breathed in the crisp morning air as the sun slowly began to rise over Philadelphia. The fog that went with not getting enough sleep was slowly fading as she watched a new day dawn. Somewhere in the city before her was a killer, who, for the first time, had made a mistake. It would always happen eventually. Whether it was arrogance or downright stupidity, every serial killer would start to make mistakes. The question would be whether or not Samantha could use the mistake to her advantage before the killer struck again. I don’t want a repeat of the last time, she thought. I won’t let it happen again.

  Still deep in thought, Samantha watched as a Dodge Charger pulled into the small parking lot opposite her, and slid into the only remaining spot left. She took a long sip of coffee, and then frowned at the taste. She watched as the driver of the Charger climbed from the car, and, in even strides, made his way to where she was standing.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  Peter Thornton apologized. “Sorry, couldn’t be helped.”

  “She must have been a really good lay for you to take this long to get here,” joked Samantha.

  Peter smirked. “If you must know, I was in Jersey staying at my parents’ place.”

  “Sorry to call you back. Looks like we’re now on a monster hunt,” said Samantha, as she tossed her cold coffee into the waste can sitting just outside of the entrance.

  “Monster hunt?”

  Samantha replied, “Yeah, just wait till you hear the juicy details.”

  The next fifteen minutes were spent with Samantha conveying the events of the past few hours. Peter, for his part, listened intently to the details without comment. When Samantha disclosed Tony Maxwell’s description of the mysterious woman, Peter raised his eyebrows in surprise, but made no comment. She finished her narrative with an overview of her conversation with the ER doctor, after which she waited silently for Peter to respond.

  “So, are Maxwell and his partner whizzing in a cup as we speak?” he said after several silent moments.

  “They’re the first eyewitnesses we have,” Samantha replied quietly.

  Peter shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t seriously believe them, do you?”

  “No one else has gotten a good look at our murderer.”

  “Our murderer has glowing red eyes? And fang-like teeth? What are we talking about, vampires? You can’t seriously be considering this valid eyewitness testimony!” Peter exclaimed.

  “Peter, keep your voice down,” Samantha said. “Look. Neither of us knows what’s going on here. We’ve got seven known dead victims, and an eighth that’s on the brink. We’ve got n
o clues and one missing suspect. What we now have are two eyewitnesses who can give us a description of our murderer.” She paused to collect her thoughts, forming her next words carefully. “I don’t doubt what they saw. There’s probably a reasonable explanation for it. Maybe she was wearing a disguise. Maybe the streetlights reflected off her contact lenses. I don’t know. What we need to do now is take their description, minus the glowing eyes and fangs, and start circulating it. Maybe someone’s seen her. If this woman really is as attractive as Tony said, she’s going to be hard to miss.”

  Peter responded, “I hope you’re right.”

  So do I, Samantha thought. So do I.

  Chapter Twelve

  Seven thirty on Sunday evening came far faster than Jack would have liked. Like most weekends, this one had been more or less a blur. He had spent another Saturday night playing poker in the back room of the Philly Brewing Company, where he had ended up losing twenty dollars. It was a bit steep considering that they had been playing penny ante. Charlie, the owner of the bar, never allowed the game to grow to anything larger than penny ante for fear that the police would shut him down for illegal gambling. Jack wasn’t sure how much of Charlie’s concerns were grounded in reality considering that one of the regular players was an off-duty Philadelphia police officer.

  Jack had once again slept Sunday away, and now, having risen from his slumber, was feeling bored with his life. He kept telling himself that the endless cycle of tedium would be the death of him if he didn’t do something to change it. Thinking back to his college days, Jack remembered the little Mexican restaurant just off campus where he would hang out every weekend. It had a small dance floor in the back room, and a buddy from his college radio station would spin records there every Friday and Saturday night. There had never been a big crowd, but the food was good, and the drinks were cheap. And, most importantly, Emma was there, and they would dance until closing time. That was all that mattered in those days. He recalled the night he had asked Emma to marry him. Neither of them was even old enough to drink, but they were so deep in love that their age didn’t seem to matter. “After college,” she had replied. That had been good enough for him. But now, as the tedium threatened to encompass yet another week, he sat on the edge of his bed, lost in his memories, and staring aimlessly at the wall. Jack simply shrugged his shoulders in surrender. It’s just another week, he thought.