“In
other news, a rash of murders in Soho have police baffled. Five women
have been found brutally slain in the last four months, all of them
dark-haired and in their mid-twenties. While originally denying the
similarities, the police now admit that the crimes appear to be the work
of a serial killer. The murders have all taken place after midnight and
other news sources have dubbed the killer “The Midnight
Strangler." Police have no suspects at this time. Now, on to the
weather! Larry, how is this weekend shaping up?”
“Well,
Mike, it’s going to be a cold one as a blast of Arctic air comes in
from the north.”
Sylvia
lay on the couch, the only light in the apartment coming from the
flashing of the television screen.
Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. A pile of tissues lay on the
floor where she’d carelessly dropped them when they’d gotten too
soggy. They joined a week’s worth of empty frozen dinner trays, candy
wrappers, and audition sections from the paper. The paper was marked
with circles that had subsequently been crossed out.
This
bout of depression was the worst she’d had in months.
The
phone rang on the table by the kitchenette. The machine picked it up
after two rings. Sylvia heard her own flat voice echo through the
apartment.
“Hello. You have reached Sylvia Martin. I don’t feel like answering
the phone right now. Deal with it.”
“Sylvia,” a voice sighed deeply, “it’s your mother. Again. I
know you’re in one of your black moods but I really need you to call
me back. Your father and I want to arrange a flight back home for you
this Thanksgiving. I want to make a reservation as soon as possible to
get the best price. You know I hate it when you leave everything to the
last minute.” Another sigh.
“And
please let me know if you’ll need help covering the rent again. I
should get the check out soon. Oh, and your sister says hello. She’s
gotten herself another raise. Can you believe it? She was always
the…”
The
machine cut off.
She’d
settled back into the bliss of apathy when the phone rang again.
“Sylvia,
I am going out tomorrow to get you a new answering machine. This one
always cuts me off. It drives me crazy! Anyway, as I was saying…”
With
a snarl, Sylvia leaped up from the couch, strode across the room, picked
up the answering machine and ripped the cords out. She looked around for
something heavy to smash it with. To her right, she saw her stone statue
of the Hindu god Ganesha, remover of all obstacles.
“Ha!”
she grabbed the heavy statue and held it above her head. She teetered
for a second, a manic smile splayed across her face. Then she brought
the statue down on the offending machine with all of her might. The
machine smashed to pieces. Other than a small nick, the statue remained
intact.
“Shit!”
she yelled in frustration. She grabbed the statue and let it fall again.
Not even a nick this time. Sinking to the floor she cried as the
elephant god looked on benignly. Her sobs stopped at the loud pounding
on the door.
“Go
away,” she whispered. “Go away, go away, go away.”
After
a few minutes, the pounding stopped.
She
walked back over to the couch and flopped down dramatically. Taking a
look around her apartment, she assessed where her life was at the age of
thirty-two.
She
was supposed to be famous by now. A well respected Broadway actress. To
show her mother just how talented she really was. And she sure as hell
should be making way more money than the sainted Valerie. She
should have married a director or producer, be living in a spacious
place over looking Central Park. She should have already taken time off
from her successful career to have two beautiful children. She was meant
to be the good one for a change.
Instead,
she lived in a loft with a grimy view of the brick wall of making up the
apartment building next door. Her drapes were drawn shut and the plants
by the window were long dead. She’d never had a man back to frolic on
the pull out bed and the bedroom activities of the girl in the apartment
next to hers reminded her of this frequently. Her acting career
consisted of walk-ons, crowd scenes, and an appearance as a stuffed
ravioli outside a newly opened Italian restaurant.
She
brought a cat home once, but it didn’t like her. Her mother ended up
picking it up and giving it to her sister. It loved her sister.
Looking
down at herself, she saw the ends of her ash brown hair, fine and
unwashed. She’d worn the same monkey themed pajamas for days. She
could see pizza stains from two days ago and the grape jelly stains from
this morning. The belly she’d hoped was a tapeworm infestation was
just another mark of how lazy she’d become.
She
flipped off God then sat down heavily on the couch, feeling empty except
for her continuing anger at the indifferent fates. She could really do
it this time, she thought. Make them all feel sorry for the way they
treated her.
Lifting
the knife that lay across the cardboard left from last nights frozen
pizza, she brought it to her left wrist and held it there. It was poised
to slit along the length of her arm. She knew that was the way to do it
after her second attempt.
The
attending doctor had walked over to where she lay and studied her chart.
Tiredly, he’d looked down at her wounds and shook his head.
“You’ll
never do it that way. You’ve saw across tendons and only hit maybe two
veins at the most. You’ve got to take the knife and run it this
way.”
He’d
picked up her arm and demonstrated for her.
“You’re
just playing a game otherwise.” He signaled to a man at the edge of
the gurney.
“Mike,
come on over and stitch this young lady up.” The man named Mike came
over and grabbed a suture kit from a metal tray.
“I’m
going to get you admitted to the psych ward. Maybe they can sort you
out. Good luck.”
She
had been sorted, medicated and released. Five times.
Holding
the knife to her wrist, she began to shake, breath coming in shallow
bursts. Pressing down harder, the skin split and a small bubble of red
life pulsed out. Feeling faint, she dropped the knife.
“Shit!”
She
was too terrified of guns to even contemplate using one, let alone even
knowing where to get one. She’d gagged every time she’d tried pills.
She couldn’t tie her shoelaces tight, let alone a noose. Even as a
suicide, she was a fuck up.
Tears
streamed down her face and she wiped them angrily away. Picking up
Ganesha and throwing him at the TV was becoming a very real possibility.
Grabbing the remote, she rested her thumb on the power button. Her thumb
hovered in indecision when a breaking news report came on. She un-muted
the TV.
“In
breaking news: A body has been found in a dumpster near Wooster and
Prince. The body is that of Winona Mack, a local textile artist, whose
work is appearing at the Soho gallery, Oz, this month. She disappeared
late last night. Friends say she stepped out for a late dinner after
setting up in the gallery. She was found beaten, raped, and strangled.
An anonymous call tipped the police off to the body’s location.”
Sylvia
stared, transfixed.
“Police
say that all indications lead them to believe that this is, indeed, the
work of a serial killer operating in the area. Locals have begun to
refer to him as The Midnight Strangler due to his proclivity for killing
on or after midnight. An ident team is swarming the area, looking for
any evidence that will lead them to the killer’s identity.”
Now
Sylvia smiled her first real smile in weeks.
An
idea had occurred to her; a good idea. If at first you don’t
succeed, get someone else to do it for you.
The
news anchor droned on.
“The
first five victims are linked by startling similarities. With more on
that, we have Tim Stefford at the scene. Tim?”
“Yes,
Josh. The killer seems to prefer dark-haired women in Bohemian clothing.
All the victims have lived or worked in the Soho art district and all
are women in their mid-twenties. All have been found with a red Obi sash
wrapped tightly around their throats.”
Getting
up and looking in the mirror, she knew the ash brown just wouldn’t do.
“Anything
else, Tom?”
“Yes,
Josh. All of these women have been very eye-catching. One, Belinda
Combs, worked as a model for many years and Jeanette ‘Crash’ Simms
was a singer with a local band, Body Farm, known to have a huge
following. Her stage attire was a bit provocative.”
The
television screen was filled with the images of the two women.
“Thanks,
Tim. We’ll have more on that story and more tonight at 11.”
Looking
from the TV back to the mirror, Sylvia frowned.
How
in the hell was she going to pull off eye-catching? Putting her hair up
and striking poses in the mirror, Sylvia smiled again. Nothing a decent
dye job, a day at the spa and some new clothes wouldn’t take of.
She’d been pretty, once. She laughed at the irony of it all. All she
had to do to get famous was die.
The
next morning, Sylvia was at a hair salon, newly dyed head under a dryer
and nails being buffed and polished. When she emerged, Jean-Luc cut her
hair, and on completion, smiled at her reflection.
“Is
that eye-catching enough?”
After
a critical appraisal, Sylvia said simply, “That’ll do.”
By
that afternoon, she’d had a body scrub, a body polish, seaweed wrap,
and she’d shopped for the most Bohemian outfit she could find.
Trying
on outfit number four, she asked the sales woman if it this was truly
Bohemian.
“Well,
yes it is. But you must know, Bohemian is on the way out.”
“So
am I.” She said handing the woman her mother’s credit card.
She
took a cab to Soho that night, pulling nervously at the fringed belt and
full sleeves of her coat. She made her way to Prince Street and was
surprised to see the bustle of activity around her.
“Don’t
these people know there’s a killer on the loose?”
The
bars were teeming with life. They were warmly lit and had constant
traffic. Walking down Wooster to Broome, she saw couples holding hands,
groups talking and laughing with each other. A longhaired man had a
woman perched precariously on the back of his bike as he made his way
the down the street. They laughed together as he hit a pothole and she
almost fell off.
“Damn!
This is really depressing. How is a girl supposed to attract a murderer
in this throng?”
She
walked up and down the streets of Soho for a good forty minutes. Leaning
on a mailbox, she tried to catch her breath. Being a victim was a lot of
work. There was a tug on her sleeve. She turned to see a tall,
good-looking man of about thirty staring intently at her.
“You
look lost.”
“I
am.”
Squinting
at him, she saw a faint scar on his chin. His eyes were hazel and
crinkled at the corners from smiling. His clothing was casual, but
expensive looking, and his shoes were unscuffed. He didn’t look like a
serial killer.
“Um,
I’m waiting for someone. I’m sure he’ll take me where I want to
go.”
“Where’s
that?” His voice was soft and deep. Sylvia felt a warmth seep into
her. The timing couldn’t be worse.
“Oh,
hell.” She sighed. This wasn’t supposed to be happening, this fiery
bloom inside of her.
“Such
a dark and lonely place for such a beautiful woman.”
She
laughed.
He
smiled again and placed his hand on her sleeve.
“Let
me take you someplace light and crowded in the meantime.”
“I’m
not good in crowds.”
“Then,
maybe someplace light and private?”
She
laughed again and nodded her head.
A
few drinks later and happiness suffused Sylvia’s being.
“I’ve
never met anyone I’ve felt so at ease with before.”
“Good.
Then, maybe you won’t find it boorish of me to suggest a more intimate
location for us to continue talking.”
“Oh,
I don’t know.”
“A
walk?”
“Well,
I was actually…”
“A short walk?”
With
a nod and another laugh, Sylvia agreed. Outside she rubbed her hands. It
was cold and she hadn’t been able to find Bohemian gloves. He offered
her his gloves but she declined.
He
crooked his arm and she wound her arm through his. She felt amazement at
the simple pleasure of walking down the street with a man at her side.
As they rounded a corner, she began to think her quest this evening may
no longer be needed. Noticing they’d stopped walking, Sylvia was
pulled from her reverie. Looking around, she was surprised at how dark
it seemed all of the sudden.
“Where
did all the people go?”
“Let’s
see. It’s just after midnight on a Tuesday in mid-October. I imagine
most people will be either on their way home, to bed or three people
deep in a bar.”
“Oh,”
she said and began to fidget.
“Are
you nervous?”
“Yes,
actually. I am.”
“You
should be,” he said, slamming her hard into a wall. All the air had
been knocked out of her lungs and she slid to the ground gasping.
He
grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to a corner behind a dumpster.
Pulling her up by her coat, he pushed her against the wall and covered
her mouth with his gloved hand.
Pushing
hard against her with his body, he began tugging off the coat.
She
froze. Her mind screamed at her to get away, but she couldn’t move.
She was spellbound by what was happening to her. It couldn’t be real.
The
coat was belted and his one-handed fumbling wasn’t releasing it.
Angrily, he slammed her head into the wall and she dropped heavily to
the ground. When the coat was finally off, his activity became more
meticulous.
Through
a haze, Sylvia was aware of pinching, biting, and punching. She thought
she saw him pull something from inside his jacket pocket. It looked like
some kind of gun.
“No,”
she croaked. Her hand flew up of its own accord and started hitting him.
It was like hitting stone. She grabbed at his hair and pulled. He
punched her in the face.
“That
was a mistake.” He growled low in his throat.
“No!”
Sylvia’s voice was little more than a whisper. “I don’t want to
die!”
She
felt cold metal against her temple. She heard a clicking noise, then
there was a flash and everything went black.
“And
in other news tonight, another body has been found in the Soho area. A
man checking the dumpsters for aluminum cans came across the body and
phoned the location in to police. A press conference this afternoon
revealed that this murder is not associated with The Midnight Strangler.
A police representative stated that, while in this case, there appeared
to be are a few similarities to the other Strangler: a dark-haired
victim, the Bohemian-style clothing, and the location of the body. All
other victims were strangled. The latest victim was shot in the head at
close range.
Now, on to the weather. Things are really warming up out there, Larry.
Is it going to stick around for the weekend?”
Copyright 2006 by
Jennifer Jordan
Jennifer Jordan is the fiction and
special features editor of Crimespree Magazine. Her work has
appeared in January Magazine, Plots with Guns, and is
forthcoming in the erotica anthology STIRRING UP A STORM (Thunder's
Mouth Press, November 2005.) She lives in Wisconsin and can often be
found blogging at http://humanunderconstruction.blogspot.com
