A Jar of Darkness, part two

     

            Alex twisted his head around to watch the decaying tower of the Horowitz mansion disappear among the boring cityscape of their ordinarily uneventful town. His left hand started tingling and finally went numb from the handcuffs restraining him behind his back. He carefully and systematically repeated every detail of his evening. Like a song on replay, he burned every detail into his memory.

              Though technically in the same space as two police officers, his internal solitude immersed Alex in an ocean of depression. "You would think that a bloody pentagram would've clued us in to something dangerous. Triple homicide with no witnesses. I've listened to enough true crime podcasts to know that I'll be in prison for the remainder of my life." He leaned his head back on the headrest and stared into the star-speckled black sky, trying to imagine his life in prison without friends. With an abrupt jerk, the car suddenly stopped, and he was aggressively pulled from the back seat.

              With his chin resting on this chest, he watched his feet shuffle across the blacktop, coming to the realization that his shoes were the last thing his friends saw. "Josh, Sarah, and Kelly are my best friends, well... were my best friends," he thought. He and the two officers crossed the threshold into the police station, and he caught a glimpse of his parent's car across the street. Keeping his vision directed to the floor, hundreds of eyes stared at him as he weaved through the station. Memories of too many Hollywood crime dramas flashed through his mind as he looked into the interrogation room. "Pale green room, two-sided mirror, inexpensive metal chair and table and handcuffs. No one will believe my story, shoot, even I don't believe my story."

              He slowly slid his chair back with a high-pitched screech, placing his forehead on the table. "Remember every detail, Alex," he told himself. "The story must be carefully delivered and be consistent. Don't talk without a lawyer. I could feign insanity, I suppose." It was at that specific moment that the emotional weight of the evening nearly crushed him. The door to his immediate left clicked open and heavy, shuffling footsteps crossed the room toward him, to be followed by the labored breathing of someone who clearly didn't exercise enough.

              "You are one messed up kid, Alex," the fatigued, sweaty, and overweight officer said.

              "I'm not talking until I see my parents and my lawyer," he said without looking up. Though his forehead was chilled from the table, he refused to move. The dull sounds of his friends dropping to the floor replayed in his memory, while his stomach continued to twist with a threat to give up his dinner from the night before.

              The sound of labored breathing and the lonely ticking of the clock above the door gave him something to focus upon other than his sorrow. Time seemed to shift into slow motion as the discount aluminum door handle complained about repeated abuse. The door shushed open, followed by three sets of footsteps. "Finally," he muttered. "Dad, Mom, and a lawyer, I assume." A powerful squeeze on his shoulder triggered a stabbing pain through his entire person, followed by a gentle rub on his opposite shoulder. "Dad and then Mom," he presumed. The thought of looking his parents in the eyes at a moment like this terrified him. Meeting one's parents at a police station at two in the morning never ends well.

              Unable to address the emotional distress on his face, he sat up stained by tear streaks. Keeping his focus on everyone's mouth, he avoided the awkward looks of confusion and accusation. "Officer Mihalski," the lawyer said. "I will be representing Alex Chilewbi and we need some time for private dialog, if you don't mind. Oh, also, please remove the handcuffs." Alex continued to avoid eye contact and he listened the morbidly obese officer wheeze out of the room.

              "Young man, eye contact please," the lawyer said. Raising his head from the cold, cheap aluminum table, Alex looked into the face of a disgruntled, middle-aged man, clearly not happy about being pulled from his evening slumber. "There are a number of questions to answer in the next few minutes," he said. "Please be concise, specific, and completely honest."

              "Yes, sir," Alex answered. Rotating his wrists to regain circulation, he stood up and paced the crowded room. He launched into the detailed recollection of the entire evening, beginning with their initial conversation from days before about visiting the Horowitz mansion. Each event rolled off his tongue exactly as he had rehearsed in his mind for the last hour. The crushing weight of the memory of the sound of his friends dropping to the floor nearly broke him again. "It's all there," he said. "That strangely empty and foul library will corroborate everything I've said."

              The silence that followed his monolog only amplified the awkward ambience. Again, averting his eyes, he returned to his chair and once again rested his forehead on the table. A shudder passed through his body as images and memories from the previous evening returned. A gentle nudge from his mother pulled him out of the sleep he didn't realize had overtaken him. "I haven't slept since yesterday," he groaned. "Do you need anything else from me?"

              "No, that will suffice," he answered. "I'll organize my documentation and submit it to the court. As your legal advisor, I should warn you that it is highly unlikely your retelling of the events of that evening will be embraced as true. Your recollection is bizarre and honestly, unconvincing. The judge and lawyers will decide how to proceed."

              The following morning, a large group of elderly neighbors stood on sidewalk opposite the yellow police tape fronting the Horowitz mansion. "There is something unnatural about that house," one of them said. "From the day those Jews moved in, something was very wrong." The group of gawkers fell into silence and watched as police officers and men in dark suits entered and exited the house. A heated argument erupted between what appeared to be FBI agents and construction workers.

              Another twenty-four hours transpired as the same collection of elderly watched from their windows while the crime scene tape was removed. An unusually strong wind carried flotsam through every available open space as well as the bitter stench of decay. "Oh, thank God," one of them said, stepping onto his front porch. "The demolition company has returned. But good lord, what is that smell?" The Horowitz mansion stared at him across the street with a sour look on its face, tempting him to continue his complaints.

              A massive front loader rolled down from the trailer carrying it and crept across the sidewalk toward the house, to suddenly stop. All four tires could be seen spinning while the tractor remained fixed in place. The crew chief stopped leaning on his shovel and walked around the entire tractor, scratching his head. The tractor was removed from the scene to be replaced by a dump truck that also failed in its attempt to approach the house. Again, the crew chief circled the dump truck, doubly confused. The elderly crowd could see him waving and pointing toward a group of laborers and back toward the house.

              The group of men with large necks and Carhartt's retrieved sledgehammers from the truck bed and approached the house, only to be stopped as their tools of destruction appeared to be stuck at the property line as well. The crew chief motioned for the workers to return and walked to the center of the street, talking on his phone. "It's the strangest thing," he said. "Something is stopping all of the demolition equipment from entering the property. My men are able to enter, but no tools. "

              He shoved his phone into his pocket and circled the workers around him. After a subdued explanation, which no one could hear, they and all of the equipment left the premises. Sometime after lunch, a small sedan pulled along the street in front of the mansion, to unceremoniously eject a haggard and overweight Roman Catholic priest to the sidewalk. A myriad of curtains shifted as elderly neighbors curiously watched the man pace the sidewalk in front of the house. Within moments, three men in suits arrived as well, to engage in a heated argument. "Fine, go ahead," one of them said, "but you cannot go in alone."

              The four men disappeared into the still gaping wide open front door. The neighbors watched, they waited, but nothing seemed to be happening. Eventually the entire neighborhood stood on their front steps looking at the house, expecting what they didn't know. Like the sound of a small explosion, the fat priest was violently vomited from an upstairs window, to only crumple in a bloodied, motionless heap upon the sidewalk. Within seconds, the three men in suits literally ran from the house and surrounded the body.

              The police arrived and gathered statements, leaving everyone doubly troubled, confused, and distraught, all at the same time. Just before evening arrived, a large group of city workers surrounded the mansion in chain link fence with warning signs.