First Night Out

"Malik? Who is Malik?"
The voice on the other line cut and the dial tone hummed in Sam's ear. Typical Parks.
Well at least it is a lead. He pushed the phone across his cluttered desk and looked at the clock. 8:17 pm. Little over an hour before his meeting with this dead guy Malik. Sam snorted outloud. "Appreciate the notice Sire." Another debt he was sure to pay off later. But he was running out of options. Even a dead doctor has gotta make a living. Smuggling drugs and sewing up his sire's stooges for a year was getting old quick. A fucking waste of talent. Sam was getting impatient. Something had to break soon. Anything to get out from under his Sire's wing would be better than this.

He glanced across the pile of medical journals and out of date newspapers and grabbed one at random. October 27. He ruffled it's folded pages...dead bodies piled like matchsticks on the beach. A familiar story, all over the news. He combed the article twice, committing names and dates to memory. He grabbed his phone again and made a few quick calls. As the phone rang in his ear he thought to himself, "A little late to be getting interested, but I'm sure one of my contacts has got the info on THIS."

Minutes later Sam had the name of a morgue and the doc who performed the autopsy. Satisfied, he grabbed his coat and keys and went to the kitchen. A pang of hunger in his gut struck him suddenly. With some amusement he approached his dead man's fridge & examined the stacks of small square paper boxes and carefully arranged vials. "Nothing here to eat" he thought and stuffed a handful of barbituates and tranquelizers into his coat pocket along with a couple syringes. Just in case.

In minutes he was driving toward Port Canavaral to meet Malik.

Without taking his eyes from dark winding road, Sam reflexively pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket. About 20 minute until he arrived at the port. The image of piled up dead bodies haunted his mind. What the hell did this mean? Who did this? Why? For an instant he glanced at the passenger window and shuddered. His blurred face looked back. A melted wax mask. He would never get used to that. Or understand it. He had heard of that morgue his contacted mentioned and recalled the number from memory. Always been able to do that trick. Ever since he was a kid. An image of 4th grade science class flashed across his mind. Another A on your test Sammy. He forced the thought out of his mind and punched the glowing numbers. The morticians name was Summers. He would be a good place to start looking for answers about these murders. Sam had met him once or twice during his practice. Nice enough guy. Remembered his blue checkered tie, his thick glasses and balding pate. Sometimes Sam's patients would wind up in his care. Only so much a surgeon can do for some poor bastard who was pushed out of a fourth story window, or was hit by a bus, or was shot in the chest at close range. Goddamn it he would try though. "Let's hope Summers is on the late shift", Sam thought. The phone whirred in his ear. "Better use a fake name too."