The Biker's Doctor

Chapter Eight

I drove straight to the Menlo Park Police Station, which was the closest station to my home, located just a few minutes' drive away. I had never actually been to that station before, or any police station for that matter. The only reason I knew where it was was that I had often driven past it.

In fact, I don’t remember ever talking to a police officer in my entire life, apart from maybe once or twice being pulled over for a routine drug and alcohol check. Those conversations were like scripted encounters with the most bored cops in the world. They were filling quotas. And pulling me over in a Porsche as a person who had never even touched a single drug in her life or even had a speeding ticket, resulted in nothing beyond that script of – hello – blow into this please – thank you and have a good night. I had a spotless record, even if my father had a history with the police that was probably as thick as a novel. What circumstance had brought me to the kind of situation where I had to enter a police station?

For some reason, I'm worried I'll miss both my morning lectures and my date with the Cadaver I planned to examine tomorrow. I will have to make up that revision study time. No one can afford to waste time this close to exams. Every hour spent on revision could be vital.

Damn it. School is the last thing I should be thinking about. I put my thoughts on studying out of my mind, and they were instantly replaced with the shock of what had just happened.

I don't even remember the drive. My mind was in turmoil over what had occurred at the apartment complex. I tried to remember the face of the man I had seen hovering over Brian, gun in hand. The gun was something I had seen before. When my father was shot, I saw a silhouette of a man reaching for something, and before I knew it, there was a bang, and I was on the pavement like a crash test dummy. I had just spotted the same solid matte black instrument in the hands of a killer.

His name was Johnny. Black hair slicked back into a tight ponytail. Tanned European skin gave way to the icy chill. Hallow dark brown eyes staring back at me. Daunting and seemingly beyond one's control. His eyes sent the Arctic breeze over my neck. My gut instinct that I was in danger was spot on. I think that man will be forever indented in my memory. I will report exactly what he looked like to the police. There is an armed man last seen in Menlo Park that the police need to question right now.

I wish it were not the case, but my memory of the last time I had heard gunfire like that flooded my memory. A matte black GLOCK 22 was the gun I was told was used to shoot my father, and the one I had just seen looked the same. I'm not sure if it is my memory playing tricks on me. The shock I am feeling may be connecting the worst memory possible to what has just happened, with the connection being a gunshot. I never thought I would ever see a gun again, at least I hoped I wouldn’t. Now my mind was telling me to recognise the weapon that man Johnny was holding looked the same. Was that even possible? No, surely not. Most common guns must look alike. That is the only likelihood given the fact that I thought the weapon seemed the same as the one that shot my father. A gun is a gun. I could not tell the difference between them for the life of me.

I pulled into the station’s car park, which had a decent number of free spaces. I backed up into a far enough away slot from the entrance that backed onto an alleyway to the side of the main building. My father had always told me to park my car a reasonable distance away from other vehicles and the entrance. It reduced the likelihood of my car being scratched by other doors opening next to it or by being backed into. Even now, such advice had become a force of habit as I was parked in the slot the furthest from the station’s entrance.

I glanced around the car park, and no other car had followed me here. I was not chased, that is good.

I opened the swing door to the station and was met with a warm welcome from a hefty African American woman, who was turning pages of a manila folder. Her smile was still and practiced as she appraised me with a professional eye, determining the reason I was there at nearly One O’clock on a Thursday morning.

I briefly looked around my surroundings. A board covered a rectangular wall with cheap tacks, holding up loose pieces of paper with arrest issues, warrant notices, and even someone’s lost parrot. A janitor’s bucket of soapy water was half-filled, with a mop next to it, waiting for its attendant to return from a break from late-night cleaning. A complete vending machine sat, its lights on, filled with unhealthy snacks. It was the exact kind of machine I would raid the University Library for anything with enough substance to pull an all-night cram before an exam. Not tonight.

"Can I help you?" She asked, pushing the manila folder to her side, which inched against a steaming cup of black coffee as dark as her own beautiful, coal-black skin.

A thick Southern state accent did not fit the area. She had come from somewhere else. Her stunning ebony body could be making gumbo in a New Orleans kitchen, listening to dated jazz and blues.

Dressed in my dark purple silk shirt, tucked into a long, thin white skirt, and wearing black two-inch high-heels, I definitely didn't look like a drug dealer or convict. That seemed like a relief to her. It was clear that I was affluent and not about to cause her any annoyance, this late at night or, should I say, this early in the morning. Little does she know what I was about to tell her.

"I saw a crime in my apartment building." I stuttered out, trying to calm my nerves.

It was impossible to hide my dismay. My voice shook with the reminiscent fear.

I thought about using the word murder. However, I was unaware of Brian's fate. I heard one single shot and saw him as what appeared to be lifeless on the floor. The man who fired that shot was only a few feet from Brian. If he intended that shot to be fatal, as I feared, then it would not take much from him to aim precisely for that outcome. I had to think that, yes, I do believe Brian is dead. I just hoped with all my heart that I was wrong.

The dark beauty said nothing. She just looked at me blankly, trying to understand the situation that I, in fact, was still trying to come to grips with myself.

My sudden outburst about the crime was not a sufficient explanation. I needed to give more.

"I overheard a fight taking place between my neighbour and someone he let into his apartment just past midnight.” My voice still shook, “I heard shouting and things breaking. I looked next door, where I could see some of my next-door apartment from my balcony. I saw that the man he fought with had a gun and had shot him."

As I drew a deep breath after the statement, the look of calm left the female police officer's face, quickly replaced by urgency. A man was injured, and perhaps fatally.

"The man with the gun then tried to get into my apartment. I can only think that he knew I overheard everything. I ran through my back garden to my car and drove straight here."

I hated that I thought this experience sounded utterly ridiculous. It simply sounded like a nightmare, and with all my heart, I wish it had been. I was even ready for her to ask if I was joking or playing a prank. She might even suspect drugs.

"Can you give me your address? I will send a patrol car and an ambulance." She quickly stood from her seated position behind the glass.

I gave her the details of my apartment. Still standing, she picked up her phone and dialed a single-digit number. She repeated my address to whoever was on the end of that line and sent a patrol car with 'Code 2' to my apartment, along with dispatching an ambulance. She did not hang up the phone. She ended the call with a click of a button and dialed another number with the same urgency.

An ambulance and an armed patrol car. Thank God. I thought to myself.

"Detective Jones, can you please come down to reception? There is a young lady here who wants to report a crime. I will put her in a room to speak with you." She then hung up the phone. “We will need a formal statement of what you saw tonight. We will need as many details as you can remember. Are you up to that?”

I gave her a single nod. Yes, I was ready to provide them with as much information as they needed.

She made the steps that she had taken seem mediocre when I was still feeling panic. I actually started to feel nauseated as the adrenaline was passing from me. I wanted to throw up, but I was holding that back. I needed to remain calm. I was safe here. This woman was taking my situation very seriously. I wasn't in danger anymore. I am with the police, armed police. I am safe.

"My name is Alicia.” She said, lowering the phone back to its place. “Come with me. I will show you to an interview room where you can speak with our Detective on duty and give that statement," She said, hitting a buzzer for the door next to her.

I heard a lock unclick in the door next to the glass shield. I opened the door and followed the police officer named Alicia into a very vacant station. The second I was through the locked door, I felt even safer. Even if that man at my apartment had followed me here in his Lexus, which I had not seen behind me, there is no way he would have followed me into a police station once he saw where I had driven.