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This message Progeny #1: Walk Where Secrets Reign was
posted by Fin Fang Foom
Presents: A New Character For The Parodyverse on Tuesday, April 23, 2002
at 17:48.
Progeny #1
Last of Kin
-----
You come out at night
That's when the energy comes
And the
dark side's light
And the vampires roam...
(...)
'cause you're working
Building a mystery,
Holding on and
holding it in
Yeah, you're working
Building a mystery
And choosing
so carefully
--"Building a Mystery", Sarah McLachlan
-----
"I'll bet you fifty bucks that paper has reverse-magnetic qualities."
For a moment, the two-desk office hung in silence. Overflowing bookcases
and splotchy-grey filing cabinets looked on. Muffled, wandering conversations
softly thumped through the closed door. Then, a short--and
short-haired--brunette fished a wallet out of her navy slacks, and two twenties
and a ten floated onto a cluttered oak desk. She proceeded to draw both of her
arms around her loose white shirt, crossing them, and gave Arthur Caldwell a
smirk.
Aside from being slightly stunned that Julie had actually taken
him up on his offer, Arthur was quick to respond. He ran a hand down his black
tie, rose from his creaky wooden chair, and snatched a file-folder off of his
own desk, which faced Julie's. Then, he held the folder up as if it were a
newly-won trophy; presenting it both to her, and to an imaginary crowd, with
flourish. She was half-tempted to start doing a polite golf-clap in appreciation
of the amazing file...whatever it was.
"Observe," he said, taking on the
grand tone of a magician. "An ordinary file-folder: nothing special inside,
nothing unusual about it." He then proceeded to show her that nothing was up
either of his sleeves--which was true in the literal sense; though he certainly
had an ulterior motive, when it came to keeping her attention.
The
animated behavior didn't become him: he was actually pretty plain-looking, in
his nondescript black suit, and brown hair that could've belonged to anyone. He
was at least three heads taller than her, but somehow managed to be the only
six-foot-eight guy in the city that no-one ever noticed.
On the other
hand, the majority of high-school students were taller than Julie, but she still
managed to attract the attention of most guys in the office. Arthur liked to
think that he was different from "most guys", but when it came to Julie, he
found that his Bad Male Traits (tm) would flare up. Not the least of which
involved unstoppable self-humiliation, and uncontrollable staring...the former
of which he seemed to have made a good start at, in just the last minute or so.
Second thoughts made him hesitate...
She looked expectant. "Well, c'mon,
let's see this thing. I want to see how you make paper...what was it?
Reverse-magnetic, yeah."
It was too late to stop now. Arthur calmly
opened the door, nodded to her solemnly, and then dashed out of their office.
She made a surprised noise, tossed her reading glasses on her desk, and rushed
after him.
Once in the hall, she let out a sigh of relief when she saw
that he'd reduced his speed to a trot. When it came to public situations, she
was over-sensitive to embarrassment. And trying to keep up with a running man,
in the middle of her workplace...she shuddered. Her friends loved to tease her
in crowded places, just to watch her react. Now, they were both stepping
briskly, going...somewhere. She remained a few paces behind him, and wasn't
entirely sure what he was up to.
They were walking along a maple-colored
wooden floor, going down the hall that led to what they liked to call "Grand
Central"--a spacious center office that was at the crossroads of all the halls
on their floor. This was actually a branch of the Parodiopolis District
Attorney's office: the division that prosecuted all crime that took place in the
Pierce Heights borough.
It looked vaguely rustic, with lots of
dark-stained wood and turn-of-the-century-styled furnishings. In Grand Central,
the wooden floor was covered by a massive powder-blue-and-black throw rug. A row
of skylights created a series of solar rectangles that shone on the floor. The
walls were panels of oak--huge squares that were about as wide as refrigerators,
if slightly taller. These panels created a circle around the room, interrupted
only by the six doorless halls which led into it. It was a secretaries'
paradise: rows of desks, with the sound of copiers, fax machines, and printers
creating a never-ending backbeat...
Arthur walked smoothly through the
wild activity of the room, wading through overworked legal clerks, low-level
assistant DA's who were engaged in brainstorming, and the occasional witness. He
turned to face Julie, who was still on the periphery of the action--he held up
the flat of his hand, indicating that she didn't have to go any further.
He took a few more steps, and casually plunked the file down in an inbox
tray. With that, he took his retreat, joining Julie near their hallway's
entrance.
Acting silly, Arthur had found, was a lot easier than real
conversation. So for the moment, he was sticking with it. "And now, the
amazement begins. I'm sure you know what a reverse-magnet is--it repels, rather
than attracts."
She stood on her tiptoes, trying to see whose desk he'd
set the folder on. She gave a detached "Mmhmm" in answer.
"Keep your eye
on one Ms. Lynn Cartana, Assistant to the Executive Assistant District
Attorney."
A petite, pale Hispanic woman entered Grand Central. She wore
a black skirt, white shirt, and an unbuttoned black suit-jacket. Her
raven-colored hair was parted down the middle, and hung down to the nape of her
neck, while large, crescent-shaped bangs framed her eyes.
Julie shot him
a briefly-panicking glare. "Lynn!? Um, our boss may not be the best
person to play a joke on, if that's what--"
"Don't worry--this is an
official thing." She raised an eyebrow, and he tacked on "Really!"
Lynn
cut a swath through the small mob, as people eagerly made room for her. She
looked bored with routine. After nearing her personal secretary's desk, her eyes
widened, and she veered away. Her secretary looked a bit curious, as to why she
hadn't stopped to check in.
"Reverse-magnetism," Arthur proclaimed.
"But, just to prove that it wasn't an isolated incident, I'll repeat the
experiment."
Arthur dove back into the activity, heading for Lynn's
secretary's desk...he gave a smile to her, as he picked up the file. He said
something to her that Julie couldn't make out, over the ambient noise. Then he
headed straight for someone who was clear across the room.
Julie
squinted...it was a black guy, a little past middle-aged, kind of thin...her
heart skipped several beats. It was Dylan Monterey, the Executive Assistant DA.
Lynn's boss--everyone's boss, for that matter.
Arthur said something,
and whatever it was, it must've been good...Dylan patted him on the back, and
took the file. As Arthur walked off, Lynn was still wandering around...she
headed for Dylan, and then saw what he was holding.
Before she could
escape, Dylan called out to her. She hung her head and dutifully marched over.
Just as Arthur got back, Dylan and Lynn had vanished into a distant
hallway. He was smiling. "Toldja."
Julie kept looking back at Grand
Central, while talking to him, as if trying to figure out exactly what had
happened. "Why was she avoiding the folder? What's in it?"
"The McKinley
case."
Julie winced. "Ooooh."
Arthur, now back to his normal
self, jammed his hands in his pockets and kind of nodded, as if he were waiting
for something to happen. Nothing did. "So, uh...do I get my money or what?" He
added a laugh, to make sure she knew that he was kidding, if she was mad.
"Yeah, yeah," she grumbled. "That seems kinda pricey, though. It wasn't
actually magnetic..."
"Half-price, then?" he asked amicably. "That's
about the cost of two movie tickets, when you add in snacks and stuff. But I'll
just need one--I'm hoping to see the new Donar movie, it has Russell Crowe in
it. I guess I'll spend the rest on that crunchy-candy, to eat in the office."
She sighed. "Dammit, I can never focus when you're eating those!"
"Ahh, that's right...well, what else should I do with the money? I mean,
I'd have to get rid of it all at once, or else I'll break down and buy the
candy."
"Well..." She looked up at him. "I guess I'll go with you, if it
means that you won't be bugging me with that candy." She laughed, and then
calmed herself down. "I mean, that way, I'm still getting something out of my
money," she added, for extra justification.
Magic tricks rule,
thought Arthur.
----------------
"What'd I do to deserve
this? Borrow a few too many of your pencils? Take your parking space? Run over
your mother-in-law? Not run over your mother-in-law?"
Lynn was
pacing. Dylan had pulled her into an empty conference room, which just had a
long wooden table, and maroon-cushioned chairs lining either side of it. She was
taking laps around it. Her high-heels were digging into the off-white carpet,
while Dylan just sat on the table, looking perfectly calm. He wore dark-grey
slacks, and a white dress shirt with thin grey pinstripes. His tie was bunched
up in his hands--he hated wearing them, and avoided it whenever possible.
"You didn't do anything, Lynn. It's just something that we have to get
ready for, because the trial starts in two weeks."
She'd been working
with him for four years now, and thought of him more as a friend than a boss.
She respected his authority, but the McKinley case was a bit too nerve-wracking
for her. "Are you sure we have enough to convict?"
He chuckled. "Lynn,
I've seen us make cases on nothing but circumstancial evidence. And I've seen us
lose cases when we had a ton of direct evidence. There's no way to tell
for sure--we just have to try."
She kept going. "This kid is just too
sympathetic, though. I mean, God, he's the only person in his family that's
still alive..."
Dylan shrugged it off. "He killed two people." She
started to say something, and he quickly added "And yes, one of them was
self-defense..."
"...and the other, we don't have that much evidence
on," she finished. "He's like the unluckiest person alive...three unrelated
things, wiping out his parents and his sister. And to a jury, he 'only' killed
his father's murderers. Revenge tends to be pretty okay with most people, though
they won't admit it."
"He's the heir to a billion-dollar fortune, and
ownership of a major genetic-research corporation. I don't think he'll look
that sympathetic."
"What, being rich and powerful makes it all better? I
don't see a jury buying that..."
"Of course not, but the second killing
was about as premeditated as you can get." He sighed. "Look, it's not like you
have to try this--just be my second-chair. Other than that, I just need you to
re-interview some of the witnesses."
She really didn't want to do this.
The case was too weak...not much direct evidence, none of McKinley's friends
were talking, the fact that he was going to be portrayed as this poor victim who
just wanted some justice...which, she had to admit, was technically true.
Dylan took on a non-formal tone of voice, and put a hand on her
shoulder. "I've been getting pressure from above to hurry this along, okay? The
kid's only nineteen, and he's been sitting in jail for months...if we wait much
longer, we'll get hit with a right-to-a-speedy-trial motion. Or they could use
it for leverage to get bail. We can't risk having him get bail again--last time
that happened, someone died." He tried to sound reassuring. "I know it's been
tough, trying to dredge up more evidence--but we have to go for it."
She
nodded...he was right, as much as she hated to admit it. That was the annoying
thing about working in Pierce Heights--the citizens and the criminals were all
richer than Bill Gates. If someone died downtown, she could just walk right up
to people who knew the victim...but up here, everyone's got a high-priced
lawyer, and potential witnesses won't say anything without their counsel in the
room. Everyone wants to avoid a scandal.
And many of them just happened
to be major contributors to local politicians and city officials. If she stepped
on toes, they'd hear about it from high-ranking government idiots. Being
discreet in getting information, when everyone was making it impossible to even
question people...it wasn't fun. Trying to avoid getting stung in this WASP's
nest was virtually impossible.
After reaching out to take the
file-folder, she flipped it open. A photograph of Michael McKinley was on top of
the police report: he had thick, dark red hair, classic-sculpted features, fair
skin, and misty grey eyes. He didn't look like a killer...but then, they never
did.
Rubbing her temples, she laughed. "How do you talk me into this
stuff?"
Dylan grinned. "Be thankful I can, or you never would've given
Vince a chance. You still owe me for that one, by the way. I hear that there may
be some ring-shopping going on..."
Her cheeks flushed. "Some people just
don't know when to be quiet."
"Some people aren't lawyers, Lynn." He
kept grinning, gave her a friendly soft punch in the arm, and left.
She
slumped down in one of the conference room's comfy chairs, and--after making
sure that the door was shut--put her feet up on the table. "Michael McKinley,"
she repeated aloud. "This is your life."
After she'd refreshed her
memory on the basics, one thing became clear: life, or God, or fate, or
something had a weird sense of humor. A year ago, all of the McKinleys
were alive--now, there was just him. If his senior year of high school hadn't
gone to hell, he'd probably be on the Dean's list at some Ivy League school,
with perky freshman girls fighting over him. Instead, he was wasting away in a
maximum-security prison, on a double-murder rap...and he hadn't even gotten to
go to his sister's funeral.
She shook her head. What were the chances of
three separate-but-lethal things happening to this guy's entire family, in the
course of just twelve months? The question of the day was this: how could
someone's life go so completely, horribly wrong in the span of just one year?
-------------
1121 Pine Street was a Victorian-styled two-story,
covered by fresh white paint and hanging-vines. It was on the outskirts of
Pierce Heights, where grassy hills became decreasingly smaller and more
populated, to meld into the more urban areas of Parodiopolis. As Lynn walked
along the sidewalk, she could see the larger homes higher-up, in the background.
They were situated between winding roads and miniature countrysides. Below and
behind her, the rest of natureless Parodiopolis spread out as far as the eye
could see, eventually fading into a tangle of freeways. Tiny dots buzzed around
the sky--could be planes, could be helicopters, could be superheroes.
She was standing near the lower edges of the Seventy-Seven Hills...a
jumble of stairstep mini-cliffs, which gave the Pierce Heights district its
name. The neighborhood she was currently in was beginning to resemble suburban
normalcy...the houses had large yards, and only three or four could fit on a
block, but they weren't massive estates, like those that could be found less
than a mile away.
To her surprise, none of the houses had front-yard
fences...she was used to seeing massive security walls. Dark sedans cruised the
streets, and she suspected that they were private-police, most likely from some
security firm.
She stood on the front walk, turning it over in her head.
She still didn't want to do this. The case was doomed, no matter how many times
they re-interviewed witnesses. There were just too many variables...the lack of
direct evidence, the sympathy angle, the self-defense angle, the fact that the
victims were lethal criminals, the fact that Michael McKinley had attorneys that
were even better than most other Pierce Heights lawyers...
While
debating whether or not to even bother talking to this guy, she heard the front
door unlock. She started to open her mouth, though she had no idea what she was
going to say...
"Can I help you, miss?" An immaculately-dressed
sixty-something man stood in the doorway, sizing her up. He had weathered
features, and a faint British accent, which seemed to match his stately
demeanor. He wore tan slacks and a plaid-grey button-down shirt. His
salt-and-pepper hair was thinning on top, but he'd compensated by growing a
full, bristly beard.
"Yes, I'm sorry...I was just looking for Professor
Thompson."
"You've found him," he said good-naturedly. Something she
said must have caused a delayed reaction--a flash of realization shot across his
face, and he laughed lightly. "You'll have to excuse me, I haven't heard anyone
say that since...well, since about two grandchildren ago. Principal
Thompson is what my students call me, these days. But, any excuse I have to
relive my youth is fine by me."
Lynn tried to avoid looking incredulous:
she honestly hadn't suspected that it was him. She'd purposely chosen to talk to
Professor--no, Principal--Thompson first, as this was his day off. By her logic,
she thought he might be more open on a one-on-one basis, outside of the school.
But when she first saw him, she thought that it was the guy's father or
something, as he was so well-dressed. When she had a day off, she didn't even
wear pants...but this guy still looked like something out of GQ.
She
shook it off. "I'm Lynn Cartana, from the DA's office...I wanted to talk to you
about Michael McKinley."
"Ahh." He gave her a smile that was probably
forced, but she couldn't tell for sure. "Come right in, won't you then?" He said
the last three words quickly, like it was a British catchphrase.
Surprised, Lynn stepped into his house. She'd pegged him as a
door-slammer. As she went in, there was an elegant staircase to her right, and a
TV-less living room to her left. It was very home-y and personable, colored in a
mixture of earth tones. An old-style "giant radio" sat where the TV would
normally be. Double-doors were at the end of the room, which she guessed led
into the kitchen or dining room. One side of the room had a fireplace, while the
other had a small coat-closet.
He directed her to sit on a massive,
plush sofa. As she did, she sank like a stone, and seriously wondered if she'd
have to be pulled back onto her feet. While she tried to subtly kick herself
into a comfortable position, he settled into a ragged-but-dignified recliner,
which had a black quilt folded over its back.
A small stack of books and
notebooks was on the carpet between them--apparently deciding that it was
unseemly, he moved it over to the half-circle of stone that grew out from the
fireplace, getting it out of the way. "Can I offer you tea? I'm afraid my coffee
selection is limited--I never quite adapted to that particular custom."
She held up a hand and shook her head. "No, I'm fine. But, about
Michael..."
"Yes, well...Somersdale Academy has a strict policy about
not getting involved in criminal cases involving students. We all had to sign
nondisclosure forms, you see. I'm afraid that I won't be able to tell you
much--it's out of my hands."
She nodded. "I know...we found that out the
hard way, early in the investigation." After a pause, she said "Actually,
weren't you the one who instituted that policy?"
He looked
mockingly-shocked, and gave her an innocent smile. "Well, I suppose I did.
Completely slipped my mind, that."
"Uh-huh." This was going to be
interesting. "But, can you tell me anything about what you knew of him,
outside of school?"
He cocked his head, as if he was somewhat
impressed with her ingenuity. At the moment, she just wanted to get a clearer
mental picture of McKinley--what he was like, what his life was like. Anything
she could use in court, basically. After a few seconds, he responded with "Well,
I suppose I could."
"Do you know what his home-life was like?"
"Somersdale is K through 12, as they call it...I was Michael's only
principal. So, yes, I know all of my students fairly well. Between his father's
work, and the fact that family all had pretty disparate personalities...well, it
could be tense."
"How so?"
"Michael's father was very driven,
very intense...and while his older sister Lucie tapped into that, he never did.
I never saw him get excited about what his father did, or about what the future
had in store for him. Actually, even as we got closer to graduation, he wasn't
sure what he was going to do. I got the impression that he wanted a different
life. Very mature for his age, and one of our best students, but also very..."
Thompson shook his head. "He and his father...well, I don't know how close they
were."
"What about his mother?"
Thompson sighed. "They seemed
close. But she...changed. It's hard to explain, but the woman who enrolled Lucie
in our kindergarten class wasn't the same woman who..." He gave Lynn a knowing
look. "Near the end, she just kept sinking into depression. We never did find
out what was causing it."
"Yeah, that's one of many, many loose ends,"
Lynn grumbled, mentally flipping through her notes, and thinking of what else to
ask. "Was he close to anyone outside of school?"
"He wasn't even close
to anyone in school," Thompson said. "He had a few friends, but I'm sure
you already know about them."
"Samantha Bridges, William Tecton, and for
a few months, he was going out with Cynthia O'Hara."
Thompson nodded.
"He seemed to have trouble connecting with people. I suspect that his father was
the same way. Everyone thought that the problem was that they were too
different...but I think that they were too alike."
Lynn tried not to
look defeated. So far, she wasn't getting any leads...just a lot of evidence
that she'd rather not use in trial. This would just make him sound more
sympathetic. Wait...she remembered the info they had on Thompson. Before he
switched majors, hadn't he been in pre-law?
Practically reading her
mind, he said "You know, the nondisclosure agreement prevents us from talking
about students at all, not just about what they did in school. But I hope
I've given you some...useful...material."
Legal sabotage. Dammit.
Thompson leaned forward, clearing his throat. "I don't know if Michael
killed the second man or not...and, truth be told, I really don't care. I've
lived in America for most of my life, but I've never understood why the lot of
you can't seem to get over something, until you have someone to blame. Some
things are just tragedies...they don't need to be dragged into the public
spotlight and made a spectacle of."
She shrugged. "It's murder. We're
kinda hardliners about that."
"Yes, well...children get into complicated
situations."
He stood up, and walked over to his mantle. A series of
pictures was on it...the first had a sixteen-year-old girl with a newborn. The
last had the same girl, now twenty-four or so, with a boy who was about eight,
and a toddler. The pictures in-between showed them getting progressively older.
Nothing vaguely resembling a husband or a boyfriend was in any of the pictures.
"You can sit there and blame them, but it doesn't do them any good...it
just makes us feel better. We like venting. But it's more productive to work
with their faults." He paused. "Even if Michael did kill the second man,
I think it's justified. God knows that none of you can hold superhuman criminals
for more than a few months, before they escape."
She didn't have
anything to say to that.
"Look, do you know what the McKinleys have done
for the city? For medicine? For the country? Michael's father was a founding
member of the Twelve Labors Foundation, one of the largest charity groups in the
world. KinLabs' genetic research helps save hundreds of thousands of lives every
year. All that, and we can't even protect his father from simple extortionists?"
Pleading, but trying to keep some dignity, she blurted out "All I need
to know is--"
"Miss, life has done more than its fair share of
destroying Michael's future. I don't see the need to help it along. I'll thank
you to leave."
------------
From where Lynn stood, the bright
spring sky had been reduced to pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Skyscrapers were
blocking her view--they were so tall, she couldn't see their tips without
hurting her neck. She was walking up a twenty-foot-wide staircase, ascending to
one of the many outdoors plazas that could be found downtown.
It vaguely
reminded her of Greek architecture...all dusty off-white, with a gallery of
ridged pillars that were actually fountains. Students and
office-dwellers--grabbing early lunches--were sitting on the fountains' edges,
as well as at stylish, minimalist metal tables.
The ground was a
monotone checkerboard, made of massive squares. She looked around the crowd,
searching for the man that she'd just talked to on her cel phone. The plaza was
flanked by skyscrapers on three sides--banks of glass doors began where the
chalky ground ended. On the fourth side were the stairs that she'd just come up.
She shielded her eyes, as the sun was glaring off of mirroring
windows...her vision zeroed in at a man at one of the tables, which had a
navy-and-white umbrella attached to its center. He had floppy brown hair and a
goatee, and wore white cargo pants with a black shirt. Tiny headphones hung
around his neck. The table was empty, except for a laptop, a cel phone, and a
black-fiber zip-up CD booklet. It all matched the description that he'd given
her over the phone.
"Mr. Richards? I'm Lynn Cartana, we just spoke on
the phone..."
He rose to greet her, shaking her hand. "Right, right.
Feel free to call me Austin."
After he gestured to a chair, she took it,
and sat down. She couldn't help but notice the CD cases that were in the
unzipped booklet...some of the better Top 40 musicians, and a smattering of
alternative and urban-soul. Lynn guessed that he was about her age--very late
twenties--but something about him made her think that he was trying to be
younger.
While she got settled, he looked her over--which was to be
expected, but he was obvious about it. Oh, God, it's one of those, she
thought to herself.
Before awkward silence set in, he said "Are you sure
you're from the DA's office? You look pretty young...I mean, for a lawyer."
She had to keep from rolling her eyes. "Why would I lie?"
"Well,
I get people from the tabloids...y'know, I overheard a lot of stuff, when I was
teaching at Somersdale. The children of the rich and powerful...great front-page
material, right? They'd always lie at first, and then 'fess up and offer me
money." He drifted off, and then seemed to remember who he was talking to. "Uhh,
not that I ever took them up on it..."
This guy was a walking comedy of
errors--and a bad liar, which was even better. "Did you have Michael McKinley in
any of your classes?"
"Yeah, his junior and senior years...media, and
advanced-media. Basically a combination of journalism and the concept of public
image."
"You're a journalist now, right?"
He nodded. "I do
columns for a bunch of papers' lifestyle sections. And some metropolitan
stuff...local culture."
She kind of danced around a subject, like she
was trying to work something into the conversation. "Uhh, about your
nondisclosure agreement...it still stands, even though you don't work there
anymore, so--"
"Pffh, I don't care...they can't touch me."
That
got her to raise an eyebrow, but she'd focus on that later. "What kind of a
student was he?"
"Better than most of 'em, that's for sure." Austin
sounded bitter. "He was a pretty nice kid, but the rest were about as bad as you
can get. That's why I quit...I got tired of seeing these millionaire kids
whining about their problems. They wanted all the compassion in the world, like
they really had rough lives...I got tired of pretending that I cared. They'd
spend their weekends screwing royalty on the French Riviera, and then make up
excuses for why they didn't have their homework done...they weren't even good
excuses, for God's sake. They were just playing along, expecting me to believe
whatever they said, when they knew that they weren't fooling me..."
Not
exactly an unbiased witness...but she didn't have much of a choice. "Can you
give me more general information on him? We haven't found out much about his old
day-to-day life. And," she added politely, "This won't necessarily be used in
court. This isn't the place to act out a grudge, to try to make people look
bad..."
He shook his head earnestly. "I actually don't have anything
against him...he was probably my best student. There are some kids that are
smart, but not popular, so they go out of their way to show how much they know.
Some of the kids are rich, but not that smart, so they go around gloating about
how daddy bought them their own private jet or something. I honestly think that
he was smarter and richer than any of them, but he didn't really seem to care.
He just kept to himself."
"Did you ever see him threaten anyone, or hear
about anything that indicated something like that?"
"Everyone left him
alone. There were a few times that I got the impression that some of the other
kids were scared of him, but...well, I never directly saw or heard about
anything. Just a vibe I got."
"Can you think of any times when he wasn't
acting like himself?"
Austin scoffed. Then, once he realized that she
was serious, he nodded. "Ohh, yeah. I'm surprised that no-one's told you yet."
She was literally on the edge of her seat--finally, something that
vaguely resembled a lead. "What?"
"Look, you have to understand...he was
always a serious kid. Kind of dark, always had a bit of a pained look on his
face...but after his Junior year, God..."
"Keep going..."
"I
don't know what happened, but the summer before his Senior year, something made
him change. And it wasn't just him, it was his parents, too. Whenever they'd be
together, like at a school banquet or something, it'd be...weird. He got even
more distant, if that's possible."
"What about his sister?"
He
shook his head. "She was out of the picture by then...she'd just graduated from
college, and was busy being daddy's little drone. She came back to visit the
school a few times...she's funny, she doesn't use the word 'I'. It's daddy wants
this, daddy told me to do that."
"What do you mean?"
"Daddy told
her to go to business school, to slap any guy that tried to talk to her about
something other than profit margins, and to graduate in the top of her class, so
she can take over the family business." He distanced himself from his mocking
tone, patting the air, as if he were slowing down. "I know this sounds cruel,
but I really felt sorry for her...she was her dad's little wind-up toy. Except
they wound her just a bit too tight."
"So she was working at
KinLabs?"
"Yeah, at a branch in some other city. She wasn't a scientist
like her dad--just a businesswoman. Her dad could do both, so she was always
over-compensating. She was Vice President of something-or-other. It was a
test-run, basically. But she kept coming back to visit the school, and her
family...very clingy."
"But whatever happened during that summer...you
don't think it affected her?"
"No...I'd heard that his sister was in
Europe then. Probably wearing a full bodysuit on a nude beach or something."
"Whatever it was, I'm assuming it had a major affect on Mrs.
McKinley..."
"Yeah, I'd say so, given that she, uhh...yeah."
Lynn subtly checked her watch--her next interview had to take place in a
tight timeframe, so she had to cut this one short. "Look, I have to go...but if
there's anything else you remember, or think I should know, here's my card."
He took the card, and then opened and closed his mouth. "Well, this
is...no, it's probably stupid."
Two leads from one person? Could she be
so lucky? "The tiny details can be the most important ones," she said
encouragingly. "We've caught murderers because of information that people
thought wasn't important."
He took a breath. "Back around the time of
the Columbine shootings--well, I'd just been hired on at Somersdale. But some
teachers and counselors were asked to look for things that might
indicate...y'know. Unstable personalities, isolated people..."
"And?"
"And, Michael was at the top of the list."
"Why? What was the
criteria?"
"It was...it was a lot of different stuff. But even before
that, I'd kind of suspected...I mean, he never seemed to be a natural person.
The way he talked to people, the way he did things...he was forcing it. It's
like watching a kid in an adult situation, where they're trying to play along,
but you can tell that they have no idea why the adults are doing these
things."
"So you're saying he was...?"
"They never out and out
said it, but, I remember my old psych classes...it was all the traits of a
sociopath. Not enough emotional attachment, or guilt, or much of a conscience.
He matched all of them."
Lynn was still trying to take it all in. Would
this help the case, or hurt it? Would McKinley's lawyers make a legal issue out
of his mental state?
But she was already running behind--she stood up,
and nodded to Austin. "Thanks for all this."
"No problem."
As
she turned to go, she realized that she had one more question. "What you said
before, about the school not being able to touch you..."
He grinned.
"That has to do with why I was almost fired--I quit before they could can me.
What I did, they didn't want getting in the papers...they knew if they tried to
press me, I could ruin them."
She was afraid to ask. Whatever this was,
it'd probably kill his credibility, as a witness...
"I'd gotten involved
with one of my students. I'm still with her, actually...but they couldn't see
past the fact that she was under eighteen at the time. Apparently, there's some
magic moment on a girl's eighteenth birthday, when she suddenly develops
maturity that she didn't have just a few months before that."
No wonder
she'd gotten a weird, young vibe from this guy. "Um...right." She excused
herself as politely as she could, and headed for the plaza's steps. Interviews
were supposed to answer questions, not create more...it seemed like every
time she talked to someone about Michael McKinley, their case got weaker...
----------
This was where the death had started.
Three deaths, in less than one year. It began with the McKinleys
all alive and free. It ended with Michael in prison, awaiting trial...and
finding out what had happened to his sister.
But this was the
first step. It happened just before Christmas, during Michael's senior year. The
beginning of the end. Lynn knew that the real journey started here...
St. Silver's Hospital was a conversation piece for conspiracy theorists.
As the largest and most well-known medical center in Parodiopolis, it ended up
with a lot of exotic cases...cops wounded with laser rifles, half-dead
supercriminals that had run into a vigilante like Messenger (or Donar, on a bad
day), and all sorts of interesting non-human beings.
In many ways,
downtown Parodiopolis was the front lines for the world's superhuman population.
It was like living in a war zone...a crime wave that never ended, a constant
stream of threats from space, other dimensions, hidden nations and societies,
and power struggles that could have global implications...
So, of
course, St. Silver's had to be up to something. Depending on which website you
read, the stories varied: they were stealing powers from supercriminals and
auctioning them off to either the highest bidder or the government, they were
performing illegal experiments, they were stealing organs from normal people to
patch up superhumans, as certain people wanted them alive...
The
building itself was a towering, glassy octagon, which looked more like an
upright cylinder than anything. Though the glass and its sheer size made it look
like an easy target, the structure was quakeproof, and the glass was bulletproof
and shatterproof. It was reinforced with prototype alloys that had been donated
by Bautista Enterprises. The best protection was that the hospital's higher-ups
were on good terms with the superheroic community, and everyone knew it.
Lynn was just outside the building, near a driveway that swung in front
of the ER's double-doors. She'd given up on trying to drive into the hospital's
underground parking garage...the traffic was just too horrendous. She'd parked
in another garage, a few blocks away. Given how much she was paying for that
space, if she didn't pull some major information out of this witness, she was
going to be fairly unhappy.
"Witness"--like any of these people had
agreed to testify. She was lucky that they were even talking to her.
Ignoring her better judgment, she confidently charged into the hospital,
sweeping through its doors. They led into what looked like the waiting room. The
floor was white tile, with gold and bronze specks. Plastic chairs were bolted to
the floor, and jammed into the room...there wasn't much room to move. A host of
injured and bored people filled the seats.
At the end of the room was a
reception-counter, manned by several harried nurses. Lynn squeezed through the
crowd, and tried to get their attention. But they were all busy with other
people...a man who didn't quite understand that he needed to take his poodle to
a vet, a woman who was rattling off things in Spanish, while a nurse responded
in stilted words that she'd probably learned back in high school...
Lynn
reached into her tiny purse, and pulled out her wallet. She flashed her DA badge
to one of the nurses, who squinted, nodded, and waved for her to go through. Two
waist-high swinging doors were on either side of the counter.
The ER
itself was a collection of curtained examination areas, padlocked
stainless-steel cabinets, and wheeled medical equipment, all of which were
packed into tight spaces. She could see two walls, both of which were lined with
doors. From the top-down, the reception counter looked like a square--nurses
answered phones at the "rear" of the waiting room counter, which was the front
of the ER counter.
She was the only person back there who wasn't wearing
teal scrubs or a white coat. But no-one seemed to notice...everyone was running,
grabbing things, and screaming some medical dialect that she couldn't decipher.
After realizing that the nurses wouldn't be talking to her anytime soon, she
decided to get the attention of the first person who walked by.
This
happened to be a young Asian man, who was wearing a bloodied surgical gown. She
lightly touched his arm, and he spun on his heels, clearly half-expecting her to
be some horribly-injured person. He looked relieved after seeing that she wasn't
obviously in pain, and she held her badge in the air.
"Samantha
Bridges," Lynn said slowly and clearly, trying to overcome the ER's noise-level.
"Where can I find her?"
He looked over his shoulder, scanning the room,
and then pointed to a young blonde, who was wearing a white coat, a black
sweater, and bluejeans. Just as he did, she walked off, going through one of the
doors. He shrugged sympathetically, and she thanked him, and took off after her.
This one was her big break, she just knew it. Samantha and Michael had
known each other since they met in first grade, at Somersdale. In McKinley's
file, when her name was mentioned, a circle had been drawn around it. The circle
was attached to an arrow, which pointed to a handwritten note: "The Girlfriend?"
Despite herself, Lynn didn't like her already. She'd always hated
hospitals, and this Bridges girl just looked too comfortable, as she walked
through hyperactive, panicky doctors and wailing patients. As Lynn followed her
through the door, into a brightly-lit hallway that was full of more doors and
even more people, she got the impression that the girl was frigid or aloof or
something.
She had hair that looked like blonde springs...tightly-coiled
ringlets, and when that was combined with her pale skin, she just looked cold.
If Lynn had seen her on the street, she'd never have guessed that she was a
medical intern...she looked too thin and frail. And, Lynn had to admit, she was
jealous: she wished that she'd had a bustline like that, at that age.
Ehh, she's only nineteen...it shouldn't be too hard to press her for
information. Scare her with obstruction-of-justice or something. At the end
of the hall, Lynn finally caught up with her...she called out Samantha's name,
and readied her best Mean Prosecutor look.
Samantha turned around to
face her; her slightly-long, curly hair spinning and bobbing like something out
of a shampoo commercial. Her blue eyes looked Lynn up and down, and she regarded
her with a waiting look.
"I'm Lynn Cartana, I'm with the DA's office--"
"Is this about Michael?"
"...yeah."
Samantha turned
around, and started walking again. "Sorry, not interested."
Lynn sighed.
"Just--"
Samantha kept going. "He's a friend of the family--it isn't
appropriate for me to be talking to you."
"What about the two of you?
Are you 'just friends', too?"
That got her attention. Their conversation
was just starting to turn some heads.
Lynn had expected her to get
indignant, or embarassed, or to shout something...instead, Samantha marched
right up to her and got in her face. Her delicate features had been tempered to
a steel-hard angry look.
"Back off. Way off."
Lynn
retreated a few steps. So much for the "stuck-up brat who can dish it out, but
can't take it" theory. "Okay, okay. Look, I just want to know about what
happened on Christmas Eve."
A spark of pain flashed through Samantha's
eyes. "Christmas Eve, 2000?"
"Yeah."
Samantha crossed her arms,
and tilted her head in a slightly-sarcastic way. "On December 24th 2000, at
11:37 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, Mrs. Staci Elizabeth McKinley died in St.
Silver's ER, in operating-room number three. Cause of death was a suicidal
overdose of depression medication. Her son had come home and found her on the
living room floor, twenty minutes before that. Attending physician was Dr. Kayla
Bridges."
"You're quoting the coroner's report."
"Yes."
"Sounds like you've read it quite a few times..."
"Yes."
"Wait...Dr. Kayla Bridges? Your mother worked on Mrs. McKinley?"
"Yes."
"Why were you there?"
She suddenly broke out of
her one-word, monotone answers. "I've been on an advanced internship ever since
my senior year at Somersdale. When I got my scholarship to med school, I was
given even more privileges here. I'm qualified to assist on almost every kind of
operation. My whole family works here...my dad's on the sixty-fifth floor, he's
a neurologist. My mom works in the ER, and is a cardiovascular specialist. My
little brother is an x-ray tech assistant. My uncles work in administration
and--"
"I get it, I get it." Lynn winced--when she'd heard Samantha's
last name, she hadn't matched her with those Bridges. Her
great-grandfather had been the very first person to perform an operation in St.
Silver's...they had their own little legacy going. No wonder Samantha looked so
comfortable here, she'd probably grown up in the place.
Samantha checked
her watch. "I have to get up to the radiology lab, to check on some results...if
you've got anything else, make it fast."
"Who broke the news to them?"
"I did. My mom was still trying to save her, but..."
"Both
Michael and his father were there?"
"Yes."
"Is it true that they
had a shouting match?"
For the first time in their conversation,
Samantha actually looked offended. They'd now attracted a small crowd of
onlookers. "God, it was one of the darkest moments in his life...you want to use
that against him?"
"Is that a 'yes'?"
Samantha then told Lynn to
do something that was anatomically impossible.
After a brief frowning
duel, Samantha once again turned to go. Which was when things got ugly.
Lynn put a firm hand on Samantha's shoulder, to stop her. Samantha spun
and slapped her hand away. Lynn rocked back on her heels, and then prepared to
step forward. Samantha pointed a finger in her direction, which Lynn nearly
walked into. Samantha was just about to say something when Lynn felt something
on her upper arms, and she was forcibly turned away from Samantha.
Two
security guards, in black pants and white police-esque shirts, were between
them. Lynn stepped backwards to get away from the guy that was blocking her, but
she quickly bumped into someone else. She was in the middle of a small mob of
angry-looking medical personnel. Lynn couldn't stop thinking about the old
private-investigator movies, where a crowd would pull the PI into a back room,
rough him up, and kick him to the curb...
Meanwhile, Samantha was being
comforted by overly-concerned young male doctors. But Lynn was quite fed up with
it.
She held her badge in the air. "I'm a district attorney--the next
person who interferes with my investigation will get arrested. So get. Out. Of.
My. WAY!!"
A new voice came from the packed-into-the-hallway crowd.
"Calm down, there, miss."
A fortyish blonde man in a sleek black suit
approached her. He raised a hand, and both the guards and the onlookers stepped
away from Lynn.
"I'm Samantha's uncle. What's this all about?"
Lynn rolled her eyes. God, that was just what she needed. An
overprotective male relative, who felt some noble duty to screw up her
interrogation.
"She's trying to ask me about Michael," Samantha said,
slightly calmer than before.
The uncle looked genuinely interested. "Is
that so?"
Lynn straightened her suit-jacket, tossed her hair over her
shoulder, and glared at him. "Yeah, and if you people don't stop interfering
with an official investigation, you'll get hit with an obstruction-of-justice
charge."
Now, it was the uncle's turn to look shocked. "Miss, I don't
know who you think you are...but I'm Tyler Bridges, legal counsel for both the
hospital and my family. Did I just hear you say that if I try to do my job and
help Samantha, you'll throw me in jail?"
Deep inside Lynn, a tiny little
voice was screaming in terror. Oh, God, no...she'd stopped Samantha from telling
her this before, when she was listing off what her relatives did...
"Don't get me wrong: I'm sure your job would be a lot easier, if you
could just throw the defense lawyers in jail and go terrorize whoever you
wanted..."
"It wasn't--I didn't know you were--"
"Miss, if you
want to talk to any of my family, or anyone at the hospital again, you go
through me. Got it? People in your line of work have lost their jobs for
denying people their right to counsel...actively threatening and chasing off
counsel is another matter entirely. You'll be lucky if I don't drag you in front
of the ethics review board."
Lynn watched her job flash before her eyes.
While the uncle kept going, a man in a labcoat handed Samantha some
papers. She looked them over and nodded. Must've been the radiology reports she
was headed to get.
Lynn shifted her attention back to the older Bridges.
"--written apology! Samantha's not even twenty yet, and you're trying to
question her without a lawyer or a parent present. And you know St. Silver's
official policy is that all legal matters should be brought to me first, before
you go after our staff--"
Wincing, Lynn realized that she'd managed to
make the case even weaker...
--------------
The crowd dwindled.
The words "misunderstanding", "sorry", and "accident" were used far more than
normal. Samantha's uncle told her that she could leave now. She walked down the
hall, back into the ER--only her uncle and Lynn were left; in a huddled,
one-sided conversation.
As Samantha headed for one of the examination
curtains, a gurney was rolled through--but the victim had plenty of help; she
wasn't needed. Instead, she just stepped out of the way, along with everyone
else. Samantha ended up backing into a wall, which was lined with doors.
There was something familiar about where she was standing...her
perspective from that spot just seemed to "click". She turned around, and saw
that she was standing in front of the side-entrance to operating room number
three...
...where Mrs. McKinley had died.
It took but a
moment to become December. The ER was all but deserted--Christmas Eve was
usually slow. Samantha remembered pushing that door open, and staring down...she
was wearing a green-blue operating gown. Michael and his father were the only
two people in the main ER intersection. She didn't want to make eye-contact. Her
gloves and the sleeves of her gown were sheer blood-red, all the way past her
elbows. She took off her surgical mask and dangled it loosely, holding it by
just one of its strings. She shook her head twice.
She remembered
looking into Michael's face...she could tell that he hadn't slept in some time.
He'd always been so gentle, so considerate...he could look cold and hard, but
she knew what he was really like. And the expression that he gave his father? It
was nothing like him. Unbridled contempt. More emotion than she'd ever seen him
generate, for anyone or anything. But no-one said a word.
The
moment could've lasted a few seconds, or ten minutes...but it felt like a
lifetime. It had been a lifetime--Mrs. McKinley's. And now the room was
getting hot, yet Samantha was frozen silent and still. On some level, she could
sense the electricity between the two McKinley men. It made her afraid to move.
This wasn't an awkward pause in the conversation. This wasn't a
moment of silence. This wasn't even the horrible, muting shock that comes from
the death of a loved one--it had transcended to something beyond that. She'd
seen mourning, but this was a whole new level. Their eyes were screaming at each
other. It was a game of chicken, or the prelude to a Wild West high-noon
showdown, or an invisible chess match...
...and for one
precarious moment, Samantha wondered if Michael was going to kill his father.
But for what?
Could his father have...? No, no. His mother's
suicide was genuine; she'd even made a second attempt in the operating room. But
what--
And then, Mr. McKinley suddenly relaxed. He looked Michael
up and down, as if he were pleased. Michael unclenched his fists, and he looked
down at his hands. That's when Samantha had first noticed that Michael had the
KinLabs "genetic tattoo" on the back of his left hand. Most high-level KinLabs
employees had one like it, for purposes of identification and authorization.
His was three black lines--a triangle, with the pointed end
aiming at his knuckles. Inside the triangle was what looked like a black "Y",
which started in the middle of its flat base, and went up, forming a "diamond"
in conjunction with the triangle's top corner.
Michael recoiled
from the DNA-tag, like he was surprised. He balled his fists, took a step
forward, and his father smiled even more. Then Michael looked at her, with
incredibly vulnerable eyes...like he was ashamed of something. And he stalked
off. Mr. McKinley shouted a bunch of things that didn't really make sense, and
left as well.
For a time, she just stood there. Her mother was
still in the OR, refusing to give up on a dead woman. A prickly chill washed
over Samantha, and she got the distinct impression that more than just a woman's
life has been lost here, tonight...
Then Samantha felt a door bump
into her, and she was back in the present. A patient was waiting for her--she
shook herself out of it, and remembered why she avoided this particular spot in
the ER...
-------------
I hate me.
Lynn was stuck
in yet another waiting room--albeit one that was larger, quieter, and emptier.
The Slesberg Clinic was full of flowers, easy-listening music, soft colors, and
a general calming atmosphere. She knew that it was one of the most high-tech
recovery centers in Parodiopolis, but it looked like a slightly-more-upbeat rest
home. The waiting room had pseudo-wooden, pink-cushioned chairs lining the wall,
with more grouped back-to-back in the middle, like someone was going to use them
to play musical chairs.
She'd just gotten in the building when her cel
phone had started ringing off of its non-existent hook. News of Lynn's little
encounter with Samantha was racing around the DA's office, as well as other
places. And Lynn's boss was letting her know about all of the calls that they'd
been getting.
People from the city council had been calling to complain.
As were wealthy members of St. Silver's board of directors. Not to mention quite
a few normally-benign medical organizations, some of whom often worked with the
police, and wanted to know why the law-enforcement world had "suddenly turned
against them".
At the moment, she had her phone turned off. She didn't
want to deal with it. She did want to hate Samantha, but she just
couldn't.
If someone walked up to me, and asked me to implicate my
best friend in something, when I wasn't sure he was guilty...God, I'd have
reacted the same way she did. Actually, I'd have probably done something worse.
The truth was, Samantha was exactly the kind of girl that Lynn
would've liked to introduce her younger brother to. She was clearly loyal,
dedicated, hard-working, compassionate, trying to help people, and she had a
bright future. Her family had to have had tons of money, but she still got into
school on a scholarship, instead of just coasting through. Of course, her
brother would take one look at Samantha's chest and his brain would quickly be
over-ridden by something else, but still.
This horribly-perfect girl
who'd probably never hurt anyone in her life, and she'd verbally attacked
her...there were days that Lynn hated her job. And her next witness was going to
be even worse...
A thirtysomething, dark-haired nurse walked around a
corner. "Ms. Cartana? He's agreed to see you."
Lynn nodded, and a
creeping sensation pooled up in her insides. This just felt wrong...
The
nurse led Lynn down a beige-carpeted hallway, which looked like something out of
a hospital. Doors were on either side, and each one had a clipboard--and a clear
clipboard-holding piece of plastic--next to it. Men and women in robes shuffled
around, looking dissheveled and vaguely sick.
They stopped at a
brightly-lit room, which had soft sunshine pouring in through a tinted window. A
surprisingly-large TV was built into the wall, complete with a VCR, and a gaming
system that Lynn didn't recognize had been slipped into a rectangular hole in
the wall, underneath the rest of the entertainment set-up. More pink chairs
formed a crescent around the foot of the bed, like visitors had been there
earlier.
The bed itself looked like a typical hospital one...the back of
it was "turned up", so its occupant could sit up. Bright balloons sat on a
dresser next to the bed--it blocked Lynn's view. She could see that someone was
in it, but...
"They bring me new balloons every week, even though I've
been here like a year..."
A smiling black man parted the balloons,
briefly peeking through at Lynn and the nurse. Then he picked up the balloons,
and set them on the dresser on the other side of the bed. He was in his late
thirties, and had stubble-like hair. Though he looked a bit sick, he also looked
to be in pretty good shape.
The nurse suddenly gave Lynn a wary glance.
"Cody, this is Lynn Cartana, from the DA's office...if she gives you any
problems, just buzz us. And we can call your lawyer, if you want..."
He
dismissed the idea with a wave. "No, I'm fine. I think I can handle being on the
other end of an interrogation, for once."
Grimacing, the nurse curtly
nodded to Lynn, and left the room.
Lynn rubbed her neck. "So,
uhh...look, I know this is uncomfortable, but I'm not going to ask you to
compromise anything about--"
"Hey, I used to be in the FBI--I know,
you're just doing your job."
"Thanks...but since KinLabs is paying your
medical bills, I'm not going to put you in a position where you'd have
to...y'know. We just want to know about the events surrounding William
McKinley's murder."
"Fire away."
"Okay...first, I just want to
make sure that our info on you is right. You were in the FBI for three years,
and then the Secret Service..."
"Yeah, but I had to quit--I hated the
constant traveling, and we didn't like living in DC. My wife's family is all in
Parodiopolis. Besides, my daughter had leg problems, and my government benefits
just didn't cover it. But KinLabs paid for all of her surgeries, once I started
working for them."
"You were Director of Security?"
He nodded.
"And on June 6th, 2001, you were going to talk to Mr. McKinley about
something..."
"Yeah...it was a little after normal office-hours were
over. Six or so." Cody laughed hollowly. "God, I'd seen the guy before. I was
walking around the top floors, and there he was...this skinny white-haired guy
in an Armani. I didn't recognize him, but I remembered that we were having more
visitors than usual, that day."
"And a few weeks before this, you
upgraded security, because of the Gemini Twins..."
With an apologetic,
self-depreciating chuckle, Cody choked out a "yes". "We thought they were just
some thugs in costumes. They were going around, threatening CEOs and stuff...no
imagination at all. This wasn't white-collar extortion, or some other complex,
highly-intellectual business crime...they were just jumping people. But no-one
ever got a clear look at them." He sighed. "So, I see this guy in a black
suit--like every other guy in a suit--and I don't think anything of it. But we
should've been on our toes. The Gemini Twins had broken up with that other
villain, and they were hard-up for cash. What was his--ahh, Royale, right. So,
they were getting desperate, and they were stupid enough to walk right into
people's offices and threaten them right in front of everyone."
"Did you
hear any of their conversation, before you walked in on them?"
He shook
his head. "I was walking by his office, and his secretary gave me a weird look,
like something was going on. So I walk over, and I see that the door is
half-open...he never leaves it like that. I slowly go in, and I see the guy with
the white hair, and Mr. McKinley. Didn't take more than a second to realize what
was going on. After a few steps, I nearly slipped and killed myself...the floor
was weird. It was all shiny. He had a hardwood floor anyway, but this was too
slick."
"How long was it before they noticed you?"
"Maybe three
seconds. I walked in, the guy turned and looked at me, and it was over." Cody
paused, staring down at his legs. "It's weird, you always wonder why these guys
with powers can take out people so easily. But they're instant. I mean, it takes
me a few seconds to get my gun, take the safety off, and aim it. But he just
looked at me, his eyes glowed, and then I was on the floor. I didn't have any
time to react."
"And Michael showed up a few minutes later?"
"Yeah, I was drifting in and out of consciousness...but I don't think it
was very long, before he got there."
"Before Michael came in, what was
going on?"
"The Twin and Mr. McKinley were talking, but I couldn't
really hear 'em. At one point, the Twin zapped the desk, and part of it turned
all glassy. His eyebeams, they don't just blast you...they screw with your
molecules. That's why the floor was slippery--he'd zapped it. They're still
working out the kinks in my biology, I guess. He transmuted it or something."
"Do you remember anything that Mr. McKinley did, before...?"
"Well--this was before Michael came in--he pulled something out...I
think it was his beeper. Maybe he was trying to page someone for help. But
there's an alarm-button right under his desk. Though...yeah, he'd already hit
that--well, I found out later, anyway."
"And somehow, the desk got
turned around..."
"They were kind of circling off around it. Sometimes,
the Twin would spin the desk quickly, like he was trying to unnerve him. The
floor was so smooth, it was like ice..."
"Did you, ahh," Lynn hated
asking this. "Did you actually see Mr. McKinley die?"
"The noise woke me
up. I heard the guy use his powers again, and Mr. McKinley hit the floor. Then I
saw Michael run in. I'm amazed he didn't slip and break his neck." He looked
Lynn right in the eye. "Hey, at that point, I think we both thought that Mr.
McKinley might still be alive. He wasn't moving, but we couldn't tell if he was
dead or not. So it wasn't just self-defense...Michael was protecting me, and he
thought he might be saving his father, too."
"Specifically, what
happened then?"
"Michael slid over to the desk, and the Gemini Twin was
on the opposite side. The desk was sideways now--its left side was pointing
towards the window-wall, and the right side was pointing to the entrance. That's
the side Michael was on. He was leaning on it with both hands, trying not to
lose his footing."
"And...?"
"And the guy's eyes started
glowing...and Michael shoved the desk at him. It took off like a rocket, because
the floor was slick. It hit the guy right at the waist, and he got the breath
knocked out of him. Then I heard glass shatter, and saw the guy and the desk
flying out of the window. It's...you know how skyscrapers are. The window was
from wall to wall, from the floor to the ceiling."
"How many floors up
is that?"
"Just over a hundred." Cody nodded slowly, as if he were just
returning to the present. "Anyway, Michael checked on his dad...and then he ran
over to me. And, and that was it. I've been stuck in here ever since...they're
trying to get my DNA back to normal, or something. As long as I've got the 'zap'
in me, I'm pretty much bedridden."
Lynn gave him a smile. "Thanks for
all of your help...don't worry, we won't be calling on you to testify."
"Actually, I'll probably be testifying for Michael. What he did was
completely justified."
Gahhh. Lynn winced. "We aren't really
including the first murder...we're more concerned about the second one."
"Yeah, well...from what I've heard, you don't have much on him for that
one. And I don't think he could've done it, anyway"
Like Lynn needed to
be reminded of the holes in their case. She got up to leave. "Thanks for your
cooperation."
Cody shrugged. "Thanks for helping me pass the time...not
that I'll have to do that much longer. They say that I'll be up and around
within the month. And then it's back to work...just consulting, though. I'd feel
weird--working for them, after I failed like that. But they say that I'm still
eligible for a fully-paid retirement." He paused. "You really shouldn't pick on
Michael...he was the one that made sure that I was being taken care of. My
entire family owes him."
For a moment, Lynn realized that the guy
clearly owed Michael...was Cody covering up for him? Even if he wasn't, it was
another member for the Michael McKinley fanclub--just what she needed...
-----------------
Lynn was just leaving the Slesberg
Clinic--which, on the outside, was an unassuming five-story brownstone. Five
o'clock traffic was gearing up, a half-hour early. Her plan for the rest of
today was simple: she'd go back to the office, fill in Dylan, and spend an
hour's overtime going over her notes from the day. Maybe she'd get lucky, and
something would jump out at her. Or, more likely, she'd find even more problems.
She didn't get more than a few steps away from the building when a dark
sedan pulled up to the curb, alongside her. Two men-in-black types stepped out,
and she actually recognized one of them...
"Plymouth? What--"
He
held a finger up, shushing her. "If you want to know about McKinley, get in."
That was one of the nice things about Parodiopolis--there was a wide
array of superheroes, detectives, and spies, who'd occasionally come forward and
help the DA's office. Most of this was via anonymous e-mails and packages full
of evidence. Lynn already knew this, but at the moment, her only thought was
ThankyouGodthankyouGodpleaseletthisbegoodnews
The other
MIB walked to the front driver's side door, while Plymouth--who looked as
purposely-average and easily-forgettable as possible--ushered her into the back
seat. The car had tinted windows, and it was fairly dark inside. She settled in
comfortably; knowing that this was the part where everything would be explained
to her.
She'd worked with Plymouth once before, on a case involving
black-market cybernetic software. He said he worked for the National Security
Agency, but she had her doubts...he acted more like a secret-agent type. But who
cared? As long as she could get some useful information out of--
"Lynn,
you've got the wrong guy."
The car started going, and no-one said
anything.
Plymouth sounded apologetic. "You're right that he did the
first killing...the first Gemini Twin, who murdered his father. His name was
Petir. The other Twin was the strong one...Zirkovic. Normally, they'd both go to
terrorize a CEO...but they considered Mr. McKinley to be a non-threat, so just
Petir went."
"How, uhh," Lynn mumbled, "How do you know this?"
"You know that we caught Zirkovic a few days later, right? He agreed to
be a source for us."
She nodded weakly. "Yeah, I know. But I thought it
was just the FBI. I mean, they had him in a safehouse, and then Michael found
out somehow, broke in, killed him, and escaped without anyone seeing him."
"This was about more than just the FBI--that was only our cover story.
We were actually all there...the CIA, the NSA, SPUD. See, everyone thought that
Zirkovic was just testifying against one of his former employers. We actually
had him talking about a lot of people."
"Wait...he had all that
protection, and Michael still got him?" What she just said showed how much she
believed Plymouth, but she couldn't help it...
"That's just it...look,
maybe the kid could've gotten by a few FBI guys. But we had military-level
security. We had to, to keep Zirkovic from escaping. We had armored troopers,
plasma rifles, security-sensors, the whole deal. But the sheer number of people
Zirkovic was giving us info on...any of them could've killed him. There's
literally dozens of suspects."
She shook her head. "But...Michael had
just gotten out on bail. And right after we found out that Zirkovic had died,
Michael was found sitting in a police station, saying that he was ready to go
back to jail now."
"McKinley is screwed up. Maybe he thinks he did it.
Maybe he wants to be punished, for not saving his dad." Plymouth shrugged. "And,
there's another problem."
"...what?"
"We always wondered why
Zirkovic wasted his superstrength on extortion. He was just going up against
non-powered people, who couldn't fight back. But, of course, now we know...he
wasn't bulletproof. His killer shot him in the back. And we all assumed that the
guy was invulnerable or something. I mean, he was seven feet tall, he could
bench-press thirty tons...but someone who knew that he wasn't bulletproof
killed him. Why would Michael try to shoot him with a gun, when everyone assumed
that...!"
Lynn was shivering. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be.
"Why didn't you tell us sooner?"
"We didn't want to give away the fact
that more people than just the FBI were interested in Zirkovic. We still had to
conduct an investigation, using leads he gave us. If it got out that we were
using him as a source for a lot of stuff, some of the leads might have dried up.
But we're done now..."
"And you just let him sit there in prison, for
almost a year?"
"Hey, we were hoping you might figure out that you were
wrong."
"Oh, God, this is...this is just great." Lynn buried her head in
her hands. "What do we do now? I mean, can I actually tell people this, so we
can get him out of prison? Or is it all top-secret?"
"My boss'll call
your boss. We'll use the 'national security' excuse."
She suddenly
laughed, far more than was appropriate. "This kid really is the
unluckiest guy alive. His mother kills herself, his dad gets killed by some
super-idiot, and his sister...God." Lynn fixed her hair, and tried to calm down.
"I was positive that he was the killer. I really was. I thought that there was
some big secret, dating back to the summer of 2000, that made his mother kill
herself on that Christmas Eve. I thought that it might lead to...something.
Something that'd shed light on why or how Michael killed the second Gemini
Twin."
"Look...don't worry about it. Just be glad that you found out in
time. With any luck, he'll get the good news by tomorrow..."
Lynn nodded
half-heartedly. It sounded self-serving, but she suddenly realized a good side
to this: it took care of the problem of having to take a weak case to
trial...and that was all she cared about, right?
----------------
A spring evening coaxed itself onto Parodiopolis. Hundred-story-tall
shadows rotated and shrunk, as the sun went down. The city's skyline was reduced
to a flurry of neon and starlight.
Even from many miles away, the city's
glow could be seen. In a nearby mountain range, Markton Prison overlooked
Parodiopolis. It looked like a stainless-steel fortress; a series of large,
wedge-shaped bunkers that were built into the hills. There was no courtyard for
the prisoners to walk around in, though the prison did come equipped with a
thirty-foot-tall barbed-wire, chain-link fence. The fence was constantly
electrified; though water had no effect on it.
Inside, the prisoners
were kept in their cells for twenty-three hours a day. The angrier ones were
given the non-choice of eating relaxant-laced food or starving. Their cells had
"ionic showers" built into them. No more than five prisoners were allowed to be
in the library or the gym at the same time. All meals were delivered to the
cells.
Given the mind-boggling amount of prison escapes (mostly
superhumans) that took place throughout the world, various prison associations
had managed to get these strict standards past human-rights groups. People were
sick of being scared, and were more than willing to bend a few Constitutional
rights to deal with the problem.
The halls were always dimly-lit, and
the walls, floors, and ceilings were all made of blue metal. Instead of bars,
solid-plexiglass sliding doors were used. Markton held "the very best of the
second-stringers"--dangerous criminals who weren't superhumans or
"costume-partiers".
Michael McKinley had been here ever since he'd been
charged with the murder of the second Gemini Twin. The argument was that, when
he'd gotten bail for the "murder" of the first Twin, he'd used the freedom to
murder the second one. Of course, they didn't have any witnesses, or the murder
weapon...they just had a motive, and the fact that Michael wasn't denying it.
Michael wasn't saying much of anything, by that point. He just sat there and
looked dejected.
Everyone left him alone. The guards, the other
prisoners, the on-staff psychiatrists...they didn't make any comments about the
fact that he just wanted to read quietly. A few had tried to start trouble, but
a patented McKinley Death Stare had shut them up. After all, this kid had killed
two superhumans...no-one wanted to mess with him.
He'd said exactly two
words since he'd arrived at Markton. Those words were spoken in early December,
2001. A guard informed him that his sister had been in the World Trade Center on
September 11th.
Michael said "I see".
His father had always
wanted to hire a certain graphic design firm. After his father's death,
Michael's sister had succeeded in getting a meeting with them. They were
headquartered in tower number one.
And now Michael sat in his cell,
reading books on philosophy and history. Sometimes he'd forget to go to
sleep--there was no designated "lights out" time. He wore the same powder-blue
prison uniform every day, getting a new one every week. Even uncombed, his thick
red hair looked nearly perfect. At nineteen, he was the youngest person in
Markton.
His presence was vaguely unsettling to the guards. They were
used to prisoners who couldn't stand being locked up. They'd pace what little
floor-space they had in their cells, toss and turn in bed, and look generally
agitated.
But Michael just sat on his bed; leaning on his pillow, which
would be propped against the wall. Except for the turning of pages, he wouldn't
move for hours at a time. He looked completely calm and at peace..and yet, he
obviously wasn't. There was something intense about him. Like he was ticking.
But it was hard to tell. Sometimes the guards had to step closer to his
cell-door than they wanted, to make sure that he was still alive.
They
say that, when accused, an innocent man screams as loud as he can. Michael,
however, said nothing.
And so it was for almost a year. Waiting for
trial, sitting quietly, staring at the tattoo on his hand as if it were a thing
from a far-off land.
Until the day the plexiglass door slid open, and
the noise of the guards' shoes clicking on metal vanished.
Michael
didn't flinch, jump, back away, or react in the slightest. Not at the fact that
it was far too late at night to let the prisoners out, not at the fact that no
alarms were going off, and not at the fact that a man in a trench-coat was
standing in front of his cell.
He had curly black hair, and a dark tint
to his skin. His features were vaguely Mediterranean--maybe Israeli. The coat
was grey, while his clothes were black.
"Michael? I'm Agent DuPlis. I'd
like to help you."
Michael was reading, and not making eye-contact.
Silence.
"I work for...people...who have inadvertantly done a favor for
you."
No eye-contact. Silence.
"They're sure that you couldn't
have killed the second Gemini Twin. The thing is, they don't know what I know."
Michael flipped a page.
"You're not quite the normal kid they
think you are."
Michael didn't seem to care.
"Your father was
Royale, a corporate supercriminal who used crime to take out the competition,
and to build a secret empire of wealth and techn--"
For the first time
in four months, Michael spoke. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you."
"Because you're one of the good guys."
"How's that?"
"You found out the truth in the summer of 2000--as did your mom. That
fact drove her to kill herself. You blamed him, which is why you nearly killed
your father in St. Silver's ER. You didn't go after the Gemini Twins because you
wanted revenge...you went after them because you knew they were up to something.
Because your father had been in an alliance with them, so you had the inside
track. But when their partnership broke up, they killed him."
Michael
didn't look too impressed.
"And the second killing, at the
safehouse...that genetic tag on your hand. Your father used a combination of
armor and biochemicals to enhance his strength. He did that before you were
born...so a little of it passed onto you. That's how you got past all the
security. Just above peak-human speed, strength, reflexes. Maybe some other
abilities that I don't know about. But it wouldn't trigger until you really
wanted to use it. That mark was a sign of it. On Christmas Eve, you wanted
to kill your father...and your powers kicked in."
"So, go to the papers.
Out me."
"I'd rather not...I'm on your side, believe it or not. To prove
that, I've set it up so you'll be released, and the charges will be dismissed.
Because we have a mission for you."
DuPlis had been holding a rolled-up
newspaper in his hand. He tossed it onto the cot.
"Brian Lau...the son
of KinLabs' current CEO, right? Old family friend, I bet. The Laus have always
stood by your side. He's been taken hostage in Paris, along with some other
visiting students."
Michael glanced at the paper. "So, send SPUD or
someone after them."
"The French won't let conventional authorities in
until we promise not to use the death-penalty, if we catch 'em. And you'd think
the US would put these kids' safety over how much they get to punish the bad
guys...but nope. Both sides are being stupid and using this as an excuse to look
strong. We want to be the hardlining tough guys, and they want to be the
enlightened humanitarians."
"You said 'conventional authorities'...like
I said, send in SPUD, or some other paramilitary group."
"Even us
covert-ops guys are forbidden from doing anything. There are people in power who
want to show that the French's way of handling terrorism will get innocents
killed."
Michael paused. "If you want me to help, getting me released
won't do any good...that'll take at least twenty-four hours. They could be dead
by then."
"Which is why we're going to sneak you out of here, and then
sneak you back in, before you're actually released. I'm friends with some of the
guards here...we can get away with it."
"How do I know you're not lying
to me? I could do the mission and then vanish..."
"You could've escaped
for ages...this place can't hold someone like you. You just gave up on life,
right? You lost everything, and you were tired of fighting to get it back."
That was true enough. "How am I getting there?"
"Small private
jet. AI autopilot. The address the hostages are at is in the plane. Can you
provide your own weapons?"
"Yeah, that shouldn't be a problem. God help
me, my father thought I'd take over for him, someday...he laid aside some
special gear for me."
DuPlis nodded. "And if you're wondering...all of
the other cells' doors are tinted. No-one can see out. And they're always
soundproof...so no-one else knows your secret."
"That's good...I'd hate
to have to kill all these guys."
After taking a few steps back, DuPlis
continued. "Meet me at Jason International, in an hour or so. The plane will be
there."
DuPlis gave him some detailed instructions on how to get out of
the prison, and then left. Michael sat quietly for a few minutes, remembering.
He'd sworn never to go back into his father's inner sanctum--the
Throneroom--unless it was to figure out how to destroy it. The technology and
genetic procedures found in there had been used to kill hundreds, over the
years. But if he didn't do it now, Brian would die...he couldn't let that happen
again.
When he'd last stepped into their home, his father and sister had
still been alive. And now...
Michael stood up. It was time to access a
part of himself that he'd gotten from his father...a part that he hated more
than anything.
The part of him that was a killer.
Continued...
Next: Firefight in the City of Lights. Become what you hate to do
what you must...
Fin Fang Foom
*flies away*
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