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Post By Collating HH Sun Jul 18, 2004 at 06:17:15 pm EDT |
Subject The Case of the Gold Coin Killer - Chapters One to Seven - the Story So Far Originally The Case of the Gold Coin Killer - Writers' Notes |
In Reply To Spoilers in here for those reading but not writing Sat Jul 17, 2004 at 10:29:22 pm EDT |
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The Case of the Gold Coin Killer - Chapter One
Crime reporter Mariel Jenson’s body turned up in an ornamental fountain in Off-Central park sometime between two and three in the morning. Scene of crime officers noted the heavy bludgeoning to the head, the missing filofax, the dried blood under her nails, the grass-stains on her clothing, and the gold coin lodged in her throat. But none of them saw Messenger crouched in the shadows watching the investigation unfold.
The postman listened to the detectives on site whine about the shitstorm of a case they just caught.This wasn't GothamMetropolis: people in this city actually cared when one of their reporters wound up brutally murdered.Even if that reporter was ascontroversial as Mrs. Jenson.
"I don't suppose there's any chance of the Trombone actually telling us what the hell she was investigating?" Commissioner Don Graham asked wearily as he lit up one of the cigatettes he'd given up again. "Or why she was in the park during the suicide hours?"
"It's definately an organized crime hit,"a man in a long, beige raincoat and a hat announced.The officers on scene stared at him, both from lack of recognition and because he wore a raincoat on a warm summer day.Anticipating their next question, he produced identification from inside the sleeve of his coat.It identified him as 'Marvelous Marv', the psychic detective from television.
"Lemme guess,"an officer asked, "You got this in a vision?"
"No,"Marv told him, "The gold coin in his throat.It's a message.And speaking of messages--"He turned and headed toward a thicket of bushes beneath a large, shadowy tree.Just then, as his raincoat predicted, it began to rain.
Messenger watched the psychic celebrity closely. Why was Marvelous Marv limping slightly? Did he keep his hands in his pockets because it was cold and raining, or to hide scratch marks made by a struggling, dying, reporter? The postman was dying to get Marv alone and find out. But first there was the question of who else was watching the show from the trash-littered shrubbery beyond the fountain.
The postman was hungry and tired and a little inebriated. His breakfast consisted of cornflakes swimming in a bowl of cheap vodka. The soggy, alcohol soaked grains and oats had left him in a very foul mood, and he was begging to take his drunken, stomach grumbling frustrations out on someone. Preferrably the murderer behind the death of Jenson. The Mariel Jenson who was trying to uncover.... uncover... What was he trying to uncover, the postman thought to himself. How come he couldn't remember? He glared at Marvelous Marv walking away, the raincoat shielding him from the drizzeling rain. He glanced back at Messenger and gave him a sly grin.
"Okay, I just heard from headquarters what they've got from Jenson's mobile phone records," Graham announced to the scene of crime officers as he pocketed his walkie-talkie. "You're gonna love this, boys. She made five calls today. Her mother, her ex, her newspaper, some address in Pierce Heights... and the Lair Mansion! Yeah," he agreed as he caught the cops' expressions. "It's going to be one of those cases."
Some detectives were thrilled with the announcement.Redballs always meant overtime, and with the media, money, and meta connections Jenson's death appeared to have, this certainly qualified as one.Others cursed the impending involvement of the superhumans.It was hard to make a case with them around.And at least one feared the potential direction this investigation could lead to: to scandal and trauma long buried.
"Oh booooys..." Marvelous Marv called out in a shrill voice as he walked away from them. "One more thing. I believe you have company. Perhaps you should brush up on your detective work if you truly want to find Mrs Jenson's killer. If you cannot detect a shadow in your midst, how will you find a murderer?" He pointed to the shrubbery where Messenger was hiding. The postman swallowed a lump in his throat as all eyes focused on him. "Shit" he whispered.
"No, not that psychopathic killer," Marv giggled. He pointed in the other direction. "That one!"
The police torches shone into the bushes, and that was where they saw Dancer trying to drag the unconscious Trickshot away before anyone saw the scratch-marks on his face and the three gold coins stuffed in his quiver.
"Oh bugger..." Dancer moans. "Look, he didn't do it. I found him asleep in the alley, but I'm sure he didn't--..."
"Excuse me... Excuse me..." Messenger decides to make his presence known. "Exactly what the fuck is going on?"
"Well, this right here just got interestin'..." The Commissioner puffed on a cigar. "Jonesy, you might want to call back-up. We have metahumans on the scene we'll need to bring in for questioning and if I know anything about metahumans, they hate to be inconvenienced by us mere mortals."
"Trickshot?!" Messenger said in a puzzled voice. "First of all... I'm a killer! That B-grade Hawkeye is NO killer. Second of all... he hardly has the brains to pull off a caper like this... or the malice to hold a grudge against a crusading reporter like Jenson. There's something fucked up going on here..." He looks at Marv again. "What's your name?"
"Mister nobody," smiled the mentalist smugly. When Messenger looked again the showman was nowhere to be seen.
What was far more visible were the three detectives pointing handguns at Messenger and telling him to assume the position. The other officers were closing on Dancer and Trickshot.
Recently demoted (from Captain to beat cop) Miller dug into his pockets for the cigarette that wasn't there, sighed, and drew a gun on one of the most popular women in the world. There were days that he hated his job... especially after the Senator Sorella fiasco. Internal Affairs clung to his movements, and his associations, like intestinal parasites with personal grudges.
The only reason Miller'd got dragged over to Parodiopolis was because he was one of the few active cops in either city who'd had experience tangling with supers, and the suits didn't really want to bother training jumpy rookies to deal with people who could potentially melt buildings by a flex of their shoulder or altering reality just by lookign at it.
Altering reality. That's a sobering thought, when you're a man with a gun, and you're pointing that gun at one of the most beautiful women in the world.
It's all the more sobering when you're one wrong move from either crapping your pants, or letting a suspected killer get free...
"Sorry fellas, I won't be assuming any positions for you," Messenger replied coolly, slowly lifting his arms. "I'm one for the ladies, you know." He suddenly backflipped away into the brush, praying his plan worked. It did. Somehow, against all probability, every bullet fired missed.
Behind him he heard the disused fountain improbably burst apart as the mouldering water main failed, spraying the cops with slimy green fluid. So Dancer had clearly got away too. But Trickshot was left sprawled on the ground, his face flecked with vomit.
Miller cursed under his breath, and ignored the voice screaming in his ear, as he bent over to place someone who looked like he'd been partying with half of Mardis Gras under arrest.
The Case of the Gold Coin Killer - Chapter Two
Meanwhile, word of the fracas was beginning to leak to headquarters.Off-duty detectives called in on their days off raced around frantically and rushed to make phone calls.
"What's the report?"their supervisor finally asked."Are we getting any help on this case?"
A harried Paradopolis detective eager for a promotion stopped to answer him quickly."The FBI wants nothing to do with this.We tried NYPD, they told us to solve our own murders.Garden City says they have organized crime problems of their own and can't spare any detectives--"
"Did anyone say 'yes'?"the supervisor asked angrily.
The detective shrugged."Yes.One guy.He's not...exactly a cop.But he loves solving puzzles."
"Well?Who is it?"
The supervisor and the detective both ducked as a neon colored man bounded over them, covering the entire office in silly string.
Several minutes later, the day-glo CrazySugarFreakBoy! found himself in the Commissioner's office. "I'm tellin' you, Commish, Tricky couldn't have done it. He's not that kinda guy. Maybe his evil undead parallel doppelganger did it, but not Tricky."
"Listen," said Graham. "I have a body in the morgue awaiting an autopsy, a suspect in custody after an attempted escape, and at least two accomplices at large to said escape. And all of these suspects? They're your friends. You're connected."
"Well connected," said the svelte brunette who leaned in over the Commissioner's desk. "And well packed of course," Counsellor Lisa Waltz added with a sexy smile. "I'm here to represent Trickshot."
"Of course you are," sighed Graham. "But I've got to tell you now it doesn't look good. Huge amounts of alcohol in his system, scratches on his face matching the residue blood from the victim's fingernails, and three more of those rare gold 1774 sovereigns like the one in Mariel Jenson's throat."
"That's good circumstantial evidence, but where's the motive?" Lisa pondered, "It's just as easy to believe Trickshot was forced to commit these acts by a villain with mental-manipulation abilties."
"Yeah, like Purple Man, or Puppet Master, or Jericho, but maybe not Jericho 'cause he's a good guy now I think I need to get some Teen Titans back issues but you get my point," CSFB! assumed in his usual rapid-fire patter.
Donald Graham looked less than pleased with these interruptions, "Once we get Trickshot in the box we'll see what kind of motive he would have."
"No, no, no, you're wrong!"CSFB! leapt straight onto Graham's desk, toppling all of his neatly arranged files."Of course she slapped him, you stupid bastard!He was flirting with her and he said something about her ass or something and she slapped his face!There aren't enough claw marks on his face for it to be anything else!"
"What the hell do you know?"Graham asked angrily."And get the hell of my desk!"
"What do I know about claw marks?"CSFB laughed and bounded out of the Commissioner's reach as he attempted to remove the neon menace from his desk."I know claw marks, Commish.From being slapped...and otherwise."He glanced directly at Lisa Waltz, who gave him an icy look in return.
Dan Graham counted the points on his fingers. "One, Ms Jenson made a call to your Lair Mansion at 16.22 yesterday, asking to speak to Trickshot, who wasn't present and remained unaccounted for until he was found at the murder scene. Two, she was killed by somebody with significant physical strenth, an athlete - like an archer, perhaps. Three, the murder weapon, a blunt wooden intrument, hasn't been found, and neither has Trickshot's bow. And four, two more of your cronies were at the crime scene, Dancer and Messenger, and both fled when challenged by officers of the law."
"I bet Batman doesn't put up with this with *his* Commissioner," said CSFB! "Now I'm telling you, there has to be some other kind of evidence that isn't levelled against Tricky. Just tell me."
"I have my own people working on it," said Don Graham.
Elsewhere, to support that theory, Detective Spiro T. Agnew and his partner, Dana Montresor, pulled up in front of the address in Pierce Heights where the slain reporter had called: the McKinley Mansion, home of Michael McKinley, the rich young industrialist with a spotty past.
"He takes his security seriously, doesn't he?" Montresor noted as she held her badge up to the video camera before being buzzed through the gates.
"I wonder if he can tell us where he was between one and three this morning though?" Agnew wondered.
Eyes watched through the certains. The man in shadow, peering through the second floor window, knew he had to get out. McKinley wasnt here so it was easy to plant the evidance, but with the detectives at the front door, he'd need to follow through with his escape plan.
"You want a motive?!I'll give you a motive!" Daily Trombone publisher J. Jonah Jerkson hollered in the lobby of his newspaper's headquarters, "Mariel was working on finding the secret identities of all the costumed nuts who run around Paradopolis!Including that clown Trickshot!"
Detectives Yemana and Dietrich looked impressed.That was, indeed, a pretty good motive.
"And how did she intend to uncover this information, sir?" Detective Yamana asked.
"I should know?" growled the publisher. "She kept her sources confidential. Not that that would save her from unscrupulous so-called heroes like Goldeneyed. But you can be sure one of those mask and cape types - maybe all of 'em - were in on her murder."
"She called in to work on her mobile around 12.55 yesterday," Deitrich observed. "Any idea why she phoned in, or who she spoke to?"
Jerkson took his spectacles from the pocket of his bathrobe and looked at the copy of the cell phone's LUD's, "That's the number for the Legal Department.They were advising her on this story."
Yamana and Dietrich exchanged glances again. "Better phone this in," Dietrich decided. "The old man's going to need this info when they sober up that Trickshot jerk."
The holding cells at four fifteen a.m. were cold and drafty, but Graham had wisely seperated Carl Bastion out from the drunks and punks.
"I'm telling ya Lisa.." Trickshot exclaimed from behind the cold iron bars of his jail cell, "I didnt do it. The chick wanted an interview so we set it up for tonight. I waited a full half hour an' was gonna split when somethin cracked me on the back of my head. Next thing I remember I woke up here. I WUZ FRAMED!"
"She set up a meeting in Off-Central Park at 2am?" Even Lisa felt a little sceptical about that.
"C'mon, Tricky, the truth," urged CSFB! "Was it alien mind control?"
"It is the truth," Trickshot insisted. "She left a text message on my pager!"
"Well, that would probably help your case," said Lisa. "I mean, I suppose I could try to seduce all the policemen in the station, and all the prosecutors against you, but, you know, some policemen are just covered in that doughnut powder, and..."
"Where's the pager?" Dream cut in.
"I...don't know," Tricky said. "I had it on me, but now I can't find it."
The Case of the Gold Coin Killer - Chapter Three
Messenger made a pretty good getaway, but even as he came to a halt in the shadows of the Cathedral cemetary he knew he was still being followed. "What do you want, Dancer?" he asked without even turning round.
"What do I want? Well, shouldn't you know by now, Messenger?" She says in a mock flirty voice as she plays with his hair. "I want you."
"Not in the mood for jokes." He grimaces as he flips a gold coin in his hand.
"Ooooh, who said I was joking? I love manic-depressive murderers in dirty, bloodied trench-coats... and is that-... bird shit on the coat?"
"Shaddup! I'm getting it washed tomorrow..." He sighs as he clutches the coin.
"*sigh*... Okay, seriously though... You're the best detective around. Well, okay, after Dark Knight, NTU, the Gothametropolis Police Department and maybe that old detective agency spiffy and Banjoooooo used to have. But you're still pretty good. Servicable, at least. I need your help. I know tricky didn't kill Jenson because he was with me last night!"
"Well, I know he didn't--..." Messenger stops himself mid-sentence and raises his eyebrow. "What do you mean you were "with" him last night?!"
"Gotcha!" grinned Dancer. "C'mon, you know I don't sleep with team-mates. Lisa would sue for copyright infringement."
"Oh. Right," the postman replied uncertainly.
"We were crimefighting, you perv. We wrapped it up pretty early, and he said he had to meet with this reporter. So, I tailed him. I mean, a 2am meeting in a lonely park?"
"And you didn't get see who got him?"
"No, somebody got to me, too. I just came to before Tricky did. I found him laid out like that and felt it was a a good idea for him to not be there when the cops arrived."
"So what are you saying...? There would've had to be at least two people in on it then, to take you both out," said Messy. "At least, I guess so."
"Which is why you're the superb detective you are!" Dancer gives him a peck on the cheek. ".... Ew... You taste like sulfur."
"I was fighting Magma Man and his Lava Ladies of doom last night."
"I-... no, I won't even ask." Dancer bites her lip and looks at Messenger in bewilderment. "Let's just focus on the task at hand. I was just trying to wake Trickshot up when the cops arrived."
"You didn't call them?" Messenger frowned. "Then who did?"
"Your buddy the TV psychic?" Dancer speculated. "And where did you get that gold coin from exactly?"
"Have you ever heard of this Marvelous Marv?" Messenger asks. "Peculiar gentleman. Was there investigating the scene this morning. Really creeped the shit out of me. He's a psychic detective apparently. One I've never heard of before."
"That's because you don't have a TV. "Marv has his own spot on Paradopolis-AM, where he predicts the lives of the rich and famous. And can you guess what he announced yesterday morning?"
"Surprise me."
"Don't I always? He predicted the arrest of a superhero."
"No shit... No shit..." Messenger fiddled with the gold coin in his grasp. "This case suddenly got very interesting.... I say we pay this shrill Ms Cleo rip-off a visit, don't you, my lovely Dancer?"
"Er... yeah... if you say so. Say, you didn't tell me why you have that gold coin? Isn't it kinda ... um... a murder weapon?"
"Don't worry about that." Messenger scoffs shoving the coin in his pocket. He had scracthes on his face.
"And those--.... scratches??!"
"I said... Don't worry!" Messenger glares at Shep. "There's something that YOU neglected to tell ME! I heard over the police radio that Tricky had been listed as missing since yesterday afternoon. And yet, you claim you were fighting crime with him last night! Answer me, that!"
"Er... well..." Dancer glances around nervously, twirling her hair in her fingers. "Funny story that..."
"I'll say. Looks like none of us are free of suspicion."
At the same time Agnew and Montresor were trying to make make headway at the McKinley mansion, and Dancer and Messenger were exchanging mutually suspicous glances as they headed to find Marvellous Marv, Officer Miller had just about finished walking the area of the crime scene. Every discarded cigarette and used condom had to be bagged in case it was evidence. But when he found the dark spray of blood smeared across a cracked defaced statue of civic founder Wilbur Parody seventy feet from the fountain he knew he'd found the murder site.
And there was something else.
Officer Miller's jaw dropped when he saw the site before him. There was a chalk mural on the sidewalk of Charon, the cloaked skeleton who according to Greek legend ferried the newly deceased across a river to their final resting place for the paltry sum of... three gold coins.
Officer Miller clutched his mouth and swallowed the bit of vomit that had made its way back up.
Yet another "something else," though, appeared in his peripheral vision. He turned to see what it was.
The cracked and blood stained compound bow of Trickshot the Marksman.Miller quickly called out to his fellow patrolmen, telling them to get in touch with the Crime Scenes Unit.The disgraced former Captain tried toremember if the Legionnaire wore the fingerless gloves common to competitive archers.If so, this case would soon be over.
But what did the ferryman of the River Styx have to do with it?
The Case of the Gold Coin Killer - Chapter Four
Commissioner Graham looked at the corkboard wall with the various strands of the investigation laid out on it. "Okay, so we have forensics going over the murder scene, and more evidence about Trickshot's complicity in the murder of a reporter on a story to expose the IDs of some major superheroes including himself. We have a bunch of unexplained people in the park - Dancer, Messenger, Marvelous bloody Marv the TV Psychic - none of whom we can find right now. And what was that at the McKinley mansion, Agnew?"
"Nobody home, sir, despite the automated systems letting us into the lobby. But we did find a receipt for twelve 1774 gold sovereigns made out to McKinley taped to the inner door."
The Commissioner ran a hand through his thicket of white hair, "Does anyone else feel like they're being led around the nose here? OK, does anyone know where McKinley is right now?"
Police Superintendant Marlowe interrupted the discussion, in order to figure out how the investigation was proceeding.
"Are you any closer to figuring out what's going on?"
Graham sighed. "Well, no, but--"
"This goes nation-wide in fifteen minutes. I won't have this department, or this city, looking like an unsafe laughing stock."
"We're exploiting every available resour--"
"Not good enough."
"We have to have more ti--"
"Have you found the murderer, yet? Do we have someone in custody?"
"No, but..."
"Do your job."
"But..."
Marlowe screamed, "DO YOUR FUCKING JOB!", stunning the precinct, and leaving Graham wondering what exactly crawled up his supervisor of twenty years' backside.
Marlowe answered this question seconds later, as in his office, he phoned someone on a disposable, untraceable cell phone message saying "It's done."
Marlowe'd done a pretty good job of concealing his tracks, but there were those who kept a close eye on things even in Parodiopolis' Finest's quarters.
Therefore, at Lair Mansion, Fin Fang Foom removed the earpiece he'd been wearing and grunted an annoyed burst of flame. He then pressed the red button under his desk.
He swore he'd never press the red button, after what happened the last time...
"Hi, don't mind us," Nats told the bleary jeweller who had finally answered CrazySugarFreakBoy!'s persistent banging on the shop door below his living quarters. "We just need to see your books and till receipts about the sale of some antique coins."
"And also to check if you're a Skunk, Hero Feeder, or extraplanar entity in disguise," CSFB! added helpfully.
"But mainly to check your books," Nats sighed. "Librarian?"
Lee Bookman brushed his fingers over the ledgers. "The sovereigns were purchased electronically over the internet," he reported at once. "The card numbers are right for McKinley but these things can be faked."
"But somebody needed twelve antique coins for some bizarre reason," Nats puzzled, thinking of the Charon ritual in the park. "And where are the other eight...?"
"Probably on other dead bodies..." Messenger called out from the front door. Chimes on the top jingled as he entered with Dancer.
"If you amatrurs actually want to make an effort to find Jenson's murderer, I suggest you follow us to 'Television Lot 12'. That's where Marvellous Marv films his public access shenanigans. Funny, isn't it..." The Postman continued. "Twelve missing gold coins. Television lot... twelve." He emphasised the number. "TWELVE!"
"Ah yeah... we get it." Nats rolled his eyes. "Kinda a flimsy lead to go on. You got anything else?"
Messenger shuffled around nervously. "Well..."
"There's the coin he's carrying," Dancer pointed out. "You never did say why you were lurking in Off-Central Park, Messy."
"Does he need a reason? He's Messenger," Nats pointed out. "Don't hurt me."
"I got the coin in the mail," the postman explained reluctantly. "One of my secret dead drops. No name, just a place and time. I get there and suddenly its dead reporter central."
"Trickshot was summoned there by a spurious pager message," the Librarian pointed out. "Somebody wanted witnesses. Or suspects."
"And Dancer?" Messenger wondered. "She claims to have followed the archer and been knocked out. But he somehow got filled with alcohol, and she doesn't have a mark on her."
Librarian pondered this a moment, and then asked "Does anyone have a current location for Harry Flask?"
"The Lynchpin of Crime?" CSFB! grinned. "Probably sitting down and covering about three states."
"He's a noted numismatist," Lee Bookman pointed out. "He's bought things in this shop before now."
"Mr Flask?" contributed the nervous jeweller. "Oh yes sir. He's one on my best customers."
"Is that who put the coins up for sale?" the Librarian speculated.
"You think its the Lynchpin that's trying to frame us? I figured it was HERPES. You know, Hero Extermination something something," Dancer offered.
"I think its my mysterious malefic arch enemy the Word!" CSFB! countered.
"Shadow Cabinet," Nats gave his opinion.
"Not bad, Dancer," Messenger noted. "By pure chance nobody asked about your being in the park."
"I don't remember, okay?" Shep admitted. "I remember following Tricky past the Parody statue. Then nada. I'm waking up in the dirt like I've had a night on the town with Con Johnstantine."
Messenger spat, "Let's go find Marvelous Marv and asks what he thinks."
"Hi, and welcome back to Paradopolis AM. I'm Joni Jordan and its the top of the hour so that means its time to talk with our own pipeline to the powers, our guru of voodoo, our very own Marvelous Marv!"
The camera cut to Marv's set. He sat there with a glazed expression for a moment then keeled over.
As his body hit the floor the gold coin was dislodged from his throat and span across the studio.
"You know ... Speaking of unsolved mysteries... You haven't told us why you have scratches on your face, Messy." Shep sighed. "Looks like a scared woman reporter may have left her mark on you."
"That's not funny. Not even as a joke, Shep. I take what's happened this morning very seriously." Messenger furrowed his brow.
"I take it seriously too. So who did leave those marks on you?"
Messenger closed his eyes. "You won't understand..."
"Who did it, Messenger?" Dancer asked again in a more gentle voice.
"Mrs Jenson did." The Postman whispered. "Twelve hours before she was murdered."
Don Graham had barely got home from the all-night investigation before he was called out to the TV studio murder. He ignored the reporters behind the cordon and strode straight over to forensics specialist Lee O'Callaghan.
"Poison," she said immediately. "Something exotic that'll take me a while to pin down. The coin was coated with it."
"Someone rammed a poisoned gold sovereign down this man's throat in a crowded TV studio just before he could go on air?" Graham asked sceptically.
"Either that or he swallowed it himself," Lee shrugged helplessly. "And he's not telling us."
"Did you kill her?!?" Dancer screamed as she held Messenger against a glass display case.
"*urk... no... you idiot." He gurgled back. He tugged at his collar.
"Uh... Shep. Maybe we should listen to what he has to say first!" Nats put his hand on her shoulder. "C'mon..."
She gives Messenger a hard look and then reluctantly loosens her grip. "I suppose you're right. But I don't trust this so-and-so. I haven't trusted him since that time he skipped out of paying the bill at the 'Bean and Donut' coffee bar. Here I am giving him free refills on his coffee... like nine... and he leaves without paying and without a goodbye either. How rude."
Messenger coughs as he holds his throat. "Dancer... *hack*... In case you don't recall, that was the day Anvil Man decided to go on a ballistic rampage just across the street. I had to take care of business."
Shep sighs. "Messenger, I'm sorry I strangled you. It's been a tough day. Why did Mariel Jenson scratch your face?"
The Postman pauses. "My memory is so hazy for some reason... I was helping her crack a scandal in the city. A really big scandal that would fire a lot of prominent people and send even more to jail. And-... And she scratched me because... I don't..." He looks back at Shep with a blank expression. "I don't remember..."
His expression hardened, and he glares at Dancer. "What about you? Your alibi is no better than mine. It's not like you couldn't be implicated in this, either.
So get out of my face, sister. Back off. Back way off."
Dancer realises she's touched a nerve--perhaps this was one of Messenger's ill-fated romances gone awry. "I'm--I'm sorry..."
Naturally, that's when the camera bulb flashed, and all went to hell.
"Can you comment on Trickshot's possible involvement?"
"--any truth to the rumor about your possible Playboy shoot, Dancer?"
"--wanted in connection with over twenty murders, Messenger...I'm sure you've got a comment..."
"--on earth do you have a badly dressed child with you? Oh, I'm sorry, that's Nats..."
"Screw this!" Nats exclaimed as he lifted CSFB, Dancer, Messenger and the Librarian off into the air with his TK. He flew them a block away before depositing them in an ally.
What they saw surprised even the most sturdy among them.
Another chalk drawing of the Boatman on the river Styx. For them this is the first time they've seen this particular kind of clue. Thats not the shocking thing. Lying there prostrated upon the chalk drawing was Detective Spiro T. Agnew, bleeding from the mouth, nose, ears and eyes. Another gold coin was lodged in his left ear.
Trickshot watches as the night sky outside his bars continues to remain dark.
"Carl, what have you gotten yourself into now?" he thinks to himself as he stands, all alone in his cell. "I gotta get out of here. But how? They took my arrows and costume and even my stashed pockets. I could've used a acid tip to burn through the bars but..."
KACHAC!
His belt, complete with the secret compartments, clatters to the jail floor from the barred window. Carl looks out the window and sees a shadowy figure running through the alley. He doesn't recognise the silhouette but it's the same man who was in McKinley's house.
"Now," Tricky thinks, "Should I make a break for it?"
From the distance a shadowy figure watched as Marvellous Marv's body was rolled out of the television studio on a stretcher.
"How ironic..." The voyeur rasped in a hollow voice. "The con-man was finally conned himself. Sorry, old boy. I appreciate your help in this little play of mine, but truth be told you had outlived your usefulness. Both you and Detective Agnew."
The figure went into Marvellous Marv's dressing room and set down an autographed publicity photo of him, weighed down by three gold coins. The mysterious person then got out a small blunted piece of chalk and drew a small picture of Charon, the cloaked skeleton who ferried lost souls to their final resting place, on the table next to the photo. "God speed you old shrill..." the figure whispered as he melted back into the shadows. "Hopefully Charon isn't as unforgiving as I am."
The Case of the Gold Coin Killer - Chapter Five
Lee O'Callaghan turned away from her microscope and rubbed her forehead. "The coin in Jensen's throat was coated too," she reported wearily. "But not with the same substance as the poison that killed Marvin Makowski. Jenson's coin was laced with some complex organic compound with similarities to lysergic acid diethylamide. There's traces of the same stuff on the coins we took off Trickshot."
"So he was stoned when he killed her?" the Commissioner scowled. "If he killed her. It's too neat a set up to make me really happy."
"The gold's an ideal nonreactive base to spread the chemical on. If the sovereign was laid on the tongue there'd be a progressive psychedelic effect," Lee suggested. "Behaviour changes. Memory gaps."
"This is starting to feel like an Agatha Christie novel," Graham noted darkly.
There was a buzz in the hall, a surge of angry and fearful emotions that caught Graham's attention. He didn't know it then, but the mood had swept the building when the word had come in that one of their own had become a victim of the Gold Coin Killer.
For the police, this redball had now become a crusade.
"Sir, we got a statement from a Mr Tony Partisi, down at the TV station," Yamana reported. "Describes himself as Marvellous Marv's assistant and live-in lifestyle consultant. Apparently Marv was in the habit of sucking that gold coin every time he went on air and predicted the future. Every time since he got famous six months ago!"
"Interesting," considered Lee O'Callaghan. "So that was where he got his gift of the barney from. But this time it didn't have the whatever-the-hallucigen is on the coin. This time it was poison!"
"Well when the poisoner put Agnew on the critical list at PH Memorial he made a bad mistake," growled Commissioner Drury. "Put out the word. All cars. No more masks and costumes interfering now. They see Messenger, they see Dancer, they bring them in."
That was when the breathless holding pen sergeant panted up to warn that Trickshot was gone.
Messenger, Dancer, Nats, CSFB! and Librarian were debating their next move on the roof, looking over the alley where a barely alive Detective Spiro Agnew had been found earlier.
"That was cre- creepy..." Nats shuddered as he watched an ever increasing number of cop cars arrive at the scene below. After stumbling upon the Detective's body by perchance, they had called in their discovery to the police. However, when said cops had arrived, they found that their help wasn't welcome to the tune of over-eager rookies firing their service revolvers in their direction. The tension was thick in the air. You could cut it with a knife.
"Guys..." Messenger gasped in a flinty voice. "I think you better have a look at this... I found it at the scene." He was holding a black and white photograph. There were twelve people in the picture, all wearing cloaks and staring solemn-faced at the camera. Looking over the faces, he recognized a few.
"That's McKinley!" Dancer whispered.
"And Marlowe!!" Nats chimed in.
"That punk, Marvellous Marv is there too..." Messenger added, studying the photo.
"And I do believe that's Detective Spiro Agnew in the background who we found just over an hour ago." Lee Bookman said in a matter-of-fact tone.
"I just remembered why I was helping that reporter..." The Postman stammered in a rattled voice as a wave of forgotten memories washed over him. "The cult--...." He cupped a hand over his face in shock. His eyes widened. "The Cult of the Boatmen... Oh god. This is even worse than I thought."
"I dunno," said Nats. "Looks photoshopped to me. Look at that. McKinley's skin tone doesn't match up."
"It's black and white," protested Messy.
"No, but the lighting!"
"Listen, we need to find out who these other people are," said Dancer, "and it's going to be hard doing that with the police shooting at us."
"You'll probably need my help then," said a voice from the shadows. Messenger recognized it as familiar. From behind them came a man dressed entirely in black armor. Unbeknownst to everyone, this was Michael McKinley under the armor, son of Royale, the super-villainous crime lord. (You can read about him in Finny's Progeny Series!)
"There's an explanation behind it," continued McKinley.
"Leave the others to do the exposition bit," Dancer whispered to Messenger. "I'm tired of being yanked around with random gobbets of information. This way."
"Where are we going?" the postman frowned.
Dancer gave him a mysterious smile. "Anticipate," she said.
Nats was looking the armoured figure up and down. "So who are you and why shouldn't we bust you?"
"I'm the man who can tell you why things are happening, and you won't bust me because I can flatter you all in ten seconds without getting out of breath," McKinley answered. "Look, I happen to have access to the files of the late crimelord Royale..."
"Really?" the Librarian perked up.
"And I know that a few years back he was trying to get hold of a mutate codenamed Styx. The guy was supposed to be able to secrete a psychogenic substance that gave people temporary psionic abilities, different for each subject. Telepathy, psychometry, TK, precognition, whatever. But Styx disappeared, and nobody heard of his secretions any more. Until now."
"And this?!" Messenger asked pointing at the mysterious black and white photo of McKinley and eleven other individuals.
"I was undercover, trying to blow the lid off the Styx experiment. Scientists, billionaires, philanthropists, politicians, entertainers like Marv... they were members." McKinley explained. "A dozen in all. We were all given... including myself... a little trinket at our initiation." The operative known as Progeny opened his hand to reveal a shimmering 1774 gold coin. "There were other plants too, such as Agnew who was working on a case as well. And Mariel Jenson... who it seems got too close to the truth about Styx."
"And you thought it was doctored! Hah! Proving that for a forensics detective, you make a good delivery boy!" Messy grinned smugly. "And see, Dancer? I can do my part with the whole exposition bit. This old vigilante still has some tricks up his sleeve."
"Okay... Okay..." Nats sighed. "No need to rub it in."
"Stop tormenting Nats and come with me," Dancer scowled. "There's still a couple of things we haven't tried."
Messenger raised an eyebrow.
"We haven't checked Marvellous Marv's home for clues, and nobody's found out why Ms Jensen phoned her ex-husband yesterday. And if everybody got one coin each where did Tricky get three from, and who bought the extras from that jewellers shop in McKinley's name two weeks back, and..."
"Somebody's been dropping weird clues ever since this started to keep us running all over the place," the blac-armoured stranger warned. "Tried to frame Michael McKinley with that coin purchase, tried to frame Trickshot or messenger with the park scenario..."
"So you disguised yourself as Michael McKinley in order to infiltrate this Styx sect?" Dancer asked him.
"Er...yes," said McKinley, realizing he just blew his identity with a slip of the tongue. So did no one notice it, or was Dancer aware and just trying to cover him...?
"Genius!" said Nats, confirming his obliviousness.
Messenger pointed at the armored McKinley. "So who else was involved? And why would they be killing other members?"
"Not everyone identified themselves. Styx had his own little cult going there for a while, selling his psychoactive secretions to people who wanted to use them for their own ends. Jenson found she could be slightly telepathic. Very useful for a reporter trying to uncover superhero IDs."
"Is this where we discuss your play-date with the murder victim?" Dancer murmured to Messenger. Or do we move on?"
"Okay, I get the point," surrendered the postman. "We go."
"Dancer, you and Messy check out the Makowski residence," Nats organised. "CSFB! and I will head off with big black armour guy here and... Dancer? Messenger?"
"Dude, you've been totally Batmanned," CSFB! smirked.
The dawn drizzle obscured the grey shapes of the derilect housing project. Trickshot followed the instructions slipped into his weapons pouch, curious as to why he'd been tempted to break free from police custody. Just how stupid did the killer think he was?
"Very stupid..." A voice inside Trickshot's head boomed.
For a second, Carl Bastion thought he was going crazy, but then he heard the voice again.
"I can read your thoughts, Carl... I know you're curious as to why I framed you." the voice echoed inside of his brain.
"SHUT UP!" The archer screamed at no one in particular, scaring away the pigeons on the roof. "Who are you?! Get out of my head!"
"I will. As soon as you do what I tell you..."
"You're in my head, sparky? Then you know what I'm thinking about right now!"
And suddenly the ruins were full of policemen. "Get those lights in here!" shouted Officer Miller. "The bastard who went after Agnew's round here somewhere."
Trickshot felt the surge of surprise in the mind touching his. "I'm dumb, but not that dumb," he snorted at his telepathic enemy. "So when you dropped my kit into my holdin' cell I had me a little word with Graham then made my escape just like you wanted."
"No!" a tormented voice cried from the ruins. "You were supposed to come alone!"
When the dark figure raised his arm with the Kalishnikov semi-automatic he got it nearly to his hip before two dozen service revolvers unloaded themselves into his torso.
The Case of the Gold Coin Killer - Chapter Six
Marvellous Marv lived in a brownstone down towards Byrnewood, a quiet three-storey house that now seemed abandoned except for the police line ribbons over the doors. Dancer and Messenger came in over the roof and entered through an attic skylight.
"Boy the guy liked to collect stuffed animals," Sarah Shepherdson observed as she picked her way through the loft full of dusty taxidermy.
"He was a creepy little bastard alright," Messenger agreed. "I didn't like the way he seemed to look right into my head."
"I don't like the way all these dead things are staring at me," shuddered Dancer.
"You were so keen to come here," the postman pointed out. "What did you think you'd find?"
A strange glazed expression came over Shep's face for a moment, then was replaced by a sudden smile. "A little alone time with you, maybe?" she suggested, moving forward.
Dancer moved her lips towards Messenger's and they pressed against one another. Messenger made a surprised muffled sound through the lip-lock as his eyes widened.
He pushed Shep away. "Dancer... huh?"
"Oooh. I'm sorry. I can't help it." She moaned as she panted in the doorway of Marvellous Marv's house. "I have this strange... lusting for you. I really don't want to get involved with you as I value my life, but I-... feel compelled."
"Weird." The Postman added. "I also, feel a strong attraction to you. I can't even think straight. I'm sorry I've been bickering with you all day. I think I was trying to hide my true feelings."
"Oh god..." Dancer yelped. "I'm so horny. Take me!"
"Wait a second!" Messenger shouted. "This... There's something strange going on."
"I'll say! You've yet to "take" me." Dancer puffed in frustration.
"No... The fact I'm unfocused... The fact I can't remember anything that's happened in the last day. The fact I'm drawn to you, when I've never really had feelings towards you before."
"Are you-- actually turning me down? Me?! Dancer?!"
"Don't you see?" He shakes her by the shoulders. "We're being manipulated... By something. But what?"
"Who cares?" Shep shrugged, throwing her arms round Messenger. "Dance with me."
"I'm not really much of a dancer. More of a kill-everybody-in-the-room-with-a-semiautomatic kind of guy."
"And I thought you could dance on the head of a pin?" Sarah Shepherdson noted mischievously. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm an excellent Dancer, and when I move I can gather probabilities and what are the chances of us breaking free from this control?"
"Pretty damn good," growled Messenger, pulling his pistols. "Now."
The gambit had failed. The heroes had resisted. So now two hundred stuffed animals animated and closed in on the intruders.
Fin Fang Foom spoke into another miniaturized phone, hidden behind his ear. It was seldom-used, in fact, it'd only been used once before.
He wouldn't be using it now, if the circumstances weren't so dire.
"We need you. But you use non-lethal means, or the DA and I will make sure you won't see the light of day until the cockroaches come out from hiding after the last mushroom clouds have faded, and our species is long gone from this planet."
In response, the voice on the other end of the line chuckled.
The Red Button, you see, had temporarily left Finny's room unavailable to be traced by natural, or supernatural means. It also meant that he'd had to cross a line that he never wanted to again.
Five minutes later, a masked figure teleported out of seemingly nowhere, and slipped something tiny into Officer Miller's coat pocket. The other officers weren't able to see him, due to... an agreement that his current employer had reached with the masked man.
"Your worries are over. Keep them off our back for a few more hours", the masked figure hissed, and then vanished.
Ten minutes after that, Trickshot was pacing around his cell racking his brain over what he just witnessed and the fact he felt violated at someone rifling through his thoughts. He had been placed back under police protection after leading half the Paradiopolis Precinct to the supposed murderer. While technically he was still a prisoner and under suspicion, the cops were now holding him as a possible key-witness, unsure for the first time that he really did kill Mariel Jenson. Even while under heavy police guard, he received a visitor. The same masked figure teleported into his cell and gave him a nearly lethal shock.
As he vanished, the masked figure chuckled. "He never said anything about a coma..."
Don Graham was still catching up on the latest morgue entry. "Import export magnate Malcolm Prentiss," Detective Diana Montresor reported, dropping a file on the Commissioner's desk. "That's who passed the escape kit to Trickshot. That's who tried to open fire in the project. Forensics tie the weapon he used to the incident with Spiro - Detective Agnew - so it looks like we caught the scum and saved the state some trial costs."
"And a gold coin in his pocket," Graham pointed out. "Don't forget that. Or what Trickshot said about a voice in his head."
"Trickshot's trying to beat a murder rap," Montresor argued. "Sir. We got the guy. We can tie him to the McKinley mansion break-in, and to the coin purchase two weeks ago. It all fits."
Don Graham sucked on his cigarette and stared at the ninth coin so far. "Convenient," he noted. "Very convenient."
And Lisa Waltz got an unexpected call on her cell. Her supervisor had an interesting message. "You're being replaced. District wants a new guy on the case--he's got prior experience."
"Like what? Trickshot's in a lot of trouble..."
"He's defended the Dark Knight against murder charges for Carlson's murder. I'd say he'll be fine."
Richard Pine, then, was at that very moment filing a complaint against the Parodiopolis Police department for not Mirandizing his client when news broke out of the attack. Most counsels would flip their lid--but Pine barely reacted. He'd expected this. It wasn't as if he had contingency plans, for this, after all...
The animated animal corpses jerked forward even after Messenger sprayed them with bullets.
"Can I just say, Eew," cringed Dancer. "Someone has a sick sense of humour."
"Think he'll be laughing when I find him and put a bullet in his gut?" the postman asked.
Unfortunately, his question would not be answered at that moment. "Do you smell something?" she suddenly asked.
"Um, besides your perfume? And formaldehyde?"
"No...smells like smoke." The smoke alarms blaring suddenly seemed to confirm this.
Scant seconds later, the duo found the building they were in had apparently burst into flames, quickly turning into a deadly inferno.
"We've got to get out of here!" Messenger coughed.
"Well, duh," replied Dancer, improbably leaping through the flames. But behind the two super-powered characters appeared several unseen assailants, all armed with automatic weapons.
Messenger ranged round to drop them but Dancer kicked his gun aside. "Don't hurt them. Look at them, Messy! When were you last attacked by people in their night clothes?" She glanced at a pudgy man who had been knocked over by the force of the machine gun he was firing. "Sleeping au naturelle was a bad choice," she advised him.
"Mind control again," hissed Messenger. "Right. We run!"
Don Graham addressed the gathered police men and women in front of him. "Okay," he said. "We've got a suspect shot down in a completely obvious criminal situation, we've got evidence to back up the allegations, and a couple witnesses. Which is why, of course, it's completely wrong. I haven't worked in Parodiopolis this long by being a complete idiot. Now we've still got some super-powered suspects on the loose, but you know and I know that they most likely didn't do it, regardless of what it looks like. Now get me Trickshot."
"I still think Wang the Conqueror did it," insisted Nats.
"That doesn't make any sense," CrazySugarFreakBoy! responded.
"This is the Parodyverse," the Librarian told them. "Since when does it have to make sense?"
"I don't trust the guy in the black armour," Nats added darkly. "We only have sketchy 'leave him alone' reports from Finny and DK - assuming he's even the same guy under that metalwear. And he was in on this coin thing from the start."
"Everyone seems to have been in it from the start," noted the Librarian. "Undercover cops, reporters, nameless possible superheroes. It's as if this Styx person was deliberately gathering them."
"What the tin man doing now?" Nats asked CSFB! "I don't want to look like I'm obviously watching him."
"He's stood behind you," CrazySugarFreakBoy! answered. "With that address you asked for from his computer database? Mariel Jenson's ex?"
"Right," agreed McKinley. "And you're not going to believe who this guy is!"
"I don't need a new shyster lawyer," Trickshot observed to Richard Pine. "I already got me a shyster lawyer."
"So now you have a new one, Mr Trickshot. Fin Fang Foom sent me in because I can have you out of here in ten minutes."
"Ten? Even Lisa can't seduce that many cops that fast," the irritating archer scowled. "Well, not often."
"You helped them find an attempted cop-killer. Then you were grievously assaulted in your own prison cell..."
"That teleporting sonofabitch! If I'd have had my arrows..."
"If they don't drop the charges now and let you walk out of here a free man, and polish your boots as you go then Graham's looking at a seven figure lawsuit and more bad press than Michael Jackson in a day care centre." Pine smiled a cold, merciless smile. "Getting almost murdered in your cell was the best thing that could have happened to you."
Messenger and Dancer caught their breath across the street from the partially collapsed building where Marvellous Marv lived. They had barely escaped with their lives, managing to jump out a third story window and cushion their landing with a nice conveniently placed dumpster.
Now they watched as black smoke billowed from the rooftop and the flames roared out of control.
"Messy, we need to rescue those people!" Dancer gasped. "Those poor people..."
"Lady... in case you haven't noticed, those 'poor' people were shooting at us. How exactly do we rescue people trying to kill us?!" Messenger looked back at her skeptically. "There's nothing we can do. They're beyond help."
"We're heroes. We have to do something..." She clutched the postman's hand. "Please... I can't do this alone."
Messenger sighed and was about to relent when he heard the sound of a streaming jet engine behind him. He whirled around to see a man dressed in armor, much like McKinley's, slowly lowered to the street with the help of a jetpack. His armor however was crimson red. He wore a dark visor and had bright orange hair. The armor gleamed under the hot sun.
"Hello... My name is Heatwave," the man rasped. "My employer doesn't appreciate you snooping around in his affairs." He held out his hand and a concentrated wave of flame shot out in Messenger and Dancer's direction.
They dived out of the way just in time.
"You! You're the one who burnt down that tenament building with all those poor souls inside," Dancer shrieked as she staggered back to her feet. "You bastard..."
Heatwave grinned and let out a mirthful laugh.
His hand once again heated up and flames spiralled around his closed fist.
"Burn, baby. Burn."
"Creaseface?" Nats repeated. "Mariel Jenson used to be married to Hugo Capetti, the protection king of Gothametropolis? The guy who ran all the unions?"
"The guy who ran all the unions until the cops took him down," Michael McKinley pointed out, "based on insider information rooted out by a crusading reporter at the Daily Trombone. Jensen turned him in and divorced him while the trial was still on. The guy's doing twenty-five to life right now."
"That's a pretty good motive for murder," CrazySugarFreakBoy! admitted, "Old Creaseface must have had dozens of killer goons working for him! But why now? Why with Tricky and Messy involved?"
"This Creaseface?" asked the Librarian, holding the photograph from the last crime scene. "The one standing next to Jensen in the cult picture?" Lee Bookman swayed. "You know, 'm starting to feel quite weird..."
"I know what you mean," agreed Nats. "Kind of dizzy, hard to think."
"I'm fine," grinned CrazySugarFreakBoy! as he toppled into the gutter.
"It's nothing to worry about," McKinley told them as Nats and the Librarian followed CSFB! to the ground. "Just some more of Styx's secretions coating the photograph is all." He plucked the image from the Librarian's motionless hand. "Maybe I should have mentioned that?"
The Case of the Gold Coin Killer - Chapter Seven
Blackbird sat in his cell in the Safe, Gothametropolis' metahuman prison, and sipped a light Chabilais as he sketched on one of his scratch pads. He drew a central figure with a robe and scythe, the mythcial Charon, ferryman over the river Styx to the land of death. He drew twelve strands out to twelve circles representing the original receiptients of gold coins laced with a psyhoactive substance that gave them temporary psionic capacities. He wrote in names.
"Jenson, wanting the goods on her husband, later wanting the story of her career as Jerkson called it, the secret identities of all superheroes. Capetti, exploiting the pyrokinetic gift he got from the secretions to further his criminal empire. Prentiss, wanting persuasion powers to further his business dealings. Marvellous Marv Makowski, seeking television fame as a genuine seer, and Partisi, Makowski's boyfriend, wanting psionic emotion stimulation gifts. Agnew, undercover trying to get an in to Styx' criminal underworld connections. McKinley, desperately wrestling with his parental issues rooting for what his father wanted with the cult..."
He paused for another sip of the new vintage. "Marlowe, receiving psionic healing gifts to hold off the stomach cancer that's killing him and the nerve degeneration that's destroying his wife. A man so desperate not to lose his supply of Styx's secretions that he would overcome a lifetime's honesty and service to force any quick resolution of the case - until dear Mr Dean besought my humble services to offset him."
One by one the twelve recipients were written in. "And only one of them figured out what Styx's secretions could really do, and why he set up his cult of Charon, and what he was really planning." Blackbird stared at the sketch, circled one of the names, added another little annotation, the crumpled the sheet and tossed it in the bin. "I wonder how long it will be before the heroes figure it out," he mused. "I wonder if they'll be in time?"
He put down his wine glass and reached for his mask. "Ah well," he mused. "Back to work."
With a killer's trained eye Messenger drew a bead on Heatwave's hairline and fired. Two 9mm shells blew off the top of the enforcer's head.
"Hm. Can scratch him off the list," the Postman noted as the armored figure fell to the pavement.
Dancer nearly lost her breath after witnessing the cavalier killing, "The people," she reminded her partner as she ran towards the blaze that endangered dozens of innocents.
Suddenly it was Christmas in July as the townhouse was pelted by virtual squall of white vapor. The gas, bromochlorodifluoromethane, served the dual purpose of extinguishing the fire and reducing the mind controlled civilians to hacking fits.
The chemicals coalesced into the form of a barrel-chested man in a mask and sleeveless tee.
"I'm sorry," Alcheman said to Dancer and Messenger, "but I think I have to arrest you now."
"Oh hi there," smiled Dancer. "Nice to see you again Alcheman. how's the superheroing going?"
"Er, fine," the neophyte crimefighter answered. "But I'm arresting you."
"Is he under mental control?" Messenger demanded. "I can cripple him if you like."
"No, he's always like this," Dancer admitted. "Alcheman, you can't arrest us. You're not a policeman or a duly authorised law enforcement agent like the LL members are. Like I am."
"There's... there's an all points bulletin out on the two of you. They broke into the sports round-up. And I'm conducting a citizens arrest, as is my civic right and duty."
"Like a twig," Messenger scowled. "I could snap him like..."
"Later, Messy. This is a good guy. Don't hurt him. Alcheman, you know those terrible dilemmas heroes have, about attacking the opponent or saving lives?"
"Yes," agreed Alcheman uncertainly.
"Then you'll see you can either use your powers from those rather icky tattoos to try and stop us getting on and proving our innocence and saving the day, or you can rescue those poor people who were being mind-controlled to attack us from these burning houses." She looked up at him with soft, appealing eyes. "You will do the right thing, won't you?"
The very same masked figure that attacked Trickshot teleported across the street from Alcheman and the would-be copulators, fulfilling the second phase of his duty. He began by catching up with his... employer.
"Your bow guy's safe, but he won't be taking any house calls for a bit. And I'm watching the bitch and the drunk, right now."
"My warning also involves showing her some respect. So do it."
The masked figure that a lucky few called Blackbird chuckled at this, and continued watching this latest development, hoping that Messenger was adept enough to get them out of this. Sure, another murder wouldn't necessarily affect his sentence, but he'd like the possibility of parole...
A few more calls were placed, and then Superintendent Marlowe's phone rang. He quickly glanced around to make sure that that meddling twat Graham was busy trying to save his job, and answered. "You'd better have good news for me, Miller."
The disgraced former Captain chuckled. "I have three months to live, you soulless son of a bitch. Good news, to me, would be getting struck by lightning."
"Get to the point."
"They won't be able to trace this back to you. Our...associate's associate took care of that."
"Very well done. I might have to get you that desk job, anyway."
"Don't do me any favors, you smug ba--*click*".
Marlowe glanced at the phone, for a second, and then it rang again. Not one for showing emotion, he actually paled, and gulped. Talking to this man terrified him. Not even Flask, in the old days, before he'd ascended to his current position, had elicited this reaction.
He answered. The voice on the other end demanded, "You know the price of failure", and then hung up.
Marlowe had, in his time, heard of voices capable of achieving orgasm in those who were listening on the other end--but this voice left him nearly literally terrified to death.
He just hoped his wife would survive the surgery that had become possible through all of this Machiavellian manipulation, and he hoped that ultimately, the sacrifice of his soul would redeem what he'd become. Somehow. Hopefully. Because what are humans without their hope?
"Ohhh Finnnyyy!" called Lisa Waltz sweetly as she stalked into the Lair Mansion and summonsed the Makluan dragon to her. "We need a little chat!"
Don Graham stared at the four bleary heroes lined up in his office. Trickshot was still woozy from the cell attack before his release. Nats, CSFB! and the Librarian had been found by a squad car twenty minutes earlier.
"People, we are being played," he warned the Legionnaires. "We have been since before Mariel Jenson turned up dead in that fountain. So now we share what we know and we sit down and we figure what the hell is going on. Right?"
"Right," agreed Nats. "Then we find black-armour guy and ram it up his..."
"Data collation would be useful," the Librarian interrupted hurriedly.
"Then let's do the big working-it-out scene," enthused CrazySugarFreakBoy! "Then we can cut to the finale where we trounce the bad guy and everything explodes!"
***
"Oh my god..." Alcheman whispered as he lowered the last convulsing civilian down to street-level and out of the blaze.
The recently deceased Heatwave was shaking on the ground, the armor rattling against the pavement. Suddenly, the body lurched to its feet.
Heatwave stood there, with his scalp hanging off his head and his brains oozing down his visor. He stretched out his hand, flames still encircling it.
"I don't believe this..." Messenger said in a flustered voice. "I just blew that fucking guy's head clean off."
"Don't you see?!" Dancer screamed. "He IS dead! But he's being controlled by the same force that controlled all those people!" she pointed at the naked, pudgy men and women in night-gowns rolling around on the street in coughing fits.
Heatwave made a small grunting sound and then another burst of blistering flame shot out of his fist. Messenger and Dancer once again managed to dive out of the way, but Alcheman wasn't so lucky...
Alcheman, however, at the last second, quickly turned himself into something inflammable, so he escaped with only minor singing. This minor distraction provided enough time for Dancer to improbably persuade part of the flaming building to fall right on top of the semi-undead Heatwave.
***
"Okay," said Commissioner Graham, "Why'd you call me down here?"
"Well," began Seamus Finnian, "We were, um, fiddling with the audio of the message that the dead reporter lady left on McKinley's answering machine."
"Right," said Graham, "the one where she asked what a good time would be for a quick interview."
"That's only part of it," Finnian replied. "Just...well, it's not important how we found it, per se, but..."
"And the point is?"
Seamus smiled. "Wait'll you here what the message says if you play it backwards!"
"Well, thank god that's over..." Dancer flipped her hair back and caught her breath. "Alcheman, you okay?"
"I'll live..." He replied as he rubbed his sore torso.
The debris that covered the undead Heatwave started rumbling. There was a soft moan underneath the bricks and burnt plaster that covered him.
"No... It's not over... til' it's over..." Messenger hissed as he clutched his gun with a trembling hand. "Guys... get into position."
Heatwave's crushed body suddenly shot out of the pile of bricks and wooden support beams. His jetpack kept him suspended in mid-air.
He was completely destroyed. His neck was jerked violently to the side, obviously broken. Half of his brain was slipping out of his lop-sided head. His arms were mangled. One of his legs was detached and still pinned under the rubble. And yet, the body of Heatwave was still moving.
"His telepathy is more powerful than we thought..." the postman whispered in a grim voice.
"Messenger..." Heatwave mumbled. However, he was not speaking in his own voice. It was Mariel Jenson's voice. "Tell them what you did to me yesterday."
The first lady of the Lair Legion forced Finny to meet her gaze, "You're up to something. Something devious."
"You would know," the dragon said tersely.
"I don't know enough," Lisa countered, "Protecting the team is important, but if you're starting to cut ethical corners, I'd need to be consulted. For a small fee, of course."
"I did what I needed to," the dragon growled.
"Don't give me that! You had no right! That was my case and you know it! What's this hot shot lawyer have that I dont? Why him? We've known each other for years Finny! You KNOW I could do this. This isnt like you. Why bring that nobody on the case?" Lisa demanded.
"Nats and the others have a picture. It contains several people involved in the Styx Cult. Take a good look at one of the men in the back. Maybe you'll reconise the conection my lawyer friend has to this case."
Lisa looked at the faxed image of the picture McKinley had got. "Creaseface? And Pine helped put him away in that long acrimonious trial. Creaseface swore to see him dead."
"Right. So if Creaseface is behind this we want to know. Pine makes great live bait."
The amorous advocatrix frowned at Finny. "You're supposed to be the ethical one."
"We're facing a new class of threat. This isn't the old days when all wehad to worry about was Peter Von Doom," Fin Fang Foom grunted, "I've seen too much, and while I was away I had plenty of time to think this all through. We need to adapt or die."
The first lady of the Lair Legion glowered at him. "No," she answered crisply. "We explain to Lisa or die."
Michael McKinley entered the private estate above Shyminsky Falls the old fashioned way, by kicking in the front door. He wasn't feeling patient. "Chessington!" he shouted.
"Chessie's not here," slurred a drunken voice from the sofa.
McKinley recognised the woman with the designer silk nightgown slipping off one shoulder. "Where is he Vanity?" the armoured man demanded. "And don't be trying those memory alteration tricks on me. This suit is shielded."
"I can't do them any more," the blonde woman pouted. "No more fun for poor Vanity!"
"You've given up on Styx's goo?"
"No," Vanity replied. "But I'm dead, you see. No psionics for us deadies. Sorry. Chessie said I was a lying cheating whore of a bitch and he strangled me right there on the carpet when I got back from off-Central park last night."
"Chessinton killed you? And... and used the reanimation power he gets from the sovereigns! Oh Vanity!"
"He only animated me so I could kill you," the faded blonde apologised. "Bye bye Mikey."
She touched the detonator, and the house ceased to exist.
"Breaking news," announced Graham as he returned to the incident room where Nats, CSFB! and the librarian were working with the crime officers to reconstruct the chain of events. Their diagram was starting to look remarkably like Blackbird's.
"The coffee machine's working again?" Deitrich asked hopefully.
"Message in the background on the McKinley phone message," the Commissioner corrected.
"Elvis is alive?" CSFB! wondered.
"A whispering. Instructions. Speak to him - leave him a message - don't tell him too much That kind of thing."
"Someone was with her?" the Librarian asked.
"No. Somebody was sub-vocalising through her throat," Graham confessed. "I so miss mob hits."
Commissioner Graham stared at the corkboard wall with its photographs and bits of connecting string. “I need to talk to somebody,” he told the assemble puzzle-solvers. “Bicker amongst yourselves.”
It was thirty-seven paces to Superintendent Marlowe’s door. Graham counted them. He didn’t bother knocking.
“John,” he told his old colleague. “We have to talk.”
Marlowe sat in the darkened office, his blinds closed, his head in his hands.
“The case is coming together,” Graham told him. “A mutate called Styx, some folks he got hooked on that psychogenic substance he can secrete, misuse of the short-term psychic powers it grants to users. Now it’s looking like one of those users gains mind-control as a psychic effect. Or maybe Styx himself can put orders in the heads of those who use his coins?”
“That seems to be how and why Jensen implicated Trickshot and McKinley, why Trickshot drank so much and got all scratched up without remembering it, why Prentiss was forced to attack Agnew, free Trickshot, and murder Jensen. Agnew had worked out what was going on, from when he was undercover trying to get evidence on Creaseface, so he needed taking down. Marv saw the future, what the killer was going to do, so he had to be finished off as well. Jensen…” the Commissioner thought for a moment. “Jensen had all those superhero identities locked in her head, the stuff she’d been gathering for Jerkson’s scoop of the century…”
“And she was going to blow that precious information on a newspaper story.” Marlowe spoke for the first time. His voice was dull and heavy. “All the opportunities for blackmail, for power, for trade with underworld leaders, and she was going to throw it away for a front page in the Daily Trombone. I couldn’t let her do that. She had to die.”
“John?” Graham worried. “Sir?”
That was when he saw the Superintendent had a gun in his head. But it wasn’t pointed at Graham.
“Mind control, like you said, Commissioner,” Marlowe said, tightening his finger on the trigger.
BAM!
A soundless burst of TK energy lifts the gun and thows it against the wall. It back fires harmlessly.
Nats, the owner of the TK, storms into the room with the Librarian, Trickshot and CrazySurgarFreakBoy!
"A little silly string to wrap up the mesmerised Marlowe." Dreamcatcher says.
"Alright." Tricky speaks up, "Librarian, can you give us the info from his mind?"
"Not his mind, no," Lee Bookman admits, "but I'd be very interested in the call log on his telephone."
Marlowe struggled for a moment then slumped into a deep sleep. The Librarian checked the calls database on the Superintendent's desk. "He had voice mail. From a mobile number."
"Is the call wiped yet?" Graham asked quickly.
"No. Here it is."
The digital answering machine clicked to life. "Marlowe, it's time to pay old debts. You know what you have to do."
CSFB! pondered for a moment, then said "Hey, can you check the backtrack, like they did on the call to McKinley?"
"This machine's not set up for that," Lee Bookman explained, "But yes, I can," he added a little smugly. he ran his fingers over the machinery again. "Hmm..."
"So what does the tape say when played backwards?" Graham asked?
"You're going to think this is weird Commisoner.."
"In this case? Get on with it Librarian!"
"The same man's voice. It said 'Those served Charon well in life must now serve him well in death.' Weird huh?"
At that moment, the murder victims stood up off thier cold slabs at the morgue and began to walk.
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