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Posted by The Spirit
on 7/2/2009, 10:37 pm
69.47.233.55
A lower-level pharmaceutical researcher, Jackie Morris, was gunned down in front of his apartment in a dark alley-- just another day in Central City.
I slide off of the fire escape on the side of Morris's building, a huge, crumbling Jewish tenement on the south side of town, a monolith of red brick and rusted iron that has long since passed its heyday, as quickly and quietly as I can. Just because Commisioner Dolan likes to keep me around doesn't mean the rest of the Police Force does, and I generally like to keep a low profile. The resounding "SCREECH" of metal grinding on metal as the fire escape ramp inches its way to the ground, however, undermines my sense of stealth, alerting everyone in a city block to my presence.
Including the 3 uniformed officers still examining the crime scene. Great.
Morris's body lays covered up with a thin white blanket in the center of the alley. Two officers crouch by his sides, examining the ground for evidence-- both young and fit with freshly-pressed uniforms, probably rookies-- I wonder if they've ever seen a body before. On the far side of the alley, leaning against a wall smoking a cigarette, I recognize Capt. Louis Olsen. Red-haired and freckled, he'd be a spitting image of his cousin, the reporter out of Metropolis, if not for the wrinkled face and gut spilling over the top of his pants.
Stay cool, Colt. Don't assault a police officer. These men are your fri-- your colleag-- your coworkers, just stay calm. I stick my left hand in my trenchcoat pocket and relax my posture. If they think I'm calm, maybe they'll calm down.
"Evenin' fellas." I smile, lower my eyebrows, tip my hat, then rest my other hand in the other pocket. "What's the situation?" Olsen looks over at me flicks away his cigarette, chuckling under his breath. The rookies stand up slowly, reaching for their nightsticks.
"The situation? Oh, real big one, you'll love this, hero boy." Olsen whips out his baton and starts batting it on his hand, nodding, a smirk oozing across his face. "Apparently the situation is a rogue vigilante attempted to interfere with a crime scene." I straighten up, clenching my fists in my pockets,
"Isn't this the-- hey, hey boss--" one of the rookies, looks back to Olsen while pointing at me, chuckling, "Isn't this the one who comes back from the dead if you kill him?"
Not exactly. Legally speaking, yes, Denny Colt died submerged in a toxic chemical while chasing down a mad doctor hellbent on destroying central city. The truth of the matter is I fell into a 3 day coma, just long enough for everyone to think I was dead, giving me certain advantages from a legal standpoint. I've never literally come back from the dead, however, and I'd like to avoid finding out if I can.
They inch closer, I step back. They inch closer, I step back. My breathing quickens. Eyes slit. I bite the side of my lip. One of the rookies rests the tip of his baton on his shoulder and grips the handle of his pistol. They inch closer. Now I'm against the wall. Olsen parts the rookies and stares me down. I clench my fists together so tightly it hurts. This is about to get ugly.
The blaring car horn stops the others in their tracks. Everyone turns around to see what's going on.
Dolan. Thank god. He climbs out of his cruiser, and waddles towards us, pulling his pants up in the back with his left hand, chewing on his pipe all the while. His single clump of combed-over hair flaps in the wind. He gets up to us, and stares Olsen right in the gut.
“Get back to the station, Olsen. There’s paperwork waitin’ for ya.” He passes the pipe from one side of his lip to the other. “And if this happens again, there’ll be a lot more.” Olsen walks off, grumbling. The rookies follow. “And you!” Dolan points at me, breathing heavy, slouching and straightening with every breath. “I thought I told you to steer clear of any crime scene while officers were still on it.”
“I figured 11:30 at night, a crime scene’s got to be empty. Apparently I was wrong.” I crack a grin and lean back against a dumpster.
“Yeah, well,” Dolan says, readjusting his coat, “These celebrity cases tend to attract more manpower—“
“Celebrity?” I stand back up and look around, mouth half open, one eyebrow raised. “What makes this a celebrity case?”
“New evidence.” The Commissioner takes the pipe out of his mouth, pulls a bag of tobacco out, and fills the pipe. “Apparently, this Morris fella invented the Apex formula. And his partner, Franklin Gusterman, totally AWOL.”
I straighten up and my mouth drops. The Apex formula was a sort of wonder-drug that, supposedly, held the key to transforming men into Supermen. And if the creators are dead or missing… I glance at Nolan, and can’t help from cracking a smile and puffing my chest.
“This looks like a job fo—“
“Don’t even start, Colt! Just find the killer, get Gusterman, and, for Chrissakes, don’t start a police riot. I like ya, but not that much.” Dolan leans in and slaps me on the cheek before turning and penguin-walking his way back to his car. I wait until he leaves, lean down, and lift up the blanket, revealing Morris’s body. Three bullet holes on the chest, obviously a handgun. No signs of struggle. Confusing. I reach into his pocket, and grab his housekey. Maybe there’s a clue in there, and unlike a cop, I'm free to poke around.
So far today, I’ve almost fought a cop. I've robbed a dead man. And I'm about to commit a Breaking and Entering. Just another fabulous day in Central City. 
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