“Foster Fade—the man who taught Sherlock Holmes almost everything he knew, no wait, strike that, everything he knew.”
“Fade, this is Nate Basker. I…er… have a hot tip for ya on something that just broke last night. If’in ya hurry, you can get here in time to look over the scene nice’n fresh, see?”
“Well what the hell are you waiting for, you rummy? Give it to me straight, man.”
“Well I was think’n that…”
“Now there’s two things that don’t go together Nate, you and thinking. Now quit wasting what is highly valuable time and give. The usual finder’s fee will apply, don’t worry that little thing that passes for a brain of yours.”
Nate gave Fade the information on the mangled cop and the address of the 42nd St. National Bank. Fade slammed the receiver down in the hanger and sprang from his seat. He stood nearly seven feet tall, but was gaunt and cadaverous. The loose fitting suit, though being finely tailored, was still in need of at least fifty pounds to help fill it in. His pale complexion extended straight through his eyebrows and across his hair. He moved to a specific panel and touched his forehead to one metal strip and the finger on his left hand to another. This completed some intricate contacts and the panel quietly slid open, revealing a secret compartment. Fade was like a kid in a candy store. Every time he used one of his secret compartments, it brought a grin to his face.
The compartment was just one of many that housed some of the gadgets that Fade’s mind had thought up and his mechanics had built. He grabbed a black duffle bag and quickly picked out a few items and placed them inside. When finished, he placed the forefinger of each hand on another two strips and as quietly as the panel had opened, it slid closed.
He took two long strides to reach the door of the reception area and with a swift arc swung it open. The reception area housed a smaller desk and a few modern art deco pieces of furniture. It also housed a certain platinum blonde with shapely curves in all the right places and a bronze tan. Her name was Din—short for Dinamenta—Stevens and she was the storyteller of the spectacular crimes that Fade solved. It was her niche in writing and she was quite good at it. Gossip and regular news never held her interest, but her skills at this job garnered a wage higher than the assistant editor. A fact she was not shy about letting people—Fade at the top—know about.
Fade flowed into the room in his straight standing snobbish manner. Din paid him no attention as she blew on what appeared to be freshly polished nails. Fade shook his head as he spoke.
“Listen Princess, if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother I need you to head over to the 42nd St. National Bank with me and take some pictures. I just got…” he was cut short.
“Busy here, in case you didn’t notice. Just got a fresh manicure, and with what the boutique charges, I need to let them dry.”
Fade’s pale features were suddenly a bright shade of red as he spoke. “Well by all means let’s not keep the world spinning while that happens, you little trollop. But don’t fret. I am sure one of the copy boys can probably do a more bang up job anyway.”
Fade dashed past platinum Din’s desk and out the door, slamming it hard behind him. His long strides carried him to the elevator where he banged the button home. The doors promptly opened to reveal a young red headed and freckle faced young man. “Morning Mr. Fade, how’s the crime solving business going?”
“It would be going much better if a certain platinum haired hussy spent more time working and less time fluffing up her image, Arthur.”
The boy called Arthur had worked there long enough to expect the tiffs that went on between Foster and Din. He also knew better than to add in his two cents. He quietly slid the doors closed and sent the elevator hurtling toward the lobby. The ride was quick, but there were no shortages of curses spewed from under Fade’s breath. Arthur just nodded in agreement, wanting the ride to be over with.
Din was still in her chair, casually blowing on her nails and whistling without a care in the world. She casually grabbed up the phone from its cradle and dialed a number. When the voice on the other end picked up she spoke briefly and straight forward. “James, I need you to be a darling and bring the car around for me. It would seem Mr. Spectacular needs my assistance at the 42nd National Street Bank.” She placed the phone back on its hanger and bent down to open up the bottom drawer of her desk. She reached in and removed her state-of-the-art camera. She placed it in her carrying case and got up to leave the reception area. As she passed the large mirror that she had insisted be placed on the wall, she couldn’t help but stop and stare at her reflection in the mirror.
“You, my darling, are one hot number.” She blew herself a kiss and hustled out the door to meet the driver.
***
Harlem was over-crowded and rapidly becoming dilapidated. It was in the dank basement of one of the recently condemned buildings that a small bulb glowed. A man sat in his wheelchair working feverishly at a table that was made of a piece of rotted plywood set atop some empty milk crate. The man was Artemis Gray. An African American who was driven to make himself known, to be allotted the same chances in life as the white man. His near black skin was covered with a layer of sweat, his emaciated face looking as if he belonged in a morgue. The copper eyes though, glared not only with a show of intellect but also with a burning desire to get even.
It had been two years since the dreaded fever almost claimed his life and left him an invalid. But the fever, for all the harm it had inflicted on his body, had helped him tap into the vast areas of the brain that most never used. It had made his mind a tool of genius. He was no longer a dullard as he admitted he had been before, a ‘dimwit’ as many called him. Memories of the past, the insults merely added fuel to what was already a blazing inferno that raged within his soul. He would show them—show them that he was smarter and better than all of them. Better than every last one of the people that doubted him and kicked him when he was down.
He tinkered away on an electronic device with wires and small tubes. He spliced and he taped. He smiled to himself as he soldered the last connection. The fever had opened up his mind; things just came to him now. Ideas, plans, it was these things that he would use to raise himself up from the filth of the gutters he was once dumped in and left to die. He set the soldering iron down. A thin lipped smile formed on his face as the rotted door of the basement dwelling thudded open with a loud creak.
The man who came through was a bit out of place in any venue. He stood only four feet tall, but was nearly just as wide. He had an enormous head and his arms nearly scraped the floor. His hands were at least twice the size of a normal man’s, every spot of his dark skin showing corded muscles that were even more powerful than they looked.
His name was Rosco and at this point in time he was the only family Artemis had. Rosco in his own way befriended Artemis when the two were in the insane asylum. Artemis’s father decided long ago to leave. Artemis barely remembered him. Artemis’s mother only craved the attention that opium brought her, so when he was stricken by a heavy fever, rather than take him to a hospital, she chose the asylum. His condition was diagnosed as insanity and he was left to rot with all the other mentally ill. Rosco, himself a simpleton, helped Artemis when he could no longer walk, fed him, did the best he could to take care of him, but Rosco could only do so much. Artemis got to a point where he could barely move, slipping in and out of consciousness. Rosco nursed him like a mother would, pouring water into his mouth, even mashing his food so he could get it down. Artemis eventually passed into a coma and even though it looked as if he would die, Rosco remained at his side.
Artemis awoke though, as if by some miracle. Instantly he knew things were different. Everything came to him in an overwhelming wave, thoughts that never before crossed his mind, ideas, concepts. Soon he realized that he couldn’t walk, but even with that, he felt more alive than ever. It didn’t take long before Artemis came up with a plan of escape and he and Rosco exited the asylum without so much as a whimper fro
m anyone.
Rosco nursed him back to the best of health he could. Artemis tinkered and schemed, drawing schematics and plans that would baffle some of the best scientists in the world. Artemis was on a mission. The fever should have killed him, but instead it made him better. It was clear to him that he received this gift for a reason…a purpose. Artemis would make his mark on the world, a world that treated him like little more than a fly that needed to be swatted. From the day he escaped, he planned to stand up for those who couldn’t stand for themselves. That was what his new invention was going to make happen.
The contraption he worked on literally could read the brain waves of any animal or insect. It also could mimic the waves, which allowed Artemis’s thoughts to be transferred to whatever wavelength he selected, thus allowing him complete control over whatever animal or insect he chose. This was his gift. Ideas for inventions just came to him and he was able to create them.
The machine he worked on now was actually much more advanced than the one he had tried the night before. This one had no boundaries. Artemis had proven it could make him master over rats as well as hornets.
Rosco came over to him and set down the final piece he needed. He popped the small tube in and hooked power from the battery to it. The tubes glowed and the machine produced a slight humming. Artemis took what appeared to be a special headset, constructed of a metal band and multi-colored wires attached in many places that dropped down to a special power pack that he built into his wheel chair. The headset had two pads made of gold that captured the electrons from his brainwaves and sent them to a small electronic processing device that converted them into an exact match of whatever species he picked.
He began to focus, his copper hued eyes nearly bulging from their sockets. The basement was infested with roaches of all different varieties. It was these creatures which he now focused his attention on. After only a few seconds the insects stopped scurrying and stood stock still. The roaches then began to march in single file from every corner of the basement. They moved with one purpose, their shuffling legs faintly being heard in unison. They crawled up the crates and onto the make shift table. First a couple, but soon there were dozens. They all stood at attention like a well-trained army regiment.
Artemis grinned and chuckled to himself. The chuckle became louder and more pronounced until it was a loud and insane laughter. Rosco soon joined in, even though he had no idea why.
***
The taxicab carrying Fade ground to a halt about a block short of the 42nd Street National Bank. That was as close as he could get. The police had the block surrounding the bank closed off. Fade threw some bills at the driver and exited the cab. His long lanky strides carried him to the scene in no time flat. He immediately flashed his press badge and made his way to where the largest group had gathered, discerning that in all probability this was where the incident had started or ended. Either way it was where he needed to be.
Shock came across his face as he stared at Din standing over what was left of a man, snapping photos. She grimaced with every shot and had to turn her head several times, but she finished and was heading away when Fade approached. He just shook his head as she looked up at him. She winked and blew him a kiss before giving him a smart-assed smirk.
“Well will ya looky here, I guess Mr. Spectacular wasn’t able to beat a little old dumb blonde like me over here. I guess maybe I got a few more brains then you give me credit for Mr. Spectacularist.”
Fade just grunted as he mumbled under his breath. “Barely.” Din pretended not to hear as she started questioning some of the other police officers.
The coroner stood over the body, an inspector beside him. Fade recognized him right away. His name was Perry Brandt, a hard nosed screw who hated all shamuses—Fade more than most. Fade had made him look incompetent on more than a few occasions, so he had earned his notch at the top of the inspector’s belt. The inspector was a tall man in his own right, but Fade surpassed him by at least a half a foot. He had dark brown hair that he slicked and combed neatly back under his fedora. He had deep set eyes that appeared to mimic the night sky in their darkness. The cigar that hung loosely at the corner of his mouth fell out completely as his jaw dropped at the sight of Fade approaching. It was followed by a bared teeth grimace and a red shade across his cheeks as he spoke.
“Oh no, Fade. I don’t know who the hell let you in here, but this is as far as you go.” The inspector moved to shoo him away. Fade stood his ground, holding out his press badge that had been signed by the mayor himself. He was to be granted entrance to any crime scene no matter what—a healthy campaign donation from Hackrox had seen to that. The inspector’s shoulders sagged and his face turned even redder as he stepped aside. Fade smirked as he casually walked past the inspector.
“Really, Inspector, I fail to see why you wouldn’t want the most capable man on the job anyway.” Fade said this with his nose hung in the air and a wry smile on his lips. He first knelt next to what was left of the body. It was a grisly sight, hundreds of jagged grooves where the flesh had been chewed off by rodents’ teeth.
Fade looked up at the coroner, who he recognized from previous cases as Nathan Redding. A thin and balding man, his grayish skin tone showed that he didn’t get out much. He had dark circles under his eyes, which told of a dedication to what was becoming an overwhelming job of late. The crime rate seemed to rise hourly. This in turn meant the dead bodies were piling up. Redding’s office was undermanned.
Fade stood, towering over Redding as he did most everyone. He placed his hand on the coroner’s shoulder. “So what have we got here, Nate? It looks like this poor devil was eating alive by…well, hell, by rats.”
“Yeah, Fade, it’s the damndest thing I’ve ever seen. This guy looks like he was attacked by half the rats in New York for Christ sakes. I nev’a seen anything like it I tell ya. I mean I ‘ve seen rat bites, but this goes beyond anything that has ever been reported.”
Fade dropped his duffle bag and took out a little gizmo from his pocket and ran it over a few spots on the body. It was the size of a cigarette lighter, but in truth it was a battery powered razor of sorts. It would trim areas of material and store them in a container for later research. Redding shook his head as he bent to zip up the body bag, then helped his assistant haul it to the meat wagon.
Fade reached into the dropped duffle bag and removed two things. One was a canister of some white chalky powder, the other a small machine with a lens and a built-in light. First he scattered the powder around the area, and then he turned the lighted machine on and began to look through the lens at the areas the light shined on. He rubbed his chin a few times, deep in thought, saying “Hunh!” as he did so.
Inspector Brandt, having closely monitored Fade’s every move up until this point, couldn’t help but jump into the mix. Popping a fresh cigar into the corner of his mouth, Brandt bit the end off before bringing a match to it. He puffed on it a few seconds to gather his thoughts. Fade really frosted his lilies, but he was stuck with him until such a time as he could pull the rug out from underneath him. Fade would get his someday, the inspector thought, and then he would get the glory that he deserved. Grinning a little as he walked over to Fade, Brandt was immediately taken back by the sight of the strange device Fade looked through.
“Hey, what the hell is that thing, Fade?”
Fade looked up from the device with a frown. “This is something I came up with to help locate prints…all sorts of prints. See, first I devised this powder mixture, which sticks to oils from not only skin, but soles of shoes as well. Then I shine the special light from this device, which causes the powder to show through this special lens. Here take a look.”
Fade reminded Brandt of the typical rogue scholar from high school. The guy that thought everyone was simply beneath him. The inspector nonetheless took the device Fade offered and looked through it. What he saw nearly caused his eyes to bulge from their sockets. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of rat prints all over
the gangway as well as the wall.
Fade watched as Brandt gawked at the sight the lens revealed. Fade had already gathered the information he was searching for, so he made his way over to a little opening in the wall about a foot square. Fade found what he was after on the ground below, in the form of a mangled grill that once had covered the hole. Fade had noticed there were prints that ran up and down the wall, to and from this opening. It didn’t make sense why the rats would have been in the bank until Fade shined his light in the opening. It was there he noticed one of the wrappers commonly used to hold stacks of currency together. Fade turned his attention to Brandt.
“By any chance,” Fade asked, “is there something you’re forgetting to tell me?”
Brandt, still marveling at the device Fade had let him look through, scratched his head. “Excuse me, Fade, but why in the hell would I tell ya anything?” Suddenly, the bank manager came running out yelling with his hands raised in the air.
“Robbed, we’ve been robbed! My God how is it possible?” The man was simply frantic as the Brandt moved over to him to get his statement. Fade smiled to himself, having already figured as much. What he wasn’t smiling about was the method by which the bank was robbed. If he was right, someone had figured out a way to control the vermin that lined many of the dank and dirty gutters of New York. The thought made him shudder as he packed up his duffle bag and followed the inspector inside.
The New Adventures of Foster Fade, The Crime Spectacularist Page 11
