Case of the Claw

by Keith DeCandido

O'Malley glared at his partner. "And I'm a guy."

  "Eh." Fiorello made a mezza-mezza gesture with his hand, which prompted O'Malley to give him the finger.

  "Nice to see you two playing nice, still," came a voice from behind Fiorello.

  Turning around, Fiorello saw Charlie Duffy, the elderly reporter from the Gazette, walking toward them. A protest died on his lips—every uniform on the SCPD knew Duffy, and he could get through any police barricade if he wanted to. The journalist was wearing a beige windbreaker, a shirt that had stopped being in fashion during the Nixon Administration, and khakis. A cigarette dangled from his thin lips.

  O'Malley coughed. "Those things will kill you, you know."

  Duffy grinned, showing perfect white dentures. "That's what my doctor told me when I went into his office with a cough—in 1987. So what're you two doing back on day-shift?"

  "We ain't," Fiorello said, "we're doin' a triple."

  "The Claw?"

  Fiorello nodded. O'Malley asked, "Since when're you chasin' capes?"

  "I'm not. I just came from the mayor's presser, and was headin' back to the office to file." He pointed at the tableau, specifically at the Bengal and the meerkat woman making short work of Brutes #2 and 5. "But the road's blocked."

  "Don't you just e-mail the story in?" Fiorello asked.

  That elicited a snort from O'Malley. "Duffy here's old-school. Bet he types everything on a Winchester."

  "That's a rifle, numbnuts," Duffy said with a snort. "You mean a Remington."

  Fiorello laughed. It was nice to see someone correct O'Malley for a change.

  "Anyhow, paper ain't payin' for laptops no more—budget cuts—and I can't type on those damn things anyhow, the keys're too small. So I gotta use the desktop in the office." Duffy shook his head. "Assuming I ever get there. Hey, I gotta question for you."

  Before Fiorello could say anything, O'Malley asked, "On the record or off?"

  Duffy waved his hand dismissively. "Off. This is just personal curiosity. The Six said they were devoting 'every resource' to finding the Claw."

  "Yeah?" Fiorello wondered where the reporter was going with this.

  "Well, there's only six of 'em. It's in the name and everything. And all six of 'em are beatin' up the Brute Squad, which means 'every resource' is out here on 12th Street punching out folks in numbered black suits."

  "What's your question?" O'Malley asked.

  "Do they even give a shit about the Claw?"

  Fiorello found that he didn't have an answer.

  12.15pm

  Officer Mara Fontaine stared down at the sad-looking hamburger that had been served on a chipped and cracked plate. The bun was misshapen, bits of the burger were flaking off on the ends, and the one pickle she could see poking out from the bun wasn't really the right shade of green.

  Looking across the Formica table at her partner, she asked, "Remind me, why do we keep coming back here?"

  Grinning widely, Officer Trevor Baptiste picked up his own burger and said with his slightly accented voice, "Because we both have to save money, and the food here is cheap."

  "And we definitely get what we pay for." Fontaine grabbed the plastic ketchup bottle with one hand while she lifted the malformed top bun off with the other. The former action unearthed a giant cockroach, which proceeded to skitter away toward Baptiste's side and then disappeared under the table. At this point, Fontaine felt that it was a show of progress in the diner's pest-control policies that there was just the one roach instead of a colony of them under the ketchup bottle. In fact, she found a new health-code violation every time she walked into this dump, and she only didn't report them because then she and Baptiste would have to find another cheap place to have lunch.

  And, sadly, Baptiste was correct—both of them needed to pinch their pennies. Fontaine had been married to an architect who couldn't keep it in his pants. Unfortunately, one of the many women he banged was his lawyer, and she got him a great deal in the divorce: no alimony, and minimal child support, which the bastard only occasionally paid. All Fontaine's spare cash went into her daughter Rhonda—either for her current needs or into a savings account for her eventual college tuition.

  The burger looked worse without the bun in the way—the one piece of onion could've been mistaken for a straw wrapper—and she quickly covered it with the condiment.

  After chewing and swallowing a bite of his own burger, Baptiste said, "And you are changing the subject."

  "I'm not changing the subject," Fontaine said, even though she was, "I'm just tired of the argument." She chewed on the burger, trying to focus on the ketchup over the cardboard-like quality of the bun and burger.

  "Ah, so you are conceding it then? That Mercury would lose to Spectacular Man in a foot race?"

  Her mouth full of burger, she said, "No, I'm not sayin' that!" She chewed and swallowed, then added: "Mercury's whole thing is speed. Spec Man, he does about twelve different things, and being super-fast isn't even the most important."

  "Yes, but, Spectacular Man, he—well, he's Spectacular Man."

  Fontaine washed down her burger with a Superior Diet Cola that tasted way too syrupy—the fountain was obviously wonky again, and without enough carbonation to cut the syrup, she was worried she'd spend the rest of the shift with a stomach ache. "You can say his name all you want. Mercury, all he does is run, which means not only does he have the ability, but also the practice. I mean, if Spec Man was flying, then yeah, maybe he beats Merc, but in a foot race? No contest. Spec Man almost never actually runs anywhere."

  Before Baptiste could respond, the distinct tones of "Proud Mary" came from his chest, which meant his cell phone was ringing. He pulled the cheap fliptop out of his shirt pocket and stared at the small display.

  His usually happy face darkened. "Jesus shit. It's Elaine."

  Elaine Florio was a lawyer, representing Baptiste in his attempt to get the insurance money from his wife's death. Sylvia Baptiste had gone to the ConwayBuilding for a job interview when the Brute Squad had destroyed it. Since she wasn't a registered employee, they had no real proof that she was in the building when it was vaporized, since the guest register was disintegrated with the building. The insurance company—which had been hit with dozens of nuisance suits from people who didn't have relatives in the building, but sued on the theory that there was no proof either way and it was worth the risk—had made a blanket decision to offer no settlements on such suits. Unfortunately, that screwed Baptiste.

  Elaine had been kind about occasionally letting Baptiste slide on billing her, but she had to make a living, too, and the legal action was very expensive.

  Which was why they were eating in Janson's. It was your classic hole-in-the-wall diner, with barely enough space to accommodate the four tables, diner-style counter, and tiny grill.

  She regarded her burger with disdain. Maybe I can brown-bag it for a while.

  Her own cell, a used smartphone she'd gotten off eBay, then rang with the theme song from Super Scooter's Dog House. Hosted by a talking, super-powered Golden Retriever who'd protected Leesfield until he turned seven and got too old for it, it was Rhonda's favorite TV show, which was why Fontaine had chosen it for the ringtone when she got a call from her house phone.

  "Yes, Yasmin?"

  The Trinidadian babysitter said, "I am very sorry, Miss Mara, but Rhonda wants to speak to you. I know you do not like to be bothered while at work, but—"

  "Of course, Yasmin."

  Rhonda's voice came on. "Hi, Mommy! I wanna have a Six-cicle!"

  Fontaine sighed. Rhonda had gotten good grades on her last report card, and Fontaine had rewarded her yesterday with a box of Six-cicles—a half-dozen popsicles in the shapes of the heads of the members of the Superior Six. She had already eaten the Komodo Dragon one, which was her favorite thanks to that heroine's lizard-shaped helmet being the shape of the ice cream bar.

  "You know the rules, Rhonda-bear. If you have one now, you can't have one for dessert after supper tonig
ht. It's only one per day."

  "I know, Mommy, but I want it now."

  Another sigh. "Okay, but I don't want to hear any complaints tonight when you can't have one for dessert."

  "I won't, Mommy, I promise."

  "I'm holding you to that. Now I gotta get back to work, all righty?" That wasn't really true, since they were still at lunch, but she wanted to be off the phone when Baptiste was done with his call. She suspected he'd need the support.

  "All righty, Mommy."

  "I love you lots."

  "I love you more than lots!"

  Baptiste was still on his call when she ended hers, so she spent the next few minutes choking down her burger. By the time she polished it off, Baptiste had finally closed his phone. His entire side of the conversation had consisted of the word "Okay."

  "Everything all right?" Fontaine asked as Baptiste put his phone back in his shirt pocket. She took another sip of the syrupy soda, then abandoned the cup half-full.

  "As well as can be expected." He ate the rest of his burger in one bite. "Shall we?"

  They each threw five-dollar bills on the table, which covered their burgers, sodas, and a decent tip for Eunice, their waitress.

  "Take care, Officers," Eunice said as they headed to the dirty glass door.

  "Bye Eunice," Fontaine said. Then she elbowed Baptiste in the ribs.

  "Oh, uh, take care, Eunice," he said after shaking his head a few times, as if coming out of a daze.

  Moving to the driver's side, Fontaine asked, "What is it, Trevor?" Between forgetting to say goodbye to Eunice and not even asking about Rhonda—which he always did when she called—she knew that the news from Elaine hadn't been good.

  "Nothing." At Fontaine's dubious look, he added, "Nothing new, in any event. The expert witness Elaine had secured has withdrawn. Apparently, he's taken a job working for the Terrific Trio, and part of his employment contract is that he cannot testify in cases involving supers."

  Fontaine frowned as she climbed into the blue-and-white. "But your case doesn't involve them, it's against the insurance company."

  "Apparently, it's close enough. So we need to find another expert to testify." Baptiste sighed as he squeezed into the passenger side.

  Sighing, Fontaine turned the ignition on and pulled out into the sparse traffic on 19th Street. Her stomach felt like it had a rock in it, and she made a mental note to make sure the fountain was fixed before ordering a soda tomorrow. Or maybe switching to iced tea.

  "You wanna let PCD know we're back on?" Fontaine asked.

  Again shaking his head, Baptiste said, "Yes, of course." He grabbed the radio. "PCD, this is Unit 2205, signal 2. Our signal 63 is done."

  "PCD roger. Hope the meal didn't suck too badly."

  Fontaine chuckled. Joe was on dispatch duty again, it seemed.

  Baptiste also smiled, though it was more subdued than his usual. "It was edible, PCD—2205 out."

  As Fontaine proceeded down 19th, she said, "Look, you gonna be okay with the bills? 'Cause I've got some money saved up, and I can—"

  "No chance, Mara. You need that money for Rhonda's college."

  "She's not going to college for another eleven years, and it'll just be a loan."

  "What if I cannot pay it back? No, Mara, I will not do tha—"

  "All units, all units, signal 10, signal 10—the Claw has been sighted by Unit 2202 in the alley of the 4400 block of Esposito, between 21st and 22nd. Any units in the vicinity, please respond immediately."

  Esposito was the next block over. Fontaine immediately stabbed the button that would activate their siren while Baptiste spoke into the radio. "Unit 2205, signal 4, proceeding west on 19th toward Esposito."

  "Roger, 2205—move your asses."

  Fontaine weaved around the cars on the road, only some of whom had the brains to get out of their way, then made a hard right onto Esposito, the tires squealing. As she blew through the red light on 20th, she could hear another siren growing closer, figuring that to be O'Malley and Fiorello, who had unit 2202. The two of them had only just gone back on the street after taking their defective FF36 back to HQ about ten minutes ago, based on their reporting in to PCD. They must've seen him as soon as they hit the road.

  Once she crossed the intersection at 21st, she saw a cruiser with both doors open, sirens wailing, but no occupants, parked diagonally in front of the mouth of the alley. Fontaine yanked their cruiser to the right, forming a V with 2202.

  Baptiste leapt out of the car while Fontaine un-holstered her weapon and waited a second for Baptiste to say, "Clear."

  Then she climbed out of the car, ignoring the stabbing pain in her belly from the damn soda, pointing her Beretta straight ahead, trying not to think about what would happen to Rhonda if she caught a bullet. Every time she un-holstered her weapon, she had that thought; every time, she convinced herself that her ex would take care of her.

  Sometimes, she even believed it.

  She couldn't see anything in the mouth of the alley, but it stretched all the way to Simonson, and she could only see about ten feet in. The alley was covered about ten feet off the ground with a horizontal chicken-wire fence, no doubt put there to protect the alley's contents from the many things that tended to fall out of the Super City sky.

  She couldn't hear anything, but with two cars' worth of sirens blaring, they'd never—

  A clanking noise interrupted that thought, followed by a shout that Fontaine was pretty sure was O'Malley's voice. After that was a sound like the air was being sizzled.

  "That was a ray-beam," Fontaine said as she and Baptiste slowly approached the mouth of the alley.

  "The Claw does not use ray-beams."

  "Thank you, Captain Obvious." Fontaine kept her eyes on the alley, but she still couldn't see anything. "Maybe it's a super trying to help."

  Slowly, they moved down the alley, weapons pointed straight ahead. Baptiste took the lead, Fontaine staying a few feet behind him, covering him. The alley smelled of day-old garbage and urine. Fontaine noticed a cardboard box with a torn, ratty sleeping bag on top of it. This probably was some homeless guy's hangout, and either he was off panhandling, or had been scared off by whatever was going on up ahead.

  As they got closer, she heard O'Malley's voice more distinctly this time. "Watch out, you stupid fuck!"

  "Worry not, Officers, I will handle this miscreant!" said another voice that sounded filtered through metal.

  Oh, crap. The pain in her stomach worsened, but it had nothing to do with bad diet soda.

  Stepping around a Dumpster, Fontaine saw the tableau that had unfolded at the far end of the alley: Fiorello down on the ground, looking stunned (though his hair still wasn't mussed), O'Malley standing with his weapon pointed ahead at a figure wearing a rust-covered suit of blue-and-silver armor that covered him head to toe. The latter figure was also carrying a metal lance that glowed at the tip. The wall of the building that made up the alley's north side had scorched brick in a perfect circle.

  This was Knight Dude, a self-proclaimed super who was in actuality a second-rate inventor named Englebert Valentine. He dressed in faux-medieval armor and attempted to be a hero. His lance did indeed fire a ray-beam, and it usually resulted in a scorch mark like the one on the brick wall.

  Cowering in a corner was a figure that walked upright like a human, but had the wings and head of a bird—and was also covered in feathers. The wings ran from his arms to his back, and his face formed a beak rather than a nose and mouth. The fingers of his hand curled into sharp talons.

  In and of itself, the Claw didn't look like all that. Fontaine had seen dozens of stranger looking sights than a half-human, half-bird.

  But then she saw the eyes. The crazy, watery, yellow eyes.

  Fontaine was very grateful for the chicken-wire "ceiling" of the alley, as it kept the Claw from making an aerial escape.

  After his rather unorthodox use of the word miscreant in a sentence, Knight Dude raised his lance to point it at the Claw, onl
y to lose his grip on it, catch it halfway down the haft instead of at the handle, struggle with it, and allow the hilt to smack O'Malley in the chin.

  If it wasn't for the blood that flew out of O'Malley's mouth, Fontaine might have found it humorous. Besides, Fiorello was likely put down in much the same way.

  "Englebert," she said, "drop the lance now!"

  "What?" Knight Dude turned around in surprise, did so too fast and lost his balance, and fell to the ground in a clanking heap, his lance clattering to the pavement as well.

  When the hilt smacked against the asphalt, the tip glowed and Fontaine again heard the air-sizzling sound. A beam of light shot out of the tip, this time slicing through the chicken wire.

  "That wasn't what I meant," Fontaine muttered even as the Claw spread his wings.

  "Jesus shit," Baptiste muttered and squeezed the trigger of his weapon.

  A second later, Fontaine did likewise, but it was already too late. Before Baptiste could throw his shot, the Claw had swooped upward through the newly made hole.

  Both Baptiste and Fontaine fired into the sky, but the Claw continued to fly away.

  She ran out the other end of the alley onto Simonson, but soon lost him.

  "Dammit!"

  Turning back, she saw that Baptiste was checking on Fiorello—O'Malley was already on his feet, hand massaging his jaw.

  Fontaine grabbed her radio, wincing in her pain as her stomach ache sharpened. "PCD, this is Unit 2205. Signal 89—suspect has fled the scene by air."

  "Roger that, Unit 2205. All units, the Claw is now airborne, flying away from the 4400 block of Esposito between 21st and 22nd. Unit 2205, you need a signal 54?"

  Baptiste looked over at her as he helped Fiorello to his feet and shook his head. They didn't need an ambulance.

  "Negative, PCD," she said. "We do have a signal 12, though—not the suspect." She stared daggers at Knight Dude, who was trying and failing to get to his feet, and making a horrible racket as he did so. "A—a citizen who got in our fucking way."

  1.45pm

  "So let me get this straight. There were four cops in an enclosed alley, and precisely none of you were able to slap the bracelets on our suspect?"