"Thank you, Matt. It's worth mentioning that many previous serial killers have been brought down by such lucky breaks—for example, the Son of Sam in New York City was captured thanks to a parking ticket, and here in Super City, the Mad Hungarian was brought down by the Cowboy when the hero accidentally crashed into the villain's apartment window while fighting the Destructon. So maybe the SCPD will get that break, right, Victoria?"
"Let's hope so, John. In related news, the Bruiser has been on a rampage through SimonValley. Several people, who have been identified by neighbors as known drug dealers, have been turning up badly injured and taken to KaneMemorialHospital. It's unknown whether or not any arrests have been made. News 6 at 6 cameras caught up with the Bruiser today, and in an unexpected turn of events, he did provide a brief statement."
"I'm just doing what I can to find the Claw. I saw the body of one of his victims—and nobody should die like that. I ain't gonna rest until that pendejo is stopped."
"It's good to see that there's someone who cares. The streets of SuperCity are dangerous enough without the Claw roaming the streets. The SCPD really needs to follow the Bruiser's example and do their job."
"Can't argue with that, Victoria. If you have an opinion on how the SCPD is handling the Claw crisis, log onto our web site at www.news6at6.com and let us know what you think."
"You can also e-mail John and I directly at the site. Next up after some words from our sponsors, a look at the Terrific Trio's latest mission, which was literally out of this world, and a surprising twist from Montana Congressman F. Richard Wert in his campaign to force superheroes to register."
"We'll be right back."
6.05pm
"Sweet holy motherfucking jumping Jesus cluny frog on a goddamn stick!"
Police Commissioner Enzo Dellamonica's jaw fell open at the mayor's invective. It wasn't that Aaron Sittler made use of words you'd never hear on the News 6 at 6 broadcast that the pair of them were watching in the mayor's office. In public, Sittler was the picture of decorum, but once the doors closed and the microphones turned off, he could make a sailor cringe.
As someone who came up in the ranks of the SCPD, Dellamonica knew from profanity. There were few subsets of humanity quite as foul-mouthed as your average police. Mayor Sittler would've fit right in at roll call back in the day.
This, however, was an impressive string of swearing even by the mayor's high standards.
Dellamonica had been at a meeting at City Hall when the call came in that the Claw had another victim. After the meeting was over, the commissioner spent an hour on the phone with Javier Garcia, Therese Zimmerman, Regina Dent, and half his staff before he was called into Sittler's office. By that time, News 6 at 6 was starting, and the ever-image-conscious Sittler wanted to hear what they said.
They were sitting in the mayor's well-appointed third-floor office. City Hall itself was four stories tall, with the top floor used only for storage. The office had a lovely view of the ThomasRiver out a huge picture window that took up the entirety of the east wall. Sittler sat in his huge leather chair with his back to the north wall, elbows leaning on a magnificent oak desk that he held onto despite fire codes that forbade such large pieces of wood in government buildings. He stared intently at the flat-screen television that was mounted to the south wall, which was showing the news.
After the anchors did their editorializing about the SCPD's competence, Sittler turned his big nose toward Dellamonica. "What the fuck, Enzo? I mean, what the fucking fuck?"
Holding up his hands in a plaintive gesture, Dellamonica asked, "Whaddaya want me to do, Aaron?"
"I want you and your fucking useless piece of shit police force to do your fucking useless piece of shit jobs!"
Running a hand over his bald pate, Dellamonica declined to point out how little sense Sittler's words made. "We're doing the best we can."
"And the fact that this bullshit is the best the Super City Fucking Police Department can handle, truly scares the motherfucking shit out of me, Enzo."
"Hey, I brought down LaManna, I'll bring down this guy."
Sittler pointed a finger at Dellamonica. "Don't fuck a fucker, fuck-face. You and I both know it was that asshole in the tiger suit who brought LaManna down. And it's becoming more and more fucking obvious that the fuckwads in tights are doing a better job of policing this town than your sorry ass."
Dellamonica had had enough of this. "It was police work that brought LaManna down. Yeah, sure, the Bengal did some of the legwork, but it was my case that got him prosecuted." He leaned back in his chair, tugging on his dark brown mustache, which was annoyingly thicker than any of the hair on his head. "But fine, let's say that the costumes really do all the work. Apart from DeLaHoya, who's always helped us out, tell me, where the hell are they?"
Just as he said that, News 6 at 6 came back from their commercial break, and Victoria Solano started talking about the rogue comet that the Terrific Trio stopped from crashing into Europa.
Pointing at the flat screen, Dellamonica said, "See? The Terrific Turkeys are off playing Captain Kirk, the Stupid Six are playing footsie with the Brute Squad at the post office, and—for, I might add, the first time since I became commissioner—we've gone a week without the Cowboy showboating and sticking his nose in things."
Sittler leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "What's your fucking point, Enzo?"
"Whaddaya think's my point?" Dellamonica leaned forward in his. "You know what Europa is? It's one of Jupiter's moons. Or maybe one of Saturn's, I forget. Point is, it's just a lousy moon that's covered in ice. There's a nutjob killing people in SuperCity, and those three garbanzos are protecting ice millions of miles away. At least my cops are trying."
"What happened to all that bullshit I spewed about the Six and the Trio 'consulting extensively' with your guys? I mean, shit, yeah, the Trio's been off doing fuck-all in space, but what about the Six?"
Dellamonica sputtered. "You tell me. Two of my detectives went up to that stupid blimp of theirs twice. Both times they got blown off. I gotta be honest with you, Aaron, I don't think these guys want the Claw caught."
"Don't be an asshole." Sittler grabbed a paperweight off his desk. It was a snow globe, with a really dreadful rendition of the SuperCity skyline, and a poorly rendered Spectacular Man figure flying past what was probably supposed to be the SC Tower. The old SC Tower. The mayor shook it as he spoke, causing fake snow to fly around Spectacular Man and the buildings. "I see something like that news report, and it's like I'm watching votes drop off like leaves on a tree in fucking autumn."
Frowning, Dellamonica said, "The election's not for another year and a half."
"Yeah, and I gotta start my ass campaigning now. Fucking Simms already started a goddamn exploratory committee, so you know the motherfucker's gonna try to run against me."
Dellamonica nodded. Stephen Simms was on the City Council and had been gunning for the mayor's job since before Sittler was elected.
"This Claw shit is also giving Wert traction on his goddamn bill, and now Simms is starting to talk about how that fucking bill is a good idea." Sitter started tossing the paperweight back and forth from one hand to the other. "Christ, this town'll be torn the fuck apart if Simms runs this place."
Patiently, Dellamonica waited. He had his own ambitions to be sitting on the other side of that oak desk some day, and right now, the best way to do that was to stay on Aaron Sittler's good side. He was powerful in the party, and the local businesses loved him because his supers-first initiatives had actually improved tourism. The only way Dellamonica was going to have a chance was to keep his ass firmly attached to Sittler's coattails.
So he let the mayor rant and rave about how today's events would affect an election two years hence—which wasn't something the commissioner could actually help him with.
After a little bit more ranting, Sittler slammed the paperweight down onto the desk. "The Six blew off your detectives?"
"Twice."
&nbs
p; Sittler shook his head and scratched his large nose. "Fuck that shit." He grabbed his phone and stabbed at one of the buttons. As soon as he did that, his demeanor softened and his voice went up half an octave. "Jenny, put me through to the Superior Six's PR flack. It's Starkey, right? She left? Too bad, she knew her stuff. Okay, yeah, Parsons. Get her for me. Thanks."
He put the phone back gently into the cradle and then stared at the flat screen. Victoria Solano was doing a puff piece about Angelina Jolie. There were rumors that she was being cast in It's Spectacular, Man! as Southern Belle and had come to SuperCity in order to talk to Belle at the Ellis Penitentiary, where she was serving her life sentence.
Shaking his head, Sittler's voice deepened again. "Fuckers have the balls to talk about how shit a job SCPD's doing when this is their idea of fucking news. At least when I catch that shit from Duffy or Hoffman, they stand by it with actual fucking reporting that they actually fucking wrote in an actual fucking newspaper, not some shit they're reading off cue cards."
"You rather they were doing more stories like that shitstorm with Cohen?"
As soon as Dellamonica said the words, he regretted doing so. Jimmy Cohen was the mayor's travelling secretary, and he'd been embezzling by drawing city funds for an "advance person" who didn't actually exist to scout ahead to places the mayor was going. Adriana Berardi of News 6 at 6 broke the story that his resignation was a cover for his termination. Cohen had minor super-powers, as it turned out, and was able to convince people that a nonexistent person was real.
From what Dellamonica heard, Sittler threw a fit when that particular story aired yesterday that made today's profanity-fest look tame by comparison.
Luckily, Sittler's phone rang just as he was opening his mouth to yell at Dellamonica. He looked down at the phone and wrinkled his face as if it was a dead fish on his desk, then picked it up. "Yeah? Okay, put her through." Only then did the voice go back up an octave. "Hello Ms. Parsons, this is Mayor Sittler. Let me put you on speaker." He hit the speaker button and hung the phone up. "I'm here with Commissioner Dellamonica."
A tinny, perky voice came over the phone's small speaker. "What can I do you for you gentlemen today?"
"Ms. Parsons, representatives from the Super City Police Department have twice come to the Superior Six's headquarters in order to request that the Six share their files on the Claw. Now I think we can both agree that the Claw is a menace that requires immediate action on the part of law-enforcement and the superheroic community before more people die, yes?"
"Absolutely, your honor. And I can assure you that the Six is doing everything in their power to try to apprehend the Claw."
Sittler shook his head. "Well, see, Ms. Parsons, there's where you're wrong."
"I'm sorry?"
Leaning forward, Sittler said, "You're not doing everything in your power, because it is within your power to turn over those files, and yet you aren't."
"First of all, your honor, it isn't within my power to do anything of the sort."
Dellamonica smiled. Parsons's tone had gone from perky and polite to defensive in very short order.
She continued: "Secondly, the Six feels that those files are sensi—"
"Ms. Parsons, are you headquartered in the Six's blimp?"
There was a brief hesitation. "I have offices in the dirigible, yes, but—"
"And that blimp is permitted to fly over SuperCity because the Six has been granted permits by the city and by the FAA, yes?"
"I'm not familiar with the particulars of—"
"If Commissioner Dellamonica's people do not have those files in their hands by the end of business tomorrow, those permits will be revoked. And in my experience, the FAA and the Department of Homeland Security take a dim view of vehicles that fly over urban areas without authorization. Do I make myself clear, Ms. Parsons?"
A very long pause, then: "I will pass on your message to the Six."
"Do that." With a large smile, Sittler stabbed the end button.
As much as Dellamonica enjoyed that, he was not smiling. "You sure that was such a hot idea?"
"What?"
"Threatening them. I mean—they are the Superior Six."
"And I'm the goddamn mayor." Sittler leaned back in his chair, which squeaked slightly. "It's time they remembered that they don't run this fucking town."
Dellamonica nodded while he started to think about who else in the party he could suck up to if Sittler found himself on the way out. This kind of crazy-ass maneuver could explode in the mayor's face, and Dellamonica didn't want to catch any of the blowback.
PART FOUR
THURSDAY
11.40am
Trevor Baptiste stared at his flip-top cell phone, playing a tinny version of "Proud Mary" and vibrating in his hand, debating whether or not to open it and answer the call.
Next to him in the blue-and-white, Mara Fontaine was driving. Baptiste only agreed to let her do so if she promised to stay under thirty miles an hour on local streets. She asked, "You gonna answer that, or what?"
He dropped the phone back into his pocket. "Or what. It's the number for Mazur, Randleman, and Levin."
"Uh, okay." Fontaine sounded confused as she turned the cruiser onto Simonson from 25th Street.
Remembering that he hadn't shared every single detail of his lawsuit with Fontaine—the process was tedious enough for him, he wasn't about to bog his partner down in the details, as she had her own problems—he said, "That's the law firm that's representing the insurance company."
Fontaine nodded. "Shouldn't they be talking to Elaine?"
"Yes, which is why I didn't answer the phone. I'll keep the voicemail message—assuming they leave one—and forward it to Elaine. And if they don't, I'll have her pull my cell's records and show that they called. It's a violation of ethics, if nothing else."
"I thought these guys were a fancy-ass insurance firm. Surprised they'd have lawyers dumb enough to do that."
Baptiste shrugged. "Insurance isn't exactly the happiest business in this city."
With a smile, Fontaine said, "True."
"Besides, I was talking with Elaine this morning. Turns out that the same company that owned the ConwayBuilding also owns the building that houses the Super City Post Office."
Fontaine shot Baptiste a look before looking ahead again and slowing down for a red light on 30th. "Doesn't the post office own it?"
"Apparently not." Baptiste sighed. "They're probably feeling pressure to settle things quickly so they can deal with the latest. As I said, not a happy business."
"That's their fucking problem." Fontaine's anger was palpable, and Baptiste found himself warmed by it.
The light turned green, and Fontaine accelerated through the intersection. As she did so, Baptiste stared out the side window—and saw a large suit of armor in the middle of the sidewalk facing a young man wearing a stylized sweatshirt. The latter was backed up against the brick wall of a large apartment building.
"You have got to be joking." He pointed ahead. "Look at that."
Fontaine followed his finger and said, "Oy."
When the suit of armor raised a lance and pointed it at the young man, that confirmed it. It was the self-proclaimed Knight Dude. "I do not believe this."
"What, that Valentine's back on the street or that he's doing something stupid again?"
"Pick one." He thumbed his radio. "PCD, this is 2205 with a signal 10 on the 6000 block of Simonson."
"Roger 2205."
Activating the siren, Fontaine and pulled over next to a fire hydrant that was about thirty feet from where Knight Dude was menacing the young man. As they got closer, Baptiste was able to make out the sweatshirt the boy was wearing: it was silkscreened with the image of Starling's costume on it, down to the hero's wings on his arms. It was probably an official piece of Superior Six merchandise—like all of it, sold by the McLean Foundation with proceeds going to charity—though it could just as easily have been one of the many knockoffs that were readily ava
ilable.
The young man was actually a boy of about fourteen or fifteen; he appeared to be African American, though his dark skin had gone a bit gray at the sight of a man in a full suit of armor pointing a lance with a glowing tip at him. His back was to the wall, his palms pressed flat against the brick, his eyes wide as proverbial saucers. Having seen what that lance could do, Baptiste didn't begrudge the boy his fear. Besides the Starling sweatshirt, he wore the name-brand jeans and white sneakers that Baptiste saw on much of the black male youth of SuperCity.
"Officers!" Knight Dude's filtered voice echoed off the apartment buildings. "Thank goodness you're here! Behold, I have at last captured the Claw!"
Baptiste actually put his head in his hands.
Holding up his gauntleted left hand—his right still had what Baptiste hoped was a firm grip on the lance hilt—Knight Dude showed off a pair of gloves that looked like they were shaped like eagle talons. They were obviously supposed to go with the sweatshirt, though they didn't match up with Starling, as he had normal hands. Then again, the gloves were a different color than the sweatshirt as well, so they probably were purchased separately.
"See?" Knight Dude said enthusiastically, though the effect was muted by the helmet. "These are the claws he uses to kill his victims! I was about to dispatch him when you made your timely arrival!"
Fontaine almost snarled. "That's not the Claw, Englebert!"
"Of course it is!"
"The Claw is a mutated being, Englebert," Baptiste said, following his partner's lead by using Knight Dude's first name. "He does not wear gloves. The claws are his actual fingers."
Case of the Claw Page 15
