Revelation
In which Dr. Hamilton is charged with murder, Lex tries his hand at detective work, and Clark learns there are good lies, bad lies, and lies that can get you killed.
Category: Mystery
Rating: PG-13 for some mild language and violence
Time: sometime after "Vortex" but before "Duplicity"
Disclaimer: all characters of the Superman universe are property of DC Comics, the WB, et al. The rest of this work is fiction. NOTE: I am neither a scientist nor a lawyer. Please do not try to apply any of this to the real world.
P
Molecular Biology Laboratory, Metropolis University, 11:58 PM"Supercomputer, hah! More like a $600,000 piece of junk," the young woman mumbled to herself as the lab's main computer whizzed and bleeped tiredly to itself. Angela McKay leaned back, trying to stretch her back as she waited for the machine to crunch the latest stream of data pulled from the scanning electron microscopes across the room.
She supposed she really couldn't blame the computer for being sluggish—she felt that way herself. The rest of campus had long since gone dark—students now crammed back into the University's outdated and stuffy dorms, professors sound asleep under their imported down duvets. But as usual she remained at work, plugging away at data that may very well prove to have no practical purpose whatsoever.
Of course, Angela knew better than to curse the fates that had planted her at Metropolis U. Many another grad student was still slaving away, teaching Bio Chem to bored freshmen, while she had the rare privilege of working with Dr. Roshenko, not only a brilliant scientist but a hell of a nice guy, as well. He had tried to get her to go home hours ago, telling her, in an accent still heavy with his native Ukraine, "Ms. McKay, please, you've been here since before dawn. The little molecules will not mind if you'd rather spent your evening elsewhere." When she'd insisted on remaining to finish that day's last bit of data he'd had the wisdom to only shake his grizzled head and leave her to work in peace. He'd even brought her a fresh Diet Coke to keep her caffeine buzz going.
Angela had a tough time explaining to people (well, people who weren't scientists, anyway) how she could stand to spend such long hours in Roshenko's basement lab. The work, of course, was fascinating—Roshenko's work on unstable molecular reactions and their biological consequences was without peer—but also she was driven to follow his example. A lifelong bachelor, Evgeny Roshenko's whole life was his work. He came in before dawn, and stayed well into the night, often working on weekends as well. As far as Angela knew the man didn't even have a hobby, unless you counted the books that filled every room of his tiny house on the east side of town. Even those were very scholarly. And he had had picked her, Angela McKay, fresh out of the undergraduate class at Central City University, to be his assistant. Sure, she had been at the top of her class, class valedictorian, and had already published a paper looking at the implications of unstable molecules for cancer research, but still. Even after two years, it was often hard to believe her good fortune.
"My dear girl," Dr. Roshenko would sigh whenever she tried to thank him for selecting her over those other applicants from Harvard and Oxford, "you are too hard on yourself. I chose you because you were the best qualified." Here he would always squint and rub the bridge of his nose, as if his glasses hurt him. "I am an old man now. You will be my last protégé, and, I believe, my best."
Now how could she refuse to work late for a man like that?
The computer finally spat out the numbers, and Angela added them to the neat stack on her crowded desk. She went around the room working to put things in order for the next day: clean slides ready to be prepared in the morning, check. Bunsen burners off, check. The computers she left on, as she had been doing lately at Roshenko's insistence. Every department in the science building had gotten a nasty letter from Dean Carroll about wasting electricity, but Angela suspected Roshenko always returned to the lab after her departure, to spend several more hours communing with his research. She did dim the lights a bit, though, just in case someone decided to peek in the windows and rat them out to the dean. She then grabbed her shoulder bag and left through the swinging doors on the south end of the lab.
She climbed the ugly metal staircase to the first floor, wondering for the hundredth time why the University didn't find better facilities for the good doctor. After all, the man was famous, in his own small way. But the University preferred to put their money into more visible status symbols, like the new business building across the quad. The Luthor Business Building, named after the first family of Metropolis who had donated the money for the rather monstrous Romanesque structure. Many in the community (and a few professors) called it the "Temple of Greed." But only when no one in administration could overhear.
"We have a hard time selling molecular biology to the public, Ange," her friend Susan over in Grants and Corporate Sponsorship had explained. "Business, medicine, people get those. But you'd need a PhD and a microscope to figure out Roshenko's work. It just isn't, well, sexy."
Frowning at the memory of that conversation, Angela walked down the hall toward the exit onto Fisher Street. Suddenly, movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she stopped.
Last semester the doors into all the faculty offices had been fitted with ugly panes of pale green glass in an attempt to modernize the 1960s concrete building. All of the offices were dark now, except for Roshenko's, and through the glass she could see the doctor gesticulating wildly. His mouth was moving, as if in an argument with someone, and at first Angela figured he was on the phone or even arguing with himself over some new theory. She'd seen him do stranger things. But then another figure moved into the frame, and Angela hastily stepped backed into the shadows where she wouldn't be seen. She drew in a sharp breath.
The man Dr. Roshenko was arguing with was Dr. Steven Hamilton, the very last person on earth Angela would have ever expected to see here.
It's none of my business, she told herself hastily. I'm sure Dr. Roshenko has a good reason for having him here.
In the middle of the night? Maybe I should check on them.
Don't be stupid, Angela. You can't hear what they're saying. For all you know they're arguing about the last Metropolis Sharks game.
Ignoring the deep feeling of unease in the pit of her stomach, Angela gave one more quick look through the glass. The two men were still deep in what appeared to be a less heated, but still intense, conversation.
You can ask him about it tomorrow. The doc's never lied to you. I'm sure you're worrying about nothing.
With that last glance, Angela pulled her bag up higher on her shoulder and left.
P
Smallville, the following evening"Hey, Clark, what do you think of the new setup?" Clark's best friend, Pete Ross, clapped him on the back as he came through the door. Looking across the crowded tables of the Talon, Clark spotted what Pete was talking about. Two good-sized televisions had been mounted on the walls, one just to the left of the huge espresso machine, and one across the room above a row of comfortable couches. Right now they were tuned to the local news, but the sound was off.
"Pretty cool," he admitted, tossing his jacket down next to the chair Pete waved him to. "What's the occasion?"
"WNN is talking about televising all the Crow games this fall," Chloe Sullivan explained. Chloe always seemed to be hard-wired into what was happening in Smallville, a combination of her journalistic instinct and a natural tendency to keep her ears open at all times. "I guess Lana Lang thinks it would boost business if people could watch the games here instead of sitting in the cold."
"The idea does have its appeal," Clark admitted absently, his eyes instinctively seeking out the dark haired girl behind the counter. Lana was laughing as she handed a tray full of cups to one of the waitresses. As always, she looked beautiful. He caught her eye and she waved, picking up an order pad and making her way to their table. Clark felt Chloe stiffen a bit next to him, and nearly sighed aloud. He had apologized upside down and backward to Chloe for leaving her at the spring dance so he could find Lana, and Chloe kept insisting she understood, and it was cool.
Cool was the word, all right. Whenever they were together and Lana was near the temperature in the room plummeted.
Pete was no help, either. Pete though the whole thing was kind of funny. Yeah, funny as a train wreck, Clark thought.
"What can I get you guys?"
"Cappuccino," Pete ordered.
"Same for me," Clark smiled. Oh, how he wished Lana could remember how he had rescued her during the tornado! Once, just once, he'd like her to know what he was capable of doing.
"Nice televisions, Lana," Chloe began. "Going to charge extra to watch the games here? Offer Crow cafe lattes?"
"I haven't decided yet." Lana blushed slightly, as she always did when confronted with one of Chloe's sharper comments.
This time it was Pete who came to the rescue. "I think it's a great idea—I hate freezing my butt off on those bleachers, and we only have a 24 inch screen at home."
"Same here," Clark agreed. "Dad keeps talking about getting a bigger TV, but Mom says there are more important thing to spend money on."
"Oh, you poor, deprived boys," Chloe said tersely. Yes, she was in rare form tonight. Clark could see he clearly needed to make another attempt to smooth things over.
Puzzled by Chloe's behavior, Lana took their orders back to the bar, and after a moment Clark got up and followed her.
"Oh, five seconds. That's a record," Clark heard Chloe murmur under her breath. He knew she hadn't intended him to overhear, but the comment still stung.
"Uh, Lana, listen, could you make mine a regular espresso instead? I've got a Geometry test to study for tonight and I'll need all the help I can get."
"Sure, Clark. Thompson's tests are monsters, aren't they?" The two commiserated together on the batch of teachers the new school year had forced upon them.
"Clark, is Chloe all right?" Lana looked up at him with concern in her beautiful eyes. "I can't help but notice she seems a little out of sorts."
Clark couldn't bring himself to tell Lana the truth. She and Chloe had seemed to be on their way to a rocky sort of understanding last semester, maybe even friendship, and now it was all screwed up. He'd screwed it up.
"I think she's just stressed out. The Torch is taking up most of her free time, y'know, the usual."
"Sure." Clark could tell Lana was doubtful, but unwilling to press the issue. Instead she handed him his cup of coffee.
"On the house," she smiled.
"Now Lana, how are we ever going to turn a profit if you keep giving free drinks to all our friends?"
Clark glanced over his shoulder and saw Lex Luthor standing there, that enigmatic half-smile on his face that made it hard to tell when he was joking and when he was serious. This time Lex made it easy for him, giving him a barely perceptible wink as he added, "Even our very good friends."
"Clark was just admiring our new setup and offering to hand out flyers, weren't you, Clark?" Lana grinned at him. He was always surprised to find evidence of Lana's own, rather sly sense of humor.
"Uh, yeah," he stammered.
As always, Lex saw right through him. "Sure you did." He stood beside Clark at the bar and ordered a rather complicated concoction involving skim milk and an extra shot of espresso. While Lana busied herself with his order, Lex turned his attention back to Clark.
"How's the new school year going? Seems like I haven't seen you in awhile."
"You haven't. And great, thanks. Chloe's promised me a by-line of my own in the Torch this year." Clark knew Lex's latest endeavor was keeping him very busy—LexCorp, his answer to LuthorCorp, born out of the near closing of the Smallville fertilizer plant and Lionel Luthor's injury in the tornado. The Smallville Ledger had reported, with a touch of glee, that while the elder Luthor would recover it would be slow, and that in the meantime Lex was at the head of the Luthor empire.
"How is your dad doing?"
Lex shrugged. "As well as anyone recently blinded can be. Making life hell for his doctors and nurses."
Clark could tell that Lex, in spite of his harsh words, was glad his old man was still alive. But perhaps it was a good thing Lionel was too incapacitated to pay much attention to his son's actions. Clark was just relieved to see Lex focus his attention on something other than the Kent family. He knew how long Lex had dreamed of building an empire of his own, separate from his father, and the rescue of Plant Number 3 had raised Lex more than a few notches in the town's esteem. Lex seemed, well, the closest thing to content that Clark could remember seeing.
"And how about the other situation?" Lex gave a small nod in the direction of Chloe. He had commiserated with Clark on the disastrous date, although he had expressed disbelief that Clark actually intended to honor the quarterback's request that Clark "look after" Lana until his return.
"No change there," Clark said softly, so Lana wouldn't overhear.
As if Chloe herself had overheard the statement, Clark suddenly heard her voice ring out across the room, startling several people into dropping hot coffee in their laps.
"Lana, quick! Turn the sound up on the t.v.!"
All heads swiveled in the direction of the screens as sound suddenly blared forth from the speakers.
"…police will not speculate at this hour as to a motive for the murder, but the DA says they have circumstantial evidence linking Dr. Hamilton to the crime."
The newscast cut away from the studio to a shot of a tall man being led into the Metropolis jail in handcuffs. He looked vaguely familiar, but Clark couldn't quite place him.
"The victim, seventy seven year-old Dr. Evgeny Roshenko, was best known for his research suggesting that the fundamentally unstable nature of molecules can be linked to both naturally occurring mutations and disease. Dr. James Carroll, Dean of Sciences at Metropolis University, has issued a statement saying, 'We are deeply shocked and saddened at the sudden loss of such a vital member of our research community. Rest assured that Metropolis University is working closely with law enforcement to bring the perpetrator or perpetrators of this heinous crime to justice.' Dr. Steven Hamilton will be held pending his arraignment. In other news…"
Clark tuned out the broadcaster's annoyingly chatty voice.
Hamilton. He of the weird meteorite theories and the plastic meteorite chips. Hamilton, who Chloe insisted was responsible for the Nicodemus flower that had nearly killed both Lana, Pete, and his father. Hamilton had been arrested for murdering someone in Metropolis.
"Oh, wow!"
Clark jumped, noticing for the first time Chloe and Pete were right behind him. Chloe's eyes were still fixed on the screen. "Clark, Pete, we have got to get to Metropolis, ASAP."
Even Lex was still gazing at the screen, transfixed, it seemed, by the news. Clark wondered if he had known the victim. After all, Lex had gone to Metropolis U. for a while. Clark had never heard the full story of why he'd been expelled, but, knowing Lex, it was a good one. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask about Dr…Roshenko, was it? when Lex's cell phone went off.
"Luthor here," Lex said tersely.
Chloe, meanwhile, had forgotten her earlier fit of pique and seized the front of Clark's shirt. "Clark, do you know what this means?"
"That Dr. Steven Hamilton is a murderer?" Pete offered.
His sarcasm was lost on Chloe, however. "What a story! 'Ex-Scientist Turns Killer'! I bet it's hanging around all those meteor rocks that did it. O.k., let's get moving—Pete, get on-line and see what the wire service it putting out about the crime—when, where, all of that. Clark, you and I need to see Dr. Hamilton."
As he so often did around Chloe, Clark had the feeling he was being swept away in a rushing torrent that was likely to lead over some very sharp rocks.
"Chloe, tomorrow is a school day. We can't go to Metropolis 'til the weekend, and there's no way we can get into the jail."
Clark was so busy trying to stem the tide that was Chloe that he didn't notice Lex had left without saying goodbye.
P
Metropolis, same eveningAngela could not remember ever being this tired before in her life. She had studied hard enough to pull a 4.4 grade point average as an undergraduate, and spent three days straight taking her doctoral exams, and all of that seemed like a picnic compared to how she felt right now. Her eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. She wanted to wash the smell of cigarette smoke and desperation that permeated the headquarters of Metropolis P.D. out of her hair. Her stomach growled uncertainly, still full of the sludge-like coffee the detectives kept giving her.
I'm so tired I can't sleep…now I know how Kurt Cobain must have felt.
The detectives were gone now, leaving her sitting in the ugly gray room on the torn vinyl chair, waiting for them to make up their minds about whether or not they could send her home.
They had been over and over her statement dozens of times. Angela had seen enough cop shows to know they were trying to see if she'd slip up, either confess or remember something she hadn't before. But she was empty. The story was ridiculously simple.
She had gotten up early, as she always did, to be at work by five. She'd walked the few blocks from her apartment to campus. Unlocked the building. Gone down to the lab. Flicked on the lights…
It had looked like a bomb had been dropped. Papers everywhere. Broken glass—beakers, slides, test tubes, all of it. The monitors had been smashed with something heavy, as had the keyboards. Suddenly boneless, her arm had dropped to her side and her bag fell, her own books and papers sliding across the mess on the floor.
What in god's name…?And then, just as she'd taken in most of the destruction, she'd seen the shoe protruding from behind one of the tables.
She knew she should have left then and there. Should have picked up her cell phone and called someone. She'd felt like a character in one of those B horror movies, doing something incredibly stupid, like walking into a dark room, while the audience shouts instructions. But her feet seemed to move on their own.
She had found Dr. Roshenko lying on the floor, one of his arms out flung, as if he'd fallen to the ground from a great height. She knew immediately he was dead—his eyes were open, staring, and his skin already had a bluish tinge. She still forced herself to check for a pulse. Nothing, just cold, dead skin. As she had searched for hope she'd seen the dark marks around the old man's throat, marks that looked suspiciously like those of four fingers and a thumb.
She was glad then she never had more than coffee for breakfast.
Everything else after that was a blur—she didn't recall calling the police, but she must have, because first campus police arrived, then Metropolis P.D. Someone helped her upstairs to the main office while they went about cordoning off the lab and examining and then removing the body.
She couldn't believe Dr. Roshenko, who just a few hours ago had been alive and well and plying her with soda, was now just the body.
Then the detectives had started questioning her, and she could only stare at them blankly as if they were speaking a foreign language. She could tell they were annoyed, whether with her or with the business at hand she wasn't sure. One question, though, managed to cut it's way through her daze.
Did you see anyone suspicious around last night or this morning? Anyone who shouldn't have been here?
Yes, she had answered. Dr. Steven Hamilton.
Angela knew the University had taken out a restraining order against Hamilton when he'd been fired years before. He was not to come within five hundred feet of the University, or he risked arrest. Obviously, his visit to Roshenko's office had been important enough for him to take that risk.
Why hadn't she knocked? Why hadn't she checked? Roshenko was just a helpless old man…
The door opened, snapping her back to the present. The lead detective on the case, an older, heavyset man named Bright, nodded.
"O.k., Ms. McKay, you can go home now."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, yes. We'll need you to come back tomorrow to sign your statement, but so far this looks like an open and shut case. Thank you for your cooperation."
Angela shook her head, trying to clear it. "Whoa, wait, open and shut? You've arrested somebody already?"
The other detective, a younger man named Harris, nodded. "As Detective Bright said, thank you for your time."
It wasn't until Angela got home that she heard about the arrest of Dr. Hamilton. Then she really felt sick.
P
Lex left his car at a parking garage and took a cab to the Metropolis Police department's headquarters. He knew from personal experience it was a lousy neighborhood, and that showing up in his Jaguar, or even his Lexus, wouldn't endear him to whoever had been assigned to the Roshenko case.
Memories crept across the back of his mind as he stood in front of the Federal-style building. Memories of being hauled here in handcuffs for a variety of transgressions. Once he'd even spent the night in the holding tank downstairs. Memories of being bailed out by one of his father's numerous lawyers, only to stand there, rumpled and filthy, as his father berated him for being a miserable disappointment to him, to the Luthor name.
Ah, memories. And those were some of the more pleasant ones.
Inside, things were a lot quieter than he remembered, but then it was the middle of the day. The criminal element of Metropolis usually didn't get going until five, at the earliest.
He asked to speak to the two detectives responsible for arresting Dr. Hamilton. At first the young officer at the desk insisted that couldn't be done, unless he was Dr. Hamilton's lawyer, but as usual Lex found that the judicious use of the Luthor name opened doors. The desk sergeant made a few hasty phone calls, and in a few moments one of the detectives appeared before him. The man was young to have made detective already, but his shabby suit and mid-day stubble indicated the detective life was already starting to grind him down. It was really no wonder there were so many copes like Phelan out there, Lex mused. It was the only way they could afford decent clothes.
"Mr. Luthor, I'm Detective Harris. Can I help you?"
The polite tone didn't fool Lex—he knew the man was annoyed at being pulled away from an interrogation or a doughnut break or whatever he'd been up to. But Lex also knew the value establishing a good rapport with this man if he was to be of any use to Dr. Hamilton.
"Detective Harris, I'm a personal friend of Dr. Steven Hamilton and I was wondering if you had a few moments to discuss his case?" Years of training at his father' knee had taught him how the right word, the right gesture, could be critical in moments like these. He also knew how to make his questions sound like ones that brooked no refusal.
The other man stiffened a bit. "I'm afraid we cannot discuss this case with members of the public, Mr. Luthor, no matter what their relationship to the suspect is. We are in the middle of an investigation…"
"I understand that, Detective," Lex said smoothly. "But I am concerned with the quality of legal advice Dr. Hamilton is receiving, as well as the publicity this case is already garnering."
"You'll have to take that up with Hamilton himself," Harris said. Lex was pleased to see the other man's reserve slipping away; beads of sweat were collecting on his unshaven upper lip. Really, it was too easy. Lex was tempted to suggest the detective read Sun Tzu's work on the importance of maintaining an aura of strength at all times.
"All I can tell you is that we have a witness who places Dr. Hamilton at the scene of the crime, and that Hamilton has no alibi. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Luthor," and here Harris stretched the mister out as a not so subtle gesture of contempt, "I need to be getting back to work."
"Of course, Detective Harris, and thank you for your time."
Lex watched the other man disappear back into the bowels of the building with a polite smile. Harris had told him what he wanted to know—the police felt they had sufficient evidence to pursue a case against Dr. Hamilton. As he walked outside, Lex shook his head. Clearly Hamilton had gotten himself into some sort of mess, and it was up to Lex to get him out of it. After all, if news of Hamilton's work at Cadmus got out, Hamilton could quickly become a huge liability to LexCorp.
Hamilton himself, however, proved uncooperative.
"What the hell are you doing here?" were the first words out of the older man's mouth as he was led into one of the visiting rooms at the jail.
"Nice to see you, too, Dr. Hamilton," Lex said with a smile. "Please, sit down." He gestured to the chair on the other side of the scratched table from where he sat.
"Five minutes," said the guard, slamming the door behind them.
Hamilton sat down a little awkwardly; both his hands were handcuffed in front of him.
"I'm in no mood for a social call, Luthor," the doctor growled.
"Then it's a good thing I haven't come on one, unless of course you like that flattering orange jumpsuit you're wearing."
There was no response.
"No? Can't say I blame you. Then I suggest you listen to me, and listen well." Lex sat forward, leaning his Armani-clad elbows on the table. "I want to help you, but I can't do that unless you drop the attitude."
Dr. Hamilton still didn't respond, but he looked a trifle less sullen.
"I've arranged for one of my lawyers to be here this afternoon…"
"No."
"No what?"
Dr. Hamilton leaned forward in his chair, his dark eyes burning. "No lawyer. Not one of yours."
"You can't be thinking of relying on the public defender, can you? Some guy who barely passed the bar and has a hundred other cases on his desk? I've spoken to the detective assigned to the case, and he seems to feel they have more than enough to put you on trial, including a witness who puts you at the scene." Lex brushed an invisible piece of lint off his black sleeve. "What were you doing at Metropolis University?"
"That's my business."
"No, it's my business." Lex stood abruptly. "You work for me, you're on my dime, so to speak. I want to know why you were meeting with Dr. Roshenko. Was it something to do with the meteor rocks?"
When Dr. Hamilton didn't respond, Lex rubbed his forehead. "You know, this is becoming quite tiresome, Dr. Hamilton. I'll ask you again—was is something to do with the meteor rocks?"
Hamilton seemed to shrink a little in his chair, but still held firm. "I sought out the advice of an old friend, that's all," he offered. "I've known Roshenko for years." He passed a hand through his tangled hair. "As for who saw me, it must have been McKay, but I doubt she had any idea why I was there." The doctor rose. "That's all I'm going to say. I'll take my chances with the D.A. Don't come here again." Hamilton rapped sharply on the steel door, and the guard appeared to let him out.
"I really am trying to help you, you know," Lex told him.
Hamilton glanced back over his shoulder. "You haven't asked me if I'm guilty or not."
Lex shrugged. "As far as I'm concerned, Dr. Hamilton, that is irrelevant."
The guard led Hamilton back to his cell, and Lex was left alone in the little room to contemplate Dr. Hamilton's strange behavior.
As soon as he was back in his own car, speeding towards LuthorCorp's headquarters downtown, he flipped open his cell phone.
"Good morning, Metropolis Public Defender's office. How may I direct your call?" a mechanical female voice answered.
"I would like to speak to Langston Carter, please."
"I'm sorry, but Mr. Carter is in a closed session with the mayor today. If you'll leave your name and number…"
"Tell him Lex Luthor is calling," Lex interrupted. "I'm certain he will want to speak with me."
"One moment."
There was a long pause, and then the voice came back on the line.
"Mr. Luthor, go ahead please."
Lex smiled.
Hamilton had refused his help. Lex was willing to accept that. But Hamilton was also about to have the best public defender in Metropolis assigned to his case, courtesy of Langston Carter. After all, it would be a shame if the papers found out how an upstanding public servant like Carter had paid for his luxurious new condo.
Yes, that would be a real shame.
!!