Chapter One: Murder of One
Here's something I've been thinking about for a while. I may or may not continue, depending on feedback.
As always, characters are Marvel's, but the story is mine.
P
Rain bitterly beat down the streets of Bayville that autumn night. The silvery light from the moon shone down in the puddles. The brisk wind rustled the trees and swirled scattered trash left in the gutter. Usually, nights in Bayville were quiet. However, this one was quite different. Outside an abandoned building that had once been a glass factory, several squad cars were parked outside with their lights flashing. Uniformed officers were spread out, combing through overgrown bushes with flashlights and Dobermans.
P
Detective Drew Walsh slammed the driver's side door of her 1990 blue-gray Dodge Aries, pulling her black trench coat around her small frame. A young detective who was moving through the ranks of the Bayville police department, she was recently moved to the homicide department. Her youthful features made it easy for one to mistake her for an entering college student. However, it was quite incompatible with the harsh realities she had observed during her career.
P
The heavy rain plastered her copper hair to her head and the pancake holster she was wearing underneath her trench coat grinded against her ribs. Surveying the crime scene in front of her, she muttered under her breath how she hated rain. It made combing for clues ten times harder than it should have been, sometimes washing away precious evidence. Hopefully, there were experienced officers on the scene..
P
She pulled back the yellow crime tape and jogged over to the side of a young officer, who was kneeling down on the ground. She received some reprieve from the driving rain from when she stepped under the makeshift tent over the scene. Slipping on a pair of rubber gloves, she asked in a firm voice, "Hi, officer. So, what have we got here?"
P
The officer peered up at the cherubic-faced detective and shook his head. From the pained expression on his face and how young he was, he appeared as if this was his first crime scene. "We got the call from a nightwatch man for the building across the street about ten minutes ago. There's a dead Jane Doe here, who couldn't be more than 14 or 15 years old."
P
"Any ID?" Walsh inquired, pressing her lips together.
P
The young officer quickly shook his head. "No identification found on her.. And she's.."
P
A five-year veteran of the department, Walsh patted him on the shoulder gently. "It's OK, officer," she told him, realizing that what he had seen probably left him shocked. "I can take it from here. Anyone talking to the nightwatch man?"
P
"Yes, ma'am. Officer Darling's over there with him." He nodded in the direction of the other side of the building.
P
"Good, good. Go scour the scene with the other officers. The M.E.'s been called?"
P
"Yes, ma'am." The officer straightened to his full height and covered his mouth with a pale hand. Then he sighed, walking away. It's hard when they're so young..
P
Walsh crouched down over the white sheet that covered an immobile mass underneath. As many as times as she had done this, the process of examining a body never got any easier. Her dark eyes narrowed as she grasped the corner of the white sheet and carefully pulled it back.
P
The officer was correct in his estimation. The deceased was an adolescent female between the ages of 14 and 15 years of age. She was fully clothed, but they couldn't rule out sexual assault until the medical examiner did a full autopsy. Her black hair was completely tangled around her face, which might have indicated some sort of struggle on the ground before her death. No jewelry that would have immediately identified her. They would have to take prints and dental imprints to match, as well as post a picture to missing persons and maybe put enter the information into the federal database if she wasn't local.
P
Looking over the body now, a preliminary cause of death could have come from some sort of asphyxiation. There were a series of bruises around the victim's neck. As far as other injuries were concerned, there were cuts around her forehead and a missing section of skin around that area.
P
Upon closer inspection of the body, Walsh noted that the girl's skin was gray and baggy, particularly around her face. She was a mutant, Walsh mused, tilting her head to the side. She reached out and fingered a flap of skin with her gloved hand. Given this, the impending investigation would have to be treated a little differently. The department had been facing a severe budget crisis and the ranks were frayed. Cases involving mutants, particularly hate crimes, were often placed at the bottom of the list, which was consistent with the wary mutant atmosphere in town.
P
A grim expression was cast over the detective's features as she picked up the girl's wrist. If she were working with more experienced officers, they would have bagged her hands so that no contamination would take place. Any hairs, skin, or fibers that would be collected from underneath her fingernails would be guaranteed to be untainted. Fortunately, Walsh was always prepared. She pulled out two plastic bags from the pocket of her trench coat. Very slowly, she turned her hand over so that the victim's palm was facing up. Her dark eyes narrowed when she made another discovery.
P
The skin had been completely removed.
P
Blood dribbled thickly on the wet ground underneath. Walsh checked the other hand, finding it in the same condition. Quickly, she bagged the hands and stood up. This was definitely going to be a long night.
P
This evening found Hank McCoy sighing wearily inside the mansion of the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters. He stood in front of the bay window, watching the rain stream down. Behind him stood a group of his students, including Bobby Drake, Sam Guthrie, Ray Crisp, Kurt Wagner, and Evan Daniels, who were eagerly awaiting his response to their request--- taking out the Blackbird for a brief ride in order to work on their film project for school. Immediately, he wanted to say no, but wanted to ask an important question of his own first.
P
"Why can't you drag Scott on your little adventures for once?" he asked, turning around to face the group of expectant students.
P
Bobby shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. He was thoughtful before addressing the question. "Well, to put it simply, Scott's a dork."
P
"He acts like he's better than us," Ray added, pushing his orange bangs from his wide forehead.
P
"Yeah, he acts like he's Mr. Mature or something," Sam piped up. Always the polite Southern gentleman, he was reluctant to say anything too derogatory about Scott. At the same time, he didn't want to look like a total geek in front of his friends.
P
"He doesn't know it, but ve saw him vatching Powerpuff Girls once," Kurt told everyone.
P
His roommate, Evan Daniels, raised a cynical brow at him. "Kurt, you watch Powerpuff Girls, too."
P
Kurt's yellow eyes flashed at him. "Shut up, Evan. At least I don't vatch 'The View.'"
P
Evan swallowed hard, dark eyes guileless. "Why, uh, whatever do you mean, Kurt?" He tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace.
P
Kurt snorted, tail swinging behind him. "I know about all the tapes stashed under your bed," he announced smugly.
P
Ray's gray eyes widened in surprise. Then he punched Evan on the arm. "Hey," he cried, "you said you were hiding ultimate fighting tapes under there!"
P
Evan sighed. He knew he was caught. Might as well as admit to the truth in spite of the teasing that lay ahead. "I have a thing for Star Jones, okay?"
P
Bobby looked away from Evan, brown eyes filled with mock disappointment. "I don't even know who you are anymore," he said in a low voice. Then he peered over at Mr. McCoy, who was struggling to hide his amusement with the situation. "So, what do you say? Can we take the Blackbird out for a spin?"
P
Before Hank could say no definitively, the soft, gravelly voice of Professor Xavier intoned in his head. Hank, I need to speak with you immediately. Please meet me in my study.
P
"Yes, Charles," Hank turned to the students and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, boys, but I have a meeting with the Professor." With that he began to walk in the direction of Professor Xavier's study.
P
"What about the plan?" Bobby called after him. "You never gave us an answer, Mr. McCoy."
P
Hank turned around, blue eyes amused. "I'm going to have say no to that idea."
P
The décor of the famous study was reminiscent of a converted carriage house in London, which had been a childhood vacation home. The walls were a glossy midnight blue, which were accented by lush, red velvet curtains, ancestral tartans and jacquards, and gold-framed sketches of horses, jockeys, and handwritten poems. Hurricane vases with brass trim sat on the coffee table next to textbooks and notebooks. Throughout the study, clean- lined chairs were upholstered in carriage-blanket plaids, while quilted velvet and suede pillows and drapes appeared to recall padded horse blankets. Navy pillows edged in gold trim inspired by cavalry epaulets, and gold buttons and leather buckles evoked crisp, tailored riding jackets. Beautifully appointed campaign furniture crafted from honey-hued mahogany and detailed with brass trim and mounts added to the English theme. There was a handkerchief-top game table that opened to reveal a leather-bound playing surface, while the traditional cane-sided sofa with sleek black leather cushions commanded the attention of the room. On the sofa, silk scarves featuring belted equestrian motifs were made into luxurious oversized throw pillows backed in navy suede.
P
Despite the classic feel of the space, there were contemporary touches. These touches could be traced to the tartan chairs with nail head trim and aged walnut trim, a red ostrich-leather ottoman with the same type of trim and recessed casters, and the Secretariat chest of drawers with its clean lines, honey-hued finish, and brass corner brackets. While the walls were dark, there was plenty of lighting from the floor-length windows and the numerous brass floor lamps.
P
Professor Charles was seated in his sleek, steel-framed wheelchair by the French doors that led to the balcony overlooking the grounds of the mansion. His face was set in a serious expression as he folded his hands and set them underneath his chin. His dark eyes traveled to the door at the other end of the room.
P
Hank McCoy peered inside. "You wanted to see me?"
P
A shadow of a smile crossed the Professor's face. Then it quickly faded. "Yes, Hank. Please come in."
P
Hank closed the door behind his hulking form. As he entered the room, he noticed that they were not alone. Leaning against the fireplace was Logan, clad in his blue jeans, boots, and standard black T-shirt. Unsmiling as usual, he nodded at Hank in greeting. Seated across from the Professor was Ororo Munroe, another instructor and Evan's aunt. Her long, white hair swung loose, which framed her exotic features as she smiled up at Hank. She motioned for him to sit in the armchair next to her.
P
"What's this all about?" Hank inquired, raking a large hand through his thick blue hair. He settled in his chair, anticipating some news about changes to the curriculum at the Institute or something mundane like that.
P
The Professor took a deep breath before speaking. "A mutant teenager was murdered tonight," he began grimly, "I was alerted to her when she used her powers before she was killed." He could still see her blasting rays of lights from her hands as she struggled to live.
P
"Oh, no," Ororo whispered, placing a hand over her mouth.
P
Xavier continued. "However, by the time I attempted a link with the child, she was already dead." He shook his head, clearly disappointed with himself.
P
"What about the killer?" Logan asked, his voice gruff but filled with as much concern about the situation. In the back of his mind, he was contemplating tracking the slime ball himself. "You get a read on whoever did it?"
P
The Professor shook his baldhead ruefully and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. "No, Logan, I could not. The person had an incredible mental block on my telepathy. There was no way I could create a link or find out their identity."
P
He paused, allowing the instructors to process what he had just said. Then he went on. "It is unclear at this point whether or not this is an isolated incident or whether this will be a pattern of things to come. While this might be somewhat rash, I am instilling a curfew for the Institute until the authorities apprehend the perpetrator or perpetrators. All students are to be back at the mansion by seven-thirty. No exceptions. I am looking to all of you to enforce this."
P
"Of course, we will. There is nothing rash about trying to ensure the safety of the students, Charles," Ororo informed him, straightening in her chair. Hank nodded in agreement as well.
P
Logan snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "The police couldn't catch a fly on the wall. What makes you think they're going to be able to do anything? Besides, protectin' mutants ain't on the top of the list, I'm sure."
P
"Even so, there are preventive measures we can take to protect the children here and that's what we're doing." Professor Xavier sighed, realizing his old friend had a point. "I suppose I could go to the police department and offer my help. I heard that they've let go many officers because of the budget cuts."
P
"That might be something." Hank tried to give him an encouraging smile. Then he asked, "So, how should we approach this with the children? Knowing some of them, they might not be happy with a simple, 'Because I said so.'"
P
The Professor nodded in agreement. "Yes, I am aware of that. Many of them are old and mature enough to be told the truth. I would advise you to do so, but be careful not to scare them." He looked at Logan pointedly.
P
Logan responded with a low growl. Unfortunately, he had no ground to argue against what Charles was implying. Apparently, stories about his wilderness trips with the students got back to Xavier. He resigned to shrug his shoulders instead.
P
"Then we should do so tonight," Ororo declared, blue-green eyes determined. "Most of them should be home by now. We can gather them in the recreation room and talk to them together. That way, we can make sure no one scares the students." She nodded at Logan.
P
This elicited yet another low growl.
P
Professor Xavier nodded approvingly. "Good idea, Storm. I will send out a telepathic message for all of them to meet us there." His fingertips went to his temples, massaging them gently. Attention, students, this is Professor Xavier. Please come to the recreational room for a mandatory meeting in five minutes. Thank you. He then turned to his teaching staff, feeling an overwhelming sense of dread of what laid ahead.
Here's something I've been thinking about for a while. I may or may not continue, depending on feedback.
As always, characters are Marvel's, but the story is mine.
P
Rain bitterly beat down the streets of Bayville that autumn night. The silvery light from the moon shone down in the puddles. The brisk wind rustled the trees and swirled scattered trash left in the gutter. Usually, nights in Bayville were quiet. However, this one was quite different. Outside an abandoned building that had once been a glass factory, several squad cars were parked outside with their lights flashing. Uniformed officers were spread out, combing through overgrown bushes with flashlights and Dobermans.
P
Detective Drew Walsh slammed the driver's side door of her 1990 blue-gray Dodge Aries, pulling her black trench coat around her small frame. A young detective who was moving through the ranks of the Bayville police department, she was recently moved to the homicide department. Her youthful features made it easy for one to mistake her for an entering college student. However, it was quite incompatible with the harsh realities she had observed during her career.
P
The heavy rain plastered her copper hair to her head and the pancake holster she was wearing underneath her trench coat grinded against her ribs. Surveying the crime scene in front of her, she muttered under her breath how she hated rain. It made combing for clues ten times harder than it should have been, sometimes washing away precious evidence. Hopefully, there were experienced officers on the scene..
P
She pulled back the yellow crime tape and jogged over to the side of a young officer, who was kneeling down on the ground. She received some reprieve from the driving rain from when she stepped under the makeshift tent over the scene. Slipping on a pair of rubber gloves, she asked in a firm voice, "Hi, officer. So, what have we got here?"
P
The officer peered up at the cherubic-faced detective and shook his head. From the pained expression on his face and how young he was, he appeared as if this was his first crime scene. "We got the call from a nightwatch man for the building across the street about ten minutes ago. There's a dead Jane Doe here, who couldn't be more than 14 or 15 years old."
P
"Any ID?" Walsh inquired, pressing her lips together.
P
The young officer quickly shook his head. "No identification found on her.. And she's.."
P
A five-year veteran of the department, Walsh patted him on the shoulder gently. "It's OK, officer," she told him, realizing that what he had seen probably left him shocked. "I can take it from here. Anyone talking to the nightwatch man?"
P
"Yes, ma'am. Officer Darling's over there with him." He nodded in the direction of the other side of the building.
P
"Good, good. Go scour the scene with the other officers. The M.E.'s been called?"
P
"Yes, ma'am." The officer straightened to his full height and covered his mouth with a pale hand. Then he sighed, walking away. It's hard when they're so young..
P
Walsh crouched down over the white sheet that covered an immobile mass underneath. As many as times as she had done this, the process of examining a body never got any easier. Her dark eyes narrowed as she grasped the corner of the white sheet and carefully pulled it back.
P
The officer was correct in his estimation. The deceased was an adolescent female between the ages of 14 and 15 years of age. She was fully clothed, but they couldn't rule out sexual assault until the medical examiner did a full autopsy. Her black hair was completely tangled around her face, which might have indicated some sort of struggle on the ground before her death. No jewelry that would have immediately identified her. They would have to take prints and dental imprints to match, as well as post a picture to missing persons and maybe put enter the information into the federal database if she wasn't local.
P
Looking over the body now, a preliminary cause of death could have come from some sort of asphyxiation. There were a series of bruises around the victim's neck. As far as other injuries were concerned, there were cuts around her forehead and a missing section of skin around that area.
P
Upon closer inspection of the body, Walsh noted that the girl's skin was gray and baggy, particularly around her face. She was a mutant, Walsh mused, tilting her head to the side. She reached out and fingered a flap of skin with her gloved hand. Given this, the impending investigation would have to be treated a little differently. The department had been facing a severe budget crisis and the ranks were frayed. Cases involving mutants, particularly hate crimes, were often placed at the bottom of the list, which was consistent with the wary mutant atmosphere in town.
P
A grim expression was cast over the detective's features as she picked up the girl's wrist. If she were working with more experienced officers, they would have bagged her hands so that no contamination would take place. Any hairs, skin, or fibers that would be collected from underneath her fingernails would be guaranteed to be untainted. Fortunately, Walsh was always prepared. She pulled out two plastic bags from the pocket of her trench coat. Very slowly, she turned her hand over so that the victim's palm was facing up. Her dark eyes narrowed when she made another discovery.
P
The skin had been completely removed.
P
Blood dribbled thickly on the wet ground underneath. Walsh checked the other hand, finding it in the same condition. Quickly, she bagged the hands and stood up. This was definitely going to be a long night.
P
This evening found Hank McCoy sighing wearily inside the mansion of the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters. He stood in front of the bay window, watching the rain stream down. Behind him stood a group of his students, including Bobby Drake, Sam Guthrie, Ray Crisp, Kurt Wagner, and Evan Daniels, who were eagerly awaiting his response to their request--- taking out the Blackbird for a brief ride in order to work on their film project for school. Immediately, he wanted to say no, but wanted to ask an important question of his own first.
P
"Why can't you drag Scott on your little adventures for once?" he asked, turning around to face the group of expectant students.
P
Bobby shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. He was thoughtful before addressing the question. "Well, to put it simply, Scott's a dork."
P
"He acts like he's better than us," Ray added, pushing his orange bangs from his wide forehead.
P
"Yeah, he acts like he's Mr. Mature or something," Sam piped up. Always the polite Southern gentleman, he was reluctant to say anything too derogatory about Scott. At the same time, he didn't want to look like a total geek in front of his friends.
P
"He doesn't know it, but ve saw him vatching Powerpuff Girls once," Kurt told everyone.
P
His roommate, Evan Daniels, raised a cynical brow at him. "Kurt, you watch Powerpuff Girls, too."
P
Kurt's yellow eyes flashed at him. "Shut up, Evan. At least I don't vatch 'The View.'"
P
Evan swallowed hard, dark eyes guileless. "Why, uh, whatever do you mean, Kurt?" He tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace.
P
Kurt snorted, tail swinging behind him. "I know about all the tapes stashed under your bed," he announced smugly.
P
Ray's gray eyes widened in surprise. Then he punched Evan on the arm. "Hey," he cried, "you said you were hiding ultimate fighting tapes under there!"
P
Evan sighed. He knew he was caught. Might as well as admit to the truth in spite of the teasing that lay ahead. "I have a thing for Star Jones, okay?"
P
Bobby looked away from Evan, brown eyes filled with mock disappointment. "I don't even know who you are anymore," he said in a low voice. Then he peered over at Mr. McCoy, who was struggling to hide his amusement with the situation. "So, what do you say? Can we take the Blackbird out for a spin?"
P
Before Hank could say no definitively, the soft, gravelly voice of Professor Xavier intoned in his head. Hank, I need to speak with you immediately. Please meet me in my study.
P
"Yes, Charles," Hank turned to the students and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, boys, but I have a meeting with the Professor." With that he began to walk in the direction of Professor Xavier's study.
P
"What about the plan?" Bobby called after him. "You never gave us an answer, Mr. McCoy."
P
Hank turned around, blue eyes amused. "I'm going to have say no to that idea."
P
The décor of the famous study was reminiscent of a converted carriage house in London, which had been a childhood vacation home. The walls were a glossy midnight blue, which were accented by lush, red velvet curtains, ancestral tartans and jacquards, and gold-framed sketches of horses, jockeys, and handwritten poems. Hurricane vases with brass trim sat on the coffee table next to textbooks and notebooks. Throughout the study, clean- lined chairs were upholstered in carriage-blanket plaids, while quilted velvet and suede pillows and drapes appeared to recall padded horse blankets. Navy pillows edged in gold trim inspired by cavalry epaulets, and gold buttons and leather buckles evoked crisp, tailored riding jackets. Beautifully appointed campaign furniture crafted from honey-hued mahogany and detailed with brass trim and mounts added to the English theme. There was a handkerchief-top game table that opened to reveal a leather-bound playing surface, while the traditional cane-sided sofa with sleek black leather cushions commanded the attention of the room. On the sofa, silk scarves featuring belted equestrian motifs were made into luxurious oversized throw pillows backed in navy suede.
P
Despite the classic feel of the space, there were contemporary touches. These touches could be traced to the tartan chairs with nail head trim and aged walnut trim, a red ostrich-leather ottoman with the same type of trim and recessed casters, and the Secretariat chest of drawers with its clean lines, honey-hued finish, and brass corner brackets. While the walls were dark, there was plenty of lighting from the floor-length windows and the numerous brass floor lamps.
P
Professor Charles was seated in his sleek, steel-framed wheelchair by the French doors that led to the balcony overlooking the grounds of the mansion. His face was set in a serious expression as he folded his hands and set them underneath his chin. His dark eyes traveled to the door at the other end of the room.
P
Hank McCoy peered inside. "You wanted to see me?"
P
A shadow of a smile crossed the Professor's face. Then it quickly faded. "Yes, Hank. Please come in."
P
Hank closed the door behind his hulking form. As he entered the room, he noticed that they were not alone. Leaning against the fireplace was Logan, clad in his blue jeans, boots, and standard black T-shirt. Unsmiling as usual, he nodded at Hank in greeting. Seated across from the Professor was Ororo Munroe, another instructor and Evan's aunt. Her long, white hair swung loose, which framed her exotic features as she smiled up at Hank. She motioned for him to sit in the armchair next to her.
P
"What's this all about?" Hank inquired, raking a large hand through his thick blue hair. He settled in his chair, anticipating some news about changes to the curriculum at the Institute or something mundane like that.
P
The Professor took a deep breath before speaking. "A mutant teenager was murdered tonight," he began grimly, "I was alerted to her when she used her powers before she was killed." He could still see her blasting rays of lights from her hands as she struggled to live.
P
"Oh, no," Ororo whispered, placing a hand over her mouth.
P
Xavier continued. "However, by the time I attempted a link with the child, she was already dead." He shook his head, clearly disappointed with himself.
P
"What about the killer?" Logan asked, his voice gruff but filled with as much concern about the situation. In the back of his mind, he was contemplating tracking the slime ball himself. "You get a read on whoever did it?"
P
The Professor shook his baldhead ruefully and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. "No, Logan, I could not. The person had an incredible mental block on my telepathy. There was no way I could create a link or find out their identity."
P
He paused, allowing the instructors to process what he had just said. Then he went on. "It is unclear at this point whether or not this is an isolated incident or whether this will be a pattern of things to come. While this might be somewhat rash, I am instilling a curfew for the Institute until the authorities apprehend the perpetrator or perpetrators. All students are to be back at the mansion by seven-thirty. No exceptions. I am looking to all of you to enforce this."
P
"Of course, we will. There is nothing rash about trying to ensure the safety of the students, Charles," Ororo informed him, straightening in her chair. Hank nodded in agreement as well.
P
Logan snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "The police couldn't catch a fly on the wall. What makes you think they're going to be able to do anything? Besides, protectin' mutants ain't on the top of the list, I'm sure."
P
"Even so, there are preventive measures we can take to protect the children here and that's what we're doing." Professor Xavier sighed, realizing his old friend had a point. "I suppose I could go to the police department and offer my help. I heard that they've let go many officers because of the budget cuts."
P
"That might be something." Hank tried to give him an encouraging smile. Then he asked, "So, how should we approach this with the children? Knowing some of them, they might not be happy with a simple, 'Because I said so.'"
P
The Professor nodded in agreement. "Yes, I am aware of that. Many of them are old and mature enough to be told the truth. I would advise you to do so, but be careful not to scare them." He looked at Logan pointedly.
P
Logan responded with a low growl. Unfortunately, he had no ground to argue against what Charles was implying. Apparently, stories about his wilderness trips with the students got back to Xavier. He resigned to shrug his shoulders instead.
P
"Then we should do so tonight," Ororo declared, blue-green eyes determined. "Most of them should be home by now. We can gather them in the recreation room and talk to them together. That way, we can make sure no one scares the students." She nodded at Logan.
P
This elicited yet another low growl.
P
Professor Xavier nodded approvingly. "Good idea, Storm. I will send out a telepathic message for all of them to meet us there." His fingertips went to his temples, massaging them gently. Attention, students, this is Professor Xavier. Please come to the recreational room for a mandatory meeting in five minutes. Thank you. He then turned to his teaching staff, feeling an overwhelming sense of dread of what laid ahead.