A/N: There are just a few profanities in this chapter, but they're all in character--I hope you trust me enough by now to realize that. Bye!!
East Side Slums, November 9, 2002. Hector Caro's rap sheet gave Leroy Russell a basis for his attack. It included an extensive list of known associates, past assaults, misdemeanors and arrests, as well as a fairly current mug shot. With this information at his disposal, Uncle quickly learned that the Gotham drug lord was a man from the old-school; it was his style to hit first, hit hard and sort everything out only after he'd taken power.
What Caro didn't realize was that his enemy, although younger in years, was far superior in intellect; however, the other drug lord presumed that—because of Uncle's approximate age—he was not well-versed in the ways of war, and he chose to exploit that supposed weakness for all it was worth.
The first year of the war was bloodier than either side had ever imagined. About a month after he'd entered Metropolis, Hector Caro was the first to strike, targeting five of Uncle's small corner gangs simultaneously, killing all save for three men. It was a blow to Leroy for sure, but not a crippling blow, and with the intelligence he'd been able to gather on his enemy he was able to strike back with just as much force, eliminating eleven of Caro's men in the blink of an eye on a Saturday afternoon two weeks later. After that time there hadn't been a week that went by in the Slums without the drawing of weapons and the shedding of blood, no matter whether it was that of a drug dealer or an innocent civilian, and the on-going warfare served to terrorize and further impoverish the neighborhood.
Both masterminds behind the bloody territory battle remained elusive; Hector Caro because he was constantly on the move and Uncle because only a select number of people knew what he looked like and even fewer knew his true identity.
Hector Caro was rapidly losing his patience with each passing month. "How am I supposed to fight a fucking GHOST?!"
Border of the East Side Slums, October 8, 2009, 11:10 pm. Jim came into consciousness lying on his back on a hard table, his head pounding. Groggily, he tried to raise his right hand to rub his throbbing forehead, only to find it extended out beside him and shackled to the table by the wrist; craning his head to the left he found his other arm similarly pinned down. Next, the young man tucked his chin to his chest and discovered that his ankles were also bound, and that his dress shirt and suit jacket were hung neatly on the back of a chair in the corner of the room, leaving his chest exposed under the bright white light which acted like a bucket of cold water on his woozy brain.
"HELP!! SOMEBODY, PLEASE, HELP ME!!" he shouted, struggling against his bonds and writhing back and forth on the table. His heart beat wildly in his chest as he screamed himself hoarse, realizing the full extent of the danger he was in.
"You really should have paid more attention to me back at O'Malley's, James," a voice called out sweetly from behind his head. A muffled thump alerted Jim to the closing of a door, probably covered in the same thick insulation that swathed the rest of the room. From his peripheral vision, he could see that Theresa was pushing a metallic cart in front of her; he also noted that she wore the same outfit she had on earlier at the bar, minus her black leather jacket, indicating that he hadn't been unconscious for very long. "But instead you were too busy trying to impress me. I work in an electronics store during the day, selling and installing sound systems—which means that I know how to sound-proof a room. Scream all you like, no one will ever hear you down here, not even Metropolis' very own cape-clad hero—at least, he hasn't heard anyone yet." She ran a cold finger along his pale, exposed collarbone as she spoke the last words, giving him goosebumps as he strained to get out from under her grip.
"What did you put in my drink?" he asked in a gravelly voice.
She answered with a flippant wave of her hand. "Just a little GHB—men prefer to use it to lure poor, defenseless women into their beds. Maybe you know it as the date rape drug? But don't worry, I didn't rape you—it's not my style. I have something much more fun in mind."
Jim stared at the stainless-steel tray beside him, the whites of his eyes visible as he strained to see what lay hidden beneath the cloth; cold fear suddenly stole over him, leaving him covered with a light sheen of sweat . Theresa maneuvered behind him to readjust the table, and he soon found himself more upright, allowing him a better view of the room. The walls and ceiling were covered in large, gray, padded sound-proof blocks while a bright white, surgical light shone down on them from overhead. Oh my God I'm going to die down here… He struggled against his bonds once again, "HELP!! HELP ME, SOMEBODY, PLEASE!!"
"Good—I like it when you playboys have a little fight in you," the madwoman sneered, returning to the tray and carefully pulling back the cloth. She bared before him an assortment of knives, screws and sticks, the likes of which made Jim's eyes go wide as he shuddered in terror and unknowingly held his breath. He'd never seen anything like the assortment of tools placed in front of him, nor did he want to stick around to see how they were to be used. Theresa calmly pulled a hair elastic adorned with blue jewels out of her pocket and tied her long, black hair back, then slowly slid on a pair of latex surgical gloves, watching him jump as she snapped the cuffs on her wrists.
Jim turned his head to face her, his brown eyes searching her features and imploring her to forgive him and let him go. "Theresa, please, this isn't what you think," he begged.
"It's EXACTLY what I think!" she snapped, screaming right in his face while flecks of spittle landed on his smooth cheeks. "You and your type are all alike! You flaunt your success in other people's faces, flirt with pretty girls and pretend to be interested in them just so you can get them into bed with you, then you dump them when you've used them all up! I've seen it time after time and I'm sick of it, I'M SO FUCKING SICK OF IT!!" The rage flickered in her eyes and she growled at him as she spoke, turning and grabbing a knife off the tray. It fit perfectly in her grip and had a 4" curved blade that eerily mimicked a raptor's claw. She drew it up to his chest, leaning over him slightly to reach his heart, preparing to make her first cut.
"M-my name is really James Olsen, not James Olmstead!! M-my friends call me Jim or Jimmy! I work as a photographer and research assistant at the Daily Planet, and I have a girlfriend who I plan on marrying waiting at home for me!!" He blurted out in a panic, trying anything to stop her from carving him up like a slab of meat.
Theresa halted where she stood poised over him, the tip of her blade resting perilously close to his skin as she debated the merit of his words. Her eyes narrowed into dark, menacing slits. "You're lying…"
"It's true, it's all true, I swear—j-just check my inside jacket pocket, you'll see my press badge and driver's license and everything, they're right there!" Jim craned his neck to where the jacket hung, urging her to verify his story.
She walked over to the jacket and pulled out the contents of his pockets. Besides a money clip, there was a sheet of paper with notes on his cover story, his driver's license and his press badge, all as he'd said. Theresa took the objects and flung them at him; he flinched at the sheer force as the items bounced off his stomach and chest and hit the floor. "Why were you at O'Malley's tonight?!" she asked, slowly working herself into a frenzy. "Why did you lie to me?! WHY?! AND DON'T FEED ME ANYMORE BULL SHIT OR I'LL…"
Jim cowered in the face of her wrath and tried to raise his hands up in surrender, momentarily forgetting that they were clamped down. "I won't, I swear, I won't lie again! We were just trying to flush you out and I was the one to go undercover to do it!"
Theresa raised an eyebrow as her curiosity got the better of her. "We?"
"My friends at the Planet—Clark Kent and Lois Lane-Kent—we were the ones trying to find you! The cops weren't even involved!"
"You mean those two lousy reporters who've been writing those, those…vicious articles about me?! They've made me out to be some sort of cretin when all I've been doing is a service to humanity by getting rid of the garbage!!" she cried, spewing her delusional take on the situation at him and brandishing the knife dangerously.
"You're right, you're absolutely right! They had the story all wrong, they just don't get you! But after meeting you I know I do and I can let them know how off-base they were about everything…"
Her face softened as he spoke and she flashed him a sinister smile; when she spoke her tone was dripping in sarcasm. "You think you got me all figured out there, huh pretty boy? And what? Next you're going to say that if I just let you go, you'll tell your little reporter friends how wrong they were about me, and how you'll make them print a retraction in your precious paper on my behalf, not to mention that you'll forget all about calling the cops? I'm a brunette, Jim, not a blond—I'm not stupid!"
"No, you're right, you're not!" he said, ready and willing to agree with whatever she said, so long as it kept her talking and bought him more time to live.
Theresa took a deep breath and shifted the knife a little in her hand. "I'm glad you told me the truth, though; it's not nice telling lies and as you can see I hate being lied to, but I'm glad you didn't keep up the façade in the end. My only regret is that I'm still going to have to kill you and your girlfriend just might be the one to find your body tomorrow morning, which I'm sure will break her poor little heart…"
She cackled wickedly while he grimaced; the thought of Chloe walking past the alleyway next to their building and catching sight of his lifeless form propped up against the wall, his brown eyes staring at her without seeing, with an ugly X carved over his heart made him want to wail in despair. While her guest was distracted, Theresa pulled a cell phone from her back pocket, glanced quickly at the screen and put it back, re-gripping the knife in her right hand. "Do you know what time it is, Jim?"
He swallowed down the lump in his throat as she closed the gap between them. "N-n-no, no I don't. What time is it?"
"It's time to let me have my fun…"
10:48 pm. Where's the van? Where's the van? Where's the van? Where's the van? Where's the van? Clark kept repeating this mantra in his head as he hovered over the Metropolis streets frantically searching for his friend and, while he knew there was the slightest of slight possibilities that Jim had left the bar of his own accord with a random girl, he knew in his gut that that just wasn't true. He loves Chloe; he wants to marry her for crying out loud, he wouldn't do that to her! Another quick scan of the street revealed the same menagerie of automobiles, but no large vans. I'm not finding anything, and this isn't helping Jim—I need to face Chloe and find something to help me locate him, fast!
She stood just inside the window in her pajamas, pacing back and forth nervously, arms crossed protectively in front of her chest. Clark's sudden appearance in her living room—and in his red, yellow and blue suit no less—caused her to jump in surprise and spin around. "Where is he—where's Jim?! Just tell me where he is!! I know something's wrong but just tell me he's alright!"
He ignored her pleas. "I need to know what cologne he was wearing tonight. Do you know what it was?"
Chloe narrowed her eyes at him and didn't budge, her tone deathly serious. "WHERE IS HE, CLARK?!"
Her friend hung his dark head briefly and when next he looked up his blue eyes were swimming with remorse. "We lost him, Clo. I had to run to the West Coast to help an oil tanker and Lois slipped away briefly to use the bathroom—somehow the killer nabbed him in those few overlapping minutes and now he's gone."
She let out a half-strangled sob and her whole body trembled in fear and shock as she stood resolutely on the spot, resisting the urge to panic. Although the words hadn't been said, she knew that with the Ladykiller serial killer, time was of the essence if they wanted to find Jim alive. "The…the cologne…it's in the medicine cabinet…top shelf, two bottles on the left." Clark retrieved the bottles and blew back into the room in an instant, holding them out before her.
"Ok, now which one did he wear tonight?"
Her blond tresses quivered as she shook her head. "He wore them both," she said between hiccups. "It's a weird l-little thing he does. He wears them both."
Clark nodded solemnly and opened both bottles, taking a whiff as the scents blended together, then prepared to take out through the very same window. "Find him, Clark, and don't you DARE come back here until you do!" All he could do was nod again and then he was gone; she stood alone in the middle of the room, forcing herself to breathe. Racing to the bedroom a split second later, she grabbed the nearest clothes she could find and threw them on, grabbing her cell phone and dialing Lois' number as she dashed out onto the street to search for Jim.
He returned to O'Malley's and stood just outside the front door, upwind of the smokers. Clark knew that finding Jim alive depended exclusively on him and his abilities, but while his sense of smell was generally superior to humans, it wasn't one of his so-called "super" abilities. He'd never been forced to rely solely upon his olfactory senses before and he feared that it might not be enough to help find Jim in time. Pulling the bottles of cologne from his belt, he took another whiff of the pungent aroma and closed his eyes, praying that the last and only recourse available to him would be the one that worked.
His head swiveled sharply to his left. The aroma was strong, and he sped down the sidewalk and around the corner following it. A small concentration clung to the cement—the same spot where Jim had fallen not ten minutes earlier—and then it moved to the edge of the street before almost disappearing. The van, this is where she parked the van and took Jim away. Ok, ok, I'll find him, I know I can find him, Clark reassured himself, stepping out into the street. While traffic was moderate at that hour of the night, the Man of Steel still had to watch his step or risk causing a wreck should a car collide head-on with his dense frame.
The scent of Jim's cologne had diminished some since he was being transported in the van, which meant that Clark had to stick close to the ground in order to follow the trail. He ran down the double yellow lines, inhaling deeply to ensure that he was on the right path. So focused was he on his task that he nearly missed hearing his cell phone ring.
He flipped the device open without even looking. "Please tell me you have something, Clark, please! I've been driving around for the last fifteen minutes and there hasn't been a single gray van in sight, not a single one!"
"I might be onto something," he replied hastily, trying to shield the presence of the cell phone from view of the confused motor vehicle passengers as he whizzed by. "I got his colognes from Chloe and I'm tracking him by scent; it's unusual, I know, but it's working. Currently I'm running down Third Avenue and I'm about to turn onto…" he paused, taking a deep whiff of the air around, "Wellsville, I'm turning onto Wellsville right now."
"It sounds like you're headed to the East Side. I'm going to turn around and grab Chloe, call me when you catch up to them."
"Will do," he answered, ready to hang up the phone and focus solely on the task at hand.
"And Clark?"
"Yes?"
"Hurry."
As if I need to be reminded, he thought to himself, slipping the phone back into his belt alongside the bottles of cologne; picking up speed ever so slightly, he rushed down the street, breathing like a fish out of water in order to stay on the trail left by Jim's pungent scent.
11:15 pm. Clark hung up the phone once again and stared up at the house before him. He'd lost the trail twice but found it again in a manner of minutes, and he now stood before a dilapidated, two-story, wooden home nestled in amongst two brick business buildings a block away from the 'official' border of the East Side Slums. He'd called Lois to give her the address.
Superman sped up the front steps of the house and put his shoulder to the door, smashing his way in, only to discover that all was dark and quiet before him, as if the house had been abandoned. He paused in the entryway, straining his ears for any sound, but all he heard was the scurrying of scared mice in the attic and nothing more. A quick scan of the upper level revealed three bedrooms, all empty, and an equally quick check of the main floor showed that it too was vacant. Oh God, don't tell me I'm too late, he thought as he turned his gaze to the basement level.
Although Clark still couldn't hear anything, he saw movement below his feet. One of the occupants appeared to be bound to a slab, while the second was leaning over the shackled figure with a knife in its hands.
"JIMMY!" he shouted, speeding off down the stairs and into the basement.
Apparently, Theresa had found the spot where she wanted to make the first incision on Jim's chest; it was right next to a small, faded pock mark he'd had ever since he'd contracted Chicken Pox at the age of six. He'd scratched that little devil off night and day for three days straight and had a permanent reminder of it etched into his skin for all eternity…And now my last scar is about to join it, he realized, sucking in his breath sharply as she drew the knife closer to his skin. Jim winced and kept his eyes shut as the cold steel connected with his torso, turning his head away and straining to move his body out from under her grip as she proceeded with the incision.
"ARGGGGHHHHHH!!"
The pain was unbearable and what made it worse was that he knew this was only the beginning, that he'd be begging for death by the end. Using every inch of his being, he struggled against the chains lashing him to the table; Theresa's blade delved deeper and deeper into his chest, slicing through the skin and muscle tissue like butter. A loud boom sounded from over his right shoulder, followed by the sudden cessation of Theresa's cutting. The knife went clattering to the concrete floor and Jim opened his watery, blood-shot eyes carefully to determine whether or not this was part of her torturous dance or if he'd truly been rescued.
The young photographer was panting heavily and blood poured forth from the slanted, two-inch long mark the killer had made, trickling freely down his chest like its own little river when Superman finally discovered him. Jim's captor struggled against the Man of Steel's iron-clad grip with her hands twisted behind her back, while the knife lay harmlessly upon the floor, it's blade warped from having come in contact with his impenetrable palm.
"S-super…Su…Superman…you…found me…" Jim uttered in-between gasps.
Clark attempted to flash his friend a small, tight, reassuring grin, but the sight of the incision and of Jim in so much pain—pain that he'd helped cause—disconcerted him greatly and he allowed his stoic veneer to take over. "And not a minute too soon, I might add. Excuse me one moment, if you will." The Man of Steel exited the room, propelling the serial killer forward and keeping her away from her prey until he found a suitable means of binding her to the chair in the basement. Once he was assured that she was capable of doing nothing more than hurling harsh curses at the pair of them, Clark returned to his friend and gently released Jim from his bonds.
He slid gingerly off the table once the restraints were undone and tried to wipe the blood off his chest with his bare hands, succeeding only in spreading it further around like so much paint on his torso. "T-thank you for finding me," Jim said as he attempted to walk out of the room with Superman at his side. His knees were trembling so hard he could barely take a full step under his own power, and the Man of Steel caught his arm as he slipped, supporting the weight of the petrified photographer while they moved toward the stairwell. "I d-didn't think you'd h-hear me with all the sound-proofing in t-there."
"I didn't. You have your friends and your girlfriend to thank for my finding you so promptly—that and your own proclivity for wearing two colognes. As soon as Lois alerted me to the fact that you were missing, I went to your apartment to find what you were wearing and was able to follow your scent from O'Malley's. I wasn't even certain that I was in the right house until a moment ago when I x-rayed the floorboards and saw her…"
"Theresa. Her name is Theresa Russo," Jim replied, his breath coming more evenly now that he knew he was safe.
"I'll be sure to inform the authorities of that when they arrive," Superman said as they reached the top of the stairwell.
They were but a few steps from the front door when Jim shrugged off the help. "I can manage it from here." The young man shuffled toward the door with slow and deliberate steps, his eyes focused on the knob as blue and red lights began filling the street outside. Flinging it open, he immediately put a hand up to shield his eyes from the bright searchlight that shone in his face; the noise of the cars and the helicopter hovering overhead served to further discombobulate the traumatized young man.
"FREEZE!"
"DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"
"PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!"
Superman sped in front of him, shielding him from any potential gunfire as he knew the police were more than likely a little trigger-happy at potentially nabbing the notorious Metropolis serial killer. "HE'S THE VICTIM!" he shouted, his deep voice booming over the ruckus down below.
Jim peered out from around the side of Superman's broad blue torso and saw at least eight squad cars, one fire engine and an ambulance crowding the street; as was to be expected, Lois' Saab was in the thick of things too.
"JIMMY!!" a different female voice cried out, cutting above the din and reaching his ears. He watched as Chloe broke away from the police guarding the area without a care for her own safety and bounded up the steps. Stepping out fully from behind the Man of Steel, he stood waiting to catch her with open arms.
She buried her head in his shoulder, oblivious to the blood he was covered in and glad to see him safe. "I was so afraid I'd lost you," she murmured amidst her frantic sobs.
His eyes were brimming with tears as he held her tight. "I'm right here," he whispered back soothingly, stroking her hair and accidentally streaking it red with the blood on his hands. "Shh, shh, shh, it's alright, I'm right here, it's all over now. I'll always come back to you, Chloe. Always." She pulled back and leaned up for a kiss just as the cops swarmed the porch, entering the house and following Superman to where the killer had been subdued; that's when she became aware of his wound.
"Oh my God, Jim, you're bleeding!" she gasped as she saw the blood all over his chest that had now transferred itself to her sweatshirt. "MEDIC! WE NEED A MEDIC OVER HERE!!" Chloe turned on her heel, screaming at the top of her lungs while flagging down an EMT.
He tried to brush her off. "Really, I'm fine, let's just go home and clean this out there…" but one of the paramedics was already before them, shining a flashlight at the almost two inch long slanting gash that had been carved into his chest.
"Sir, I'm afraid this wound is going to require stitches," the EMT said. "If you'll follow me over to the back of the bus…"
Jim cut him off. "No, I am NOT going to the hospital, I absolutely refuse, I HATE hospitals…"
"Listen to the man for crying out loud! You're hurt and you need medical attention, and if he says you're going to the hospital then you're going to the hospital, end of story!" Chloe argued with him, never once letting go of his hand; her hold on him was so fierce that her knuckles were beginning to turn white, yet she refused to let him go.
He knew her brave front was being put up primarily for his benefit, so to alleviate her fears he followed the medic to the back of the ambulance so the man could better clean and treat his wound. Lois came around just then and wrapped her arms around him, giving her courageous friend a quick kiss on the cheek.
She stepped back to take a good look at him. "You gave us quite a scare there, Jim, you know that?" Lois teased quietly, still greatly frightened by his brush with death.
He shrugged his shoulders and let out a half-hearted laugh. "Ahh, well, it wouldn't be a Lane-Kent investigation without a little drama and at least one of us putting our lives in mortal peril, now would it?"
She attempted to laugh with him but couldn't under Chloe's ominous gaze. Lois laid a hand on his shoulder while the EMT continued his work; Jim grimaced as a local anesthetic was administered. "No I suppose not. Listen, Clark and I are so sorry we let this happen. He said he was taking care of something in the back of the bar and I slipped out to use the restroom around the same time and we just didn't know; somehow that's when the killer got a hold of you and got you out of O'Malley's without our knowledge. We are so, so sorry, Jim; you have no idea how badly we both feel."
Jim winced as the stitching commenced. "What's important is that you guys found me in time, that's all." He turned his attention away from the two women beside him and scanned the throbbing crowd gathering on the sidewalks. "Speaking of which, where is Clark?"
"He hopped in a cab and went looking for you in West Metropolis, trying to find the van while I headed East after picking up Chloe. We just followed the sirens here under the assumption that Superman had found you and that they were coming in to back him up. Clark should be along shortly—after all, I did call him as soon as we got here…"
"OLSEN!" Perry yelled out as soon as he stepped out of the cab, his voice reaching the trio long before they saw him. The older man strode right up to the police barrier and began arguing with the young officer barring his entrance. Lieutenant Henrickson arrived on the scene at the same moment, flagging the officer off and lifting up the yellow tape so that the Editor-in-Chief could pass on through. "Are you alright, Son?! I was worried sick when Lois called and told me the news!"
He smiled weakly at his boss as the medic tied off the last of his stitches. "I'm ok, Chief—a little worse for wear, but otherwise ok."
"Thank God!" the man cried out, plopping himself down in the open space next to his photographer and dragging his handkerchief across his face, mopping his sweaty countenance. "I don't know what I would've done if I'd lost one of my best photographers…"
"One of your best?" Jim asked slyly, smiling a little wider as the EMT taped a gauze bandage to his chest and stepped away to give the group a bit more privacy.
"Well, you know…your work isn't that bad, Olsen, all things considered. That is, what I mean to say…"
Jim clasped a hand on the old man's shoulder. "I know, and don't worry, Chief—you're not getting rid of me that easily."
"Good, good, glad we got that all straightened away…now where the devil is Kent? Lois, I want you two to book it back to the Planet to write up this story as soon as you squeeze whatever information you can out of the police here. I've already stopped the presses to re-print the cover; we're leading with 'Ladykiller Killer Nabbed with Help from Planet" with a mention of a special second edition that'll run with the full article. I want you two to get right to work on it so we can stay ahead of the Messenger—bring the kiddies in with you if you have to or I'll pay for the babysitter to spend the night with them at your place—just do whatever you have to do to make sure that article is on my desk as soon as possible."
Lois nodded in assent as Perry turned his attention back to his photographer and the photographer's girlfriend. "And you, I don't want to see you around the Planet for at least the weekend, if not longer, and most certainly not tomorrow. If I even hear that you set one foot in that building, then so help me God, I'll pair you up with Ralph Cooper for the next month and a half, and I know how much you'd love that." Jim grimaced at the mention of his least favorite reporter on the floor while his boss continued. "Take all the time you need and don't come back to work until you're ready; if Lois or Clark need any quotes from you they're to call you or come see you, not the other way around, you understand? And Miss, I expect you to make sure that he listens to me on this one."
"Yes Sir," she readily replied, giving him a smart salute.
"Remind me again why you're working for the 'Metropolan' and aren't on my staff? Lois, you could learn a thing or two from her…"
Before Lois could let loose a tirade upon poor Perry, Chloe interjected. "You couldn't afford to keep me on your staff, Sir, that's why I don't work for you."
Perry looked completely affronted while the three younger people just howled with laughter. "Oh I couldn't, could I? Forget that, Kent, I don't want you to pick up anything from her…" he muttered, causing them to laugh even harder.
A yellow cab pulled up to the scene just then and a tall, clumsy man dashed from the backseat, pushing his glasses up his nose as he made his way to the barrier and flashed his press pass. "Jimmy, are you ok there, Buddy? I got here as soon as I could, I was all the way on the other side of town you see and…"
"Yeah CK, I'm fine, I'm fine," the younger man replied in-between bursts of laughter. Lois quietly studied her husband's solemn face as he stood in the circle of friends at the back of the ambulance, but he was far from ready to join them in their mirth. So serious was his expression in fact that, if it weren't for his glasses and his stoop-shouldered stance, she feared that the jig would be up with Jimmy and Perry right then and there.
A split second before they heard the noise, he had turned his head toward the house. Everyone watched as several officers re-emerged with the struggling woman in tow. Theresa Russo, also known as The Ladykiller Killer, was being restrained by four officers while her hands remained firmly cuffed behind her back. She was aware of her Miranda Rights and yet she chose to waive them, cursing and shouting at the top of her lungs about the injustices she'd suffered at the hands of men, even the ones who were now hauling her off into police custody for the murders of thirteen people. The officers had gotten her to the street and to a waiting squad car when she caught sight of Jim sitting in the midst of his friends, Chloe wrapping a blanket around his bare shoulders.
"I should've gutted you," she sneered, her black beady eyes boring into him. "I should've gutted you and tossed you out like the common trash you are...and saved her the trouble," Theresa finished, jerking her head in the blond woman's direction.
The five of them stood there, stunned by her venomous words; they were even more taken aback when Chloe relinquished her hold on Jim for the first time since he stepped out of the house. With long, purposeful strides, she closed the distance between herself and Jim's would-be killer, delivering a heavy-handed slap across her pale white cheek. "Don't you ever, EVER, say that about my Jim ever again!! Why you little bit—" but the police thrust Theresa into the backseat before Chloe could finish her diatribe. They drove off to the nearest station with the murderous woman in tow, fully-prepared to lock her up and throw away the key.
