Sins of a Small Town
Chapter One: Sloth
* * *
"Apparently, she died because she hadn't done anything in a week. It was as if she lost all care of anything else. She was in front of the TV for a week, never leaving to go to the bathroom or to get anything to eat," Chloe was saying as Clark walked into the Torch office. Chloe was staring at the computer screen with Pete and Lana reading over her shoulder.
"So she basically died of laziness," Pete commented.
"What are you looking at?" Clark asked, pulling up a chair. Pete and Lana looked to see the new arrival, but Chloe didn't break her gaze from the monitor. He looked at the screen. "1997?" he asked, seeing that it was an Internet article derived from an issue of the Daily Planet, dated six years before.
"Do you know Leland Trotter?" Chloe asked, scrolling down the page.
"He's in my math class," Clark said. "I don't really pay much attention to him though. He's quiet and doesn't participate in class unless he's called on. What does he have to do with it?"
"This article is about his mother. She died when he was eleven. It says in this article that he was in the house with her the whole week, and he obviously had to know that she didn't move from the couch. So the question is..." Chloe began.
"Why he didn't tell anyone," Lana finished.
"Exactly. The father was in Metropolis on business during that week, and Leland called him at least four times during that time. Here," Chloe said, pointing to a bit of the article. "'Leland's father, Dr. Reginald Trotter, a well-known physician from Smallville, told police that his son had never mentioned anything wrong with his mother in any of their conversations that week. In fact, when Dr. Trotter questioned his son about how his wife was, Leland told his father that she was doing great.' You can't tell me that he didn't realize that something was wrong." She looked at the other three.
"Do you think that's why he's so quiet, because he's been... corrupted?" Clark asked.
"No, I think that he has something to do with his mother's death," Chloe said matter-of-factly.
"Something gives me the feeling that we're going to have to find out, too," Pete thought out loud, to no one in particular.
"Of course," Chloe said simply, and stood up, pushing her chair back in the process. "First stop, the residence of Dr. Reginald Trotter."
"Wait, wait, wait," Clark said, holding up his hands, as if he had to strengthen his thrice-mentioned postponement. "How, exactly, did you come across the idea of studying up on this issue?"
"Everyone has their sources, Clark. And I'm not about to reveal mine, as you very well should know by now. His mother's cause of death was classified as starvation, among a few other things, and I don't buy it. There's something more to this case, and I plan to find out what that something is. If you'd like to help me, I'm all for it, but if you wouldn't, that's fine too. So, if you want to ask questions that will help me solve this, and possibly even help answer some questions, then you're free to come along."
Clark stood there for a second, glancing at Pete and Lana. Pete was rubbing his hand over his mouth, obviously trying not to laugh, for fear of getting a deathglare from Chloe, and possibly a backhand. Lana was staring at the floor, seemingly inspecting it while scratching her temple. "Uh... yeah." That's all he could say; when Chloe went into that mode, he knew not to say too much as to send her into another, worse, rant.
"Good, let's go," she said, gliding out of the room, Clark, Pete, and Lana cautiously trailing. Chloe meant business, and this case was going to get solved, by golly. Chloe, Clark knew, would make sure of that.
Twenty minutes later, the four were standing on a doorstep of a dark, moss-covered brick house, and Chloe was knocking on the door. Soon, a tall, tired-looking man answered. "May I help you?" he asked shallowly.
"Yes, sir. You see, my three friends and I are on an internship for the Daily Planet, and-" the blonde began, but was cut off by the man.
"Doesn't the Planet usually hold its internships during the summer?" he questioned curiously.
"Not this one," Chloe responded in a slow, civil tone. "As I was saying, we're on an internship for the Planet, and we've been asked to check up on the subjects of articles from five and six years ago. As one of our articles pertained to your son, we've been asked to come here to see if any more of a story could be obtained, if you have any more information that you would be willing to share with us."
"I told the Planet before, and I'll tell you now, I didn't, and still don't, have any information on what happened six years ago. Now please, leave me alone. Tell the Planet not to bother me again," the man said, and shut the door.
"Jeez, Chloe, could you be any less subtle?" Pete asked.
"I didn't have it planned out what to say yet, and it was all off the top of my head," she told them. "Anyway, he probably doesn't know anything. My guess is that if anyone knows anything about what happened to Mrs. Trotter, it was Leland."
And, speak of the devil, the seventeen-year-old by the name of Leland S. Trotter was walking, hands-in-pockets, facedown, down the sidewalk from Smallville High School towards his four schoolmates standing at his door.
"Come on," Chloe hissed, dashing down the two concrete stairs and around the corner of the house.
"What are you doing?" Lana whispered, though she and the two boys followed her. "You're not planning on sneaking inside, are you?"
"No, of course not. Not with anyone inside, at least," she said in such a tone that the other three didn't know if she was joking or not. "If we ever want to get anything out of Leland, we can't let him see us all gathered around his front door."
Clark snuck a peek around the corner of the house, and watched as Leland trudged up the steps and into the house. "He's gone," he whispered, and motioned for the others to follow him. They hurried off, scot-free. Or at least they thought. If Clark Kent, Chloe Sullivan, Pete Ross, or Lana Lang would have turned around at that very moment, they would have seen the eyes of the youngest house occupant peering at them through the slats of a Venetian blind.
Chapter One: Sloth
* * *
"Apparently, she died because she hadn't done anything in a week. It was as if she lost all care of anything else. She was in front of the TV for a week, never leaving to go to the bathroom or to get anything to eat," Chloe was saying as Clark walked into the Torch office. Chloe was staring at the computer screen with Pete and Lana reading over her shoulder.
"So she basically died of laziness," Pete commented.
"What are you looking at?" Clark asked, pulling up a chair. Pete and Lana looked to see the new arrival, but Chloe didn't break her gaze from the monitor. He looked at the screen. "1997?" he asked, seeing that it was an Internet article derived from an issue of the Daily Planet, dated six years before.
"Do you know Leland Trotter?" Chloe asked, scrolling down the page.
"He's in my math class," Clark said. "I don't really pay much attention to him though. He's quiet and doesn't participate in class unless he's called on. What does he have to do with it?"
"This article is about his mother. She died when he was eleven. It says in this article that he was in the house with her the whole week, and he obviously had to know that she didn't move from the couch. So the question is..." Chloe began.
"Why he didn't tell anyone," Lana finished.
"Exactly. The father was in Metropolis on business during that week, and Leland called him at least four times during that time. Here," Chloe said, pointing to a bit of the article. "'Leland's father, Dr. Reginald Trotter, a well-known physician from Smallville, told police that his son had never mentioned anything wrong with his mother in any of their conversations that week. In fact, when Dr. Trotter questioned his son about how his wife was, Leland told his father that she was doing great.' You can't tell me that he didn't realize that something was wrong." She looked at the other three.
"Do you think that's why he's so quiet, because he's been... corrupted?" Clark asked.
"No, I think that he has something to do with his mother's death," Chloe said matter-of-factly.
"Something gives me the feeling that we're going to have to find out, too," Pete thought out loud, to no one in particular.
"Of course," Chloe said simply, and stood up, pushing her chair back in the process. "First stop, the residence of Dr. Reginald Trotter."
"Wait, wait, wait," Clark said, holding up his hands, as if he had to strengthen his thrice-mentioned postponement. "How, exactly, did you come across the idea of studying up on this issue?"
"Everyone has their sources, Clark. And I'm not about to reveal mine, as you very well should know by now. His mother's cause of death was classified as starvation, among a few other things, and I don't buy it. There's something more to this case, and I plan to find out what that something is. If you'd like to help me, I'm all for it, but if you wouldn't, that's fine too. So, if you want to ask questions that will help me solve this, and possibly even help answer some questions, then you're free to come along."
Clark stood there for a second, glancing at Pete and Lana. Pete was rubbing his hand over his mouth, obviously trying not to laugh, for fear of getting a deathglare from Chloe, and possibly a backhand. Lana was staring at the floor, seemingly inspecting it while scratching her temple. "Uh... yeah." That's all he could say; when Chloe went into that mode, he knew not to say too much as to send her into another, worse, rant.
"Good, let's go," she said, gliding out of the room, Clark, Pete, and Lana cautiously trailing. Chloe meant business, and this case was going to get solved, by golly. Chloe, Clark knew, would make sure of that.
Twenty minutes later, the four were standing on a doorstep of a dark, moss-covered brick house, and Chloe was knocking on the door. Soon, a tall, tired-looking man answered. "May I help you?" he asked shallowly.
"Yes, sir. You see, my three friends and I are on an internship for the Daily Planet, and-" the blonde began, but was cut off by the man.
"Doesn't the Planet usually hold its internships during the summer?" he questioned curiously.
"Not this one," Chloe responded in a slow, civil tone. "As I was saying, we're on an internship for the Planet, and we've been asked to check up on the subjects of articles from five and six years ago. As one of our articles pertained to your son, we've been asked to come here to see if any more of a story could be obtained, if you have any more information that you would be willing to share with us."
"I told the Planet before, and I'll tell you now, I didn't, and still don't, have any information on what happened six years ago. Now please, leave me alone. Tell the Planet not to bother me again," the man said, and shut the door.
"Jeez, Chloe, could you be any less subtle?" Pete asked.
"I didn't have it planned out what to say yet, and it was all off the top of my head," she told them. "Anyway, he probably doesn't know anything. My guess is that if anyone knows anything about what happened to Mrs. Trotter, it was Leland."
And, speak of the devil, the seventeen-year-old by the name of Leland S. Trotter was walking, hands-in-pockets, facedown, down the sidewalk from Smallville High School towards his four schoolmates standing at his door.
"Come on," Chloe hissed, dashing down the two concrete stairs and around the corner of the house.
"What are you doing?" Lana whispered, though she and the two boys followed her. "You're not planning on sneaking inside, are you?"
"No, of course not. Not with anyone inside, at least," she said in such a tone that the other three didn't know if she was joking or not. "If we ever want to get anything out of Leland, we can't let him see us all gathered around his front door."
Clark snuck a peek around the corner of the house, and watched as Leland trudged up the steps and into the house. "He's gone," he whispered, and motioned for the others to follow him. They hurried off, scot-free. Or at least they thought. If Clark Kent, Chloe Sullivan, Pete Ross, or Lana Lang would have turned around at that very moment, they would have seen the eyes of the youngest house occupant peering at them through the slats of a Venetian blind.