Wicked – Chapter 2

By Christopher W. Blaine

DISCLAIMER: All of the characters and events portrayed in this work of fan fiction are ©2004 by DC Comics Inc. and are used without permission for fan-related entertainment purposes only. This original work of fiction is ©2004 by Christopher W. Blaine.

To the editor…

By publishing this letter, you will save a life. The amusing thing about it is that you don't know whose life you will be sparing from what I assure you is a most painful and degrading death. In my possession I have two children, fine lads, though I assure you that male or female, I have no preference. For me it has more to do with their innocence then their genitalia.

But I do so love their genitalia…

I have kidnapped and (censored) tortured the son of Miguel Rodriguez, a dock worker from the worst part of Gotham City. I have also managed to (censored) up the (censored) the scion of Rupert Thrice, president of Gotham Tech Solutions. As I have agreed, one of them is free, though arguably very sore. Which one is determined totally by random, but rest assured that by complying with my wishes, to my (censored) needs, you have saved a life.

(censored) bravo…

Now, as agreed, I will detail to you exactly what I did to the child that did not survive…

The blonde haired woman in the skintight black costume with fishnet stockings laid the paper down and reached for her cigarettes and coffee. She only smoked when she was agitated and now was as good a time as any. She lit up and inhaled deeply, letting the sweetness of the nicotine seep into her brain just before she chased it with the caffeine in the coffee.

She took a moment to look around the small kitchen of the Justice Society headquarters. It had not changed much in the decades since the team had been founded and she remembered sitting or standing here and there and the conversations that had occurred. For the most part the Society was dead, buried when Congress attempted to control it in the 1950's. But most of the members had survived the legislature, mostly due to exposure to, at various time, "chronal radiation" that made all of the members of the Society age very slowly, and so the Society endured. At least in theory it did.

There were no more super-villains it seemed, no more threats that were beyond the capability of modern police forces and the Justice Society appeared to be an outdated idea. Yet, members of the Society, albeit the minor ones (no Hawkman or Green Lantern), still hung out at the headquarters, though the phone never rang anymore. The president didn't care what the super-heroes thought.

She took another hit off of the smoke and glanced down at the paper, realizing that her thoughts were becoming hateful and full of spite. If the people didn't trust people wearing masks and having strange powers, could she really blame them? When she looked at the world, and then at her toddler daughter, didn't she breathe a little easier knowing people like Baron Blitzkrieg and Degaton weren't running around loose.

But then there was this fellow who called himself Wicked who was murdering children in Gotham City and then advertising the fact to the world. What was it with this new modern age, she thought. Manson. Bundy. And the unnamed dozen or so that had no name. It was like that as soon as the threats to world peace were over with, the psychos felt it was recess.

Wicked had shown up about a year before, but his exploits were kept hidden from the general public thanks in part to a reporter on the Gotham Gazette, but it was only a matter of time. You could not kidnap, rape and murder children without it getting out despite the best efforts of the press and police.

The Black Canary, as she was called when in her costume, had a small daughter and the thought of someone going around violating such innocents made her skin crawl. Any day she would prefer a would-be world conqueror to a child killer. There was something beyond evil about Wicked, something that cried out for the involvement of the Justice Society.

She put the cigarette in her mouth and let it hang and then laid the paper out on the table, smoothing it so it was easier to read. The story was written by a crime reporter named Tinsley…Ben Tinsley. The Canary tried to recall the fellow but realized it had been a very long time since she had graced the papers with her presence.

For decades she had fought crime in Gotham City, watching it transform from the ideal urban paradise her memories told her it was in her youth into the garbage pit of filth and crime it was now. Children were now being raped and slaughtered for nothing more than a few laughs. At least the criminals in her time had some honor.

She thought it ironic that after a war meant to restore civility, World War 2, that society had continued to slip down towards the cesspool of immorality.

She finished the smoke and downed the last of the coffee, taking a few minutes to wash her dishes and clean up a little. For the most part the headquarters was a gathering place for special events; there was no actual duty schedule, no desk watch to speak of. She would not be relieved, though she was pretty sure she heard Hourman stumble in the night before. If he had been able to get through the magical locks put on the front door by Dr. Fate, then that was proof enough he was a member of the Justice Society and so she had not even bothered to check.

Besides, Hourman had special problems that she did not want to deal with. His addiction to Miralco, the pill that gave him his super powers, made him moody. Most of the members of the Society looked the other way; after all, they all had their own little secrets. Johnny Thunder liked a nip a little too often and Green Lantern was obsessive.

"Don't throw rocks in glass houses," she mumbled as she grabbed the keys for her motorcycle.

Several hours later Black Canary parked her motorcycle in front of the main offices of the Gotham Gazette. Here, in the city of her youth, she was not treated as something unusual. Gotham City took her in like a long lost child, embracing her and welcoming her home.

Some people looked in her direction, but nobody treated her any differently than if she were in civilian clothes. She liked coming back, despite what was happening to the city. Sometimes she got the idea she was the only one who still cared, still gave a damn what happened in Gotham. Certainly Alan, Green Lantern, seemed to switch from darling son to brooding stranger. One minute he was excited about trying to make changes in the city and the next he was debating the merits of one person possessing as much power as he did.

It seemed to her that all of the members of the Justice Society that actually had super powers also had super problems. She could deal with the fact she liked a little flirtatious activity now and then. After all, nobody got hurt; quite the opposite in fact. She could not handle, however, how the more powerful members whined all of the time, though.

She stepped into the lobby of the newspaper and received a nod from the security guard. She supposed that they reckoned that nobody in their right mind would dress the way she did unless they were really a super-hero. With purpose she walked over to the information desk where a young girl with too much hairspray and too little make-up sat with a big smile. "Hi, I'm the Black Canary," she said.

The girl kept the smile on her face, which looked more painful than pleasant. "Oh, I know who you are! You were fighting the British when my mother was young."

"We were fighting the Germans, dear," the Canary replied, realizing that the girl gave new meaning to the term "empty-headed". "The British were our allies."

"They were?" the girl asked, completely confused. Before she could completely shut down, Black Canary asked where she could find her quarry.

"I'm looking for Ben Tinsley, the crime reporter," she said, hoping that the reply would be quick and painless. Fortunately for her it was and with the directions on the tip of her tongue, she moved away from the help desk. Heading towards the elevator, she briefly mused over how many times she had been in this building over the decades.

She had joined the Justice Society only a few years before it disbanded in the face of government pressure in 1951. When it had broken up, she had headed back to Gotham City where she operated from time to time. How many crime reporters had she hooked up with, trading stories and offering each other sources of information during her career? More than she could count at the moment she was sure.

Most of the other costumed heroes tried to establish good relationships with their local police; but the Canary had always shied away from getting too buddy-buddy with cops, despite the fact she had married a detective. Larry Lance, her husband, was a special case, she knew, and she loved him. Though, she admitted secretly, love was not always enough.

She stepped out of the elevator on the floor the receptionist had indicated and was immediately assailed by the sounds of typewriters being put to the task as several reporters and their assistants worked at a feverish pace. Again, nobody looked up at her and those who did happen to glance in her direction went back to their duties. Her more frequent public appearances over the last few months had served to immunize the populace to her and that was something of a relief.

But she was also filled with a certain amount of dread as she began to realize that because they were familiar with her, because she had once again been accepted as part of the norm for Gotham City, her absence could cause dismay, maybe even panic. It was not pride that led her to that conclusion, but past experience.

In the early 1950's, the super-heroes had simply given up…all of them, herself included. Even now, decades later, she was bothered by how quickly they had all folded to government pressure. Maybe they were all looking for an excuse to call it quits; maybe chasing evil for so many years had started to affect them.

She stopped in front of a desk that was rather plain, with a bright yellow typewriter and several pictures set on it. The owner of the desk, a man in his mid-thirties with slicked back dark hair was munching on a sandwich and did not seem to notice her until he suddenly spoke.

"You aren't the real Black Canary, are you?" he said as he started reading some papers.

The Blonde Bombshell put her hands on her hips. "Would anyone else dress like this?" she asked.

He looked up and gave her a quick once over. "The real Canary didn't need so much support up top," he commented dryly as he chewed on his lunch.

Her eyes darkened and she reached down and grabbed him by the tie. He dropped the sandwich and let out a choking sound. "Listen, gumshoe; I'm as old as your grandmother, probably…and I had a child not so long ago. You might say I'm a little sensitive about the 'boys', if you catch my drift." She then leaned in close. "I am the Black Canary."

The reporter began to shake his head and she let him go. Several of the other members of the staff, especially the older men, began to chuckle and the Canary thought she recognized a few faces. There were probably several people here she had worked with over the years, people she had lost contact with because they reminded her of her true age.

"How can I help you?" the reporter asked, looking for his fallen meal.

"You're Ben Tinsley, right?" she questioned as she made a spot for herself on the edge of his desk. He appeared to be slightly annoyed by her rearrangement of his space, but after his comment about her boobs, she could care less.

The truth was that her figure, while still good, was not what it was thirty years before. She knew that she should consider herself lucky, blessed even, but her vanity always got the better of her.

"Yeah," he replied, giving her a suspicious look. "You aren't a stripper are you?"

"Is it your birthday?" she said sarcastically. When he started to nod, she rolled her eyes. "Look, I'm just here to ask about your connection to this Wicked guy, that's all."

He seemed relieved and he relaxed slightly. There were still some chuckles and giggles around the office and she assumed that he was probably the butt of many a joke. She knew he was not a local; some stories he had framed on the wall near his desk indicated that he had been a reporter in Texas. She was surprised that he did not have the typical accent.

"I don't know what to tell you; the cops have already gone over everything with me," he started as he leaned back, sandwich in hand. "He sends me letters telling me if I don't print his rantings, he'll kill both of the kids he's kidnapped."

"He always gets two?"

Ben nodded and took a large bite. "And they are generally of different backgrounds. Rich white kid, poor black one…girl and a boy…troubled runaway or maybe an alter boy."

"Why haven't you published more about…"

"Not my choice," Ben said, holding up his sandwich to stop her question. "The police and the editors all got together, along with some of the other major papers, and decided that for the good of the community they would hold off on reporting everything."

The reporter then leaned in close. "Word is, and I got this from the sport's guy who's sleeping with the managing editor's secretary, that more poor kids are being killed than rich ones and the more wealthy citizens do not want it getting out."

"What keeps the poorer families from raising hell?" she quickly asked as he reached for a glass of water. He told her that the families were being paid to be quiet by the more astute of Gotham City.

"The murders have been going on for about a year now, but the police weren't able to put it together until a few months back," Ben told her. His voice suddenly turned sarcastic. "Not that the cops in this city could ever put two and two together. The truth is that a reporter out of Metropolis, Perry White, started digging around when he got wind of the story and was going to break it." Ben then smiled wryly. "Talk about some pissed off people. We decided it was best to get the story out from a Gotham point of view and so they had me write up an article about it. Next thing you know, the killer starts writing me."

He opened a drawer and pulled out a few sheets of paper and handed them over to her. She looked at him with a strange face and he laughed. "These are Xerox copies of the letters; the cops took the other ones, though I don't know why. Not a one of them understands forensics…"

"You talk like an expert," she said as she started to skim the letters. She already had an idea of what they would contain as she had been following the story in the paper.

"Did a lot of work with some Texas Rangers when I worked in Dallas," he said. She heard some more whispering and an entire secret world of office politics opened up to her. He was the new guy, the outsider and he was probably a good reporter, but Gotham was a strange city. Foreigners, people from other parts of the country, simply were not welcomed with open arms in this city. Anything he did before was meaningless and no amount of hazing would ever allow him to be truly accepted.

"Let's go for a walk," she said and he shrugged, grabbed his coat and followed her out.

"Got a cigarette?" she asked and he said that he didn't smoke. She sighed and then handed back the papers she had been reading. "This guy makes Ted Bundy look like a priest."

"I just wish he hadn't picked me," Ben responded as he looked up into the sky. He shielded his eyes from the sun and stared at the Gazette building. "Are you really willing to look into this? My father covered the war and I was raised listening to his stories about the Justice Society and how great they were. Of course, I had to listen to others tell me how great my father was, but that's another story."

"You think this is a job for a super-hero?" she asked with a smile.

"I've only been here a few months, ma'am," he started, a slight Texas accent starting to creep its way out of his mouth, "but I'm convinced that this city is run by corrupt men with incompetent cops." He saw a worried look cross her face and he made a mental note to ask her about it later. "I might be new, but I know that there is no way they can save the children." He took a deep breath and then looked her straight in the eyes. "It hasn't been reported yet, but last night the fourteen year old daughter of the lead pitcher for the Gotham Knights was taken."