Wicked – Chapter 7
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.
Ben looked at his watch and saw that it was still far too early for a sane man to be moving about town. He should have been at his desk, in front of his typewriter, working away and nibbling on a bagel. At least then maybe he would gain a little more acceptance from the other reporters on the paper. Being an outsider, a southern outsider at that, was not gaining him any friends. But, he told himself, they were not being as hard on him now that he was hanging out with Black Canary.
It was almost as if since she had given him the nod, the others had to accept him. He began to think of her as the pope of Gotham City, laying hands upon his reputation and providing him with absolution. He chuckled; she would probably find a lot of humor in that.
He had to admit that the hero was growing on him. There were no heroes in Texas, unless you counted firemen, cops and the Rangers. There were no super heroes in Texas and he had not really expected to ever meet any when he moved east. After all, the Justice Society had disbanded decades before and very few of the members were active any longer. In fact, the most active hero had never actually been a member of the Society; Johnny Quick had never made the cut.
He knew that some of the other costumed adventurers, or lunatics depending on your point of view, occasionally put on their fighting togs and went around reliving their glory days, but for the most part, they were simply part of a past he only vaguely remembered. In his childhood, things had been different. Spending his summers on his grandfather's farm, listening to the patriarch of the family spin yarns about the masked men of World War II and their incredible powers and abilities.
Sometimes Ben wondered if it were those stories that had led him to journalism, or was it really just trying to gain his father's acceptance?
He also reasoned that the relationship that he had developed with his "Peepaw" had also made him naturally gravitate towards persons of elder generations. Perhaps that was the reason he and Stan had become such close friends.
Stan Montgomery was the local Veteran's Assistance liaison, a former infnatryman who had served with honor and distinction during Korea. Stan was also one of Ben's sources as he had access to military records and information that normally would require great patience to find as you wandered through the sea of governmental red tape. Many times Stan gave him information that was personal in nature, stuff you just could not get a hold of.
Stan came back into the office carrying a notepad and a cup of steaming black coffee. Ben knew the older man liked his coffee as thick as tar and no conversation could start until he filled his tank with a little of the "caffeine gasoline". He waited patiently as Stan took his seat behind his desk and then took a long, hot sip. "Ah, now that is what makes America great. You ever been overseas, Ben?"
"No, I prefer to write about local crime. It seems Gotham City has enough to keep me busy," the reporter replied with a smile.
Stan chuckled. "Yeah, a couple of the boys down at the VFW told me about your goings-on with the Black Canary." He leaned forward. "Tell me something...are those legs still as sexy?"
Ben laughed. "Yeah, despite her age, she is quite the looker."
Leaning back, Stan closed his eyes. "I remember when the Justice Society broke up. Talk about a bunch of unhappy GI's."
The comment put a frown across Ben's face. "Well," Stan began to explain, "back in the late forties and early fifties, the JSA would do a lot of benefit shows for the troops. Nothing put a smile on a trooper's face quicker than seeing Phantom Lady and Black Canary come out on stage. Hell, after what Congress did to them, trying to control them and everything, I don't blame them for taking off on their own."
"I think most people would agree with you," Ben said.
"Once got within ten feet of her, that Black Canary. Had on some fifty cent cologne I had bought in Berlin...this was right before I shipped out...had the crazy idea I was going to sweep her off of her feet." Stan stopped and broke out in a raucous laughter. "Ended up standing there, pouring sweat, with half a hard-on the second I saw her. Smelled like pig urine too now that I recall. She gave me the damnedest look, made me shrink back into the crowd!"
Ben joined in the laughter, trying to imagine his friend younger and less sure of himself. Black Canary did have a tendency to intimidate even the strongest willed men, even Ben himself though he was loathe to admit it. After a few more minutes of talking about the various feminine attributes of the hero, Ben decided to get down to business. "Did you find anything for me, Stan?"
The older man handed over the note pad, which had several names written on it. One of them was circled. "Michael Keates. Joined the Marines a couple years back, right after those murders happened in Metropolis. Made corporal and then got out about seven months ago."
Ben nodded. "Right before the first murder here in Gotham City." He looked up. "What sort of discharge?"
Stan shrugged. "Honorable, but I contacted a few friends in the Corps who put me in touch with his last commanding officer. Seems Keates was a little too gung-ho for even the Marines. Normally they try to convince guys to reenlist, but the commander said that in this case they just let him go."
"Where did he serve?"
"Mostly stateside, but he did have a one-year tour over in the Middle East, part of some embassy attachment." Stan took another sip of his coffee. "You look at his service record and you see someone who seemed destined for a career in the Marines. Not that he stood out, mind you, but that he fit in. He fit in too well."
"I get what you're saying," Ben answered. He tore off the top sheet of paper, folded it and put it inside his jacket pocket. "He knows how to fade into the background."
"Sometimes better than being super strong or having a ring that makes giant green hands appear in thin air," Stan told him. "He relocated to Gotham City right after he got out, but he hasn't applied for any benefits. No educational or job placement, so I don't have a current address."
"I thought that once guys got out they were part of the Inactive Ready Reserve for the remainder of their contract?" Ben asked. Most people enlisted for a total of 8 years, just that not all of it was on active duty. "Isn't he supposed to check in once a year..."
Stan coughed. "Hell, Ben, most guys who get out don't want nothing to do with the military ever again. And we don't have the resources to track them down. Don't matter anyway; if the Soviets attack they are gonna use nukes and all of the reservists in the world aren't going to help."
Ben did not want to get led into another debate on the status of the super-powers. "So, you have no idea where he could be?"
"He's probably still here in Gotham, or he's moved on to Bludhaven. He doesn't seem to have any skills that would find him work in some place like Metropolis."
Ben nodded and stood. He and Stan shook hands. "I owe you, buddy," Ben told him.
"Get me a chance to meet Black Canary and we'll call it square."
"Yes, my friend wants to meet you," Ben told her. He cradled the phone between his face and his shoulder and reached for the tuna sandwich sitting on his desk. "I'm doing my best to follow-up, but this guy is like a ghost."
Ben's editor walked by and for the first time did not scowl at him for eating at his desk. It really did appear that working with a real Gotham hero was benefiting him. "My friend? He's from your generation except no Fountain of Youth. Yes, he's single...can we be serious for a moment?"
He stopped midway through a bite of his meal. "Dinner? Tonight? Me?" he began to chew again as he considered it. "Oh, you want me to meet your husband. Bring my girlfriend?" He did not bother to tell her that he was now unattached as his lover had become convinced she was going to be dumped for the more charismatic Black Canary. "How about my son?"
He nodded and then promised that he would meet her at the designated time and place. He hung up the phone and continued to eat his lunch. It was sort of surreal when he thought about it. A real, live super-hero wanted to have dinner with him, as herself and with her family. He would actually see what she looked like without cleavage!
He started to laugh at the mental joke and choked immediately on his food. He set the sandwich down, still in the midst of a coughing fit and reached for his diet soda. People stopped to look at him and his face burned with embarrassment. Grabbing the can, he took a long hard drink from it.
When he had finally recovered he noticed that a tall man was standing at his desk. The man seemed familiar in the sense that Ben was sure he was supposed ot have recognized him. "Can I help you?" he managed to croak out.
"Benjamin Tinsley?" the man asked. His voice was deep and only seemed to accentuate his presence. He was tall and muscular; his suit, which appeared to be fairly old but in good repair, could not hide his physique. His hair was red, with a single streak of stark white running through it at the front.
"Ben, actually," he replied. "And you are?"
"Detective Jim Corrigan of the GCPD," the man replied. He produced a badge and Ben noted that it was the real thing, but he could not place the police officer. As a crime reporter he had interviewed dozens of cops and had been to hundreds of crime scenes since he had moved north. Yet, for the life of him, he could not remember ever meeting him.
"I feel like I should know you," Ben told him.
"Most people who get to know me regret it, Ben," Corrigan responded. "Such is the life of a cop."
"What can I do for you, Detective?"
Corrigan looked around for a chair and then grabbed one from an empty desk. He pulled it up close to Ben and sat down. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to them Ben noted. "I understand that you are the reporter that Wicked contacts."
"Unfortunately," Ben told him. "Some reporters live for scoops like that, but all it does is give me nightmares."
If Corrigan found humor in the comment, he did not show it. Instead, his jaw remained set and firm. "I have also reason to believe you are working with the Black Canary on the case."
Ben scratched his head. "I don't know if I would go so far to say that we are working a case. I'm pursuing a story about her investigation..."
"In other words, you are working the case with her," Corrigan interrupted. "She is a good person, a good soul."
Ben only nodded, wondering what it was the detective wanted, but somehow felt uncomfortable asking him to get to the point. Corrigan took in a slow breath, exhaling through his nose, his face giving Ben the impression that his mind had just been read. "It is important that you work quickly on finding this monster of a man," Corrigan finally said.
"Yeah, well, that really is a job for the police, now isn't it, officer? I'm a reporter, I tell people about how well you guys do your work, stuff like that," Ben reminded him. He was getting the definite impression that there was something very odd about this man.
"The police department is corrupt and you know it. An evil permeates the hearts of those sworn to protect the innocent of this city. It has allowed," Corrigan said, "something vile to prey upon the children."
"Ho-kay," Ben said, pushing his chair back a little. "What division do you belong to, Detective Corrigan?"
Corrigan ignored the question and instead reached over for a note pad and a pencil. He began to sketch out a crude map of what Ben immediately recognized as being downtown Gotham. "This is the area your partner has determined the killer is working in for this hunting period," Corrigan said without looking up. "You need to be in this area tomorrow night," he told him, tapping the pencil on what was labeled as Crime Alley.
"If you know this, detective, then why are you telling me and not your superiors? In fact, this sounds like a practical joke to me. Who put you up to this?"
Corrigan slowly turned to look into Ben's eyes. "You must stop him. The future is riding on your actions."
Ben stood up and shook off the creeping cold feeling that was making the hair on his neck stand up. "Get the hell out of here, you crackpot!"
"Hey, Tinsley!" the sports editor called out from across the aisleway. "Who the hell you yelling at, Texas?"
He started to point to Corrigan, but there was only an empty chair. "What, you want us to leave before the Canary comes by to sing to ya?"
The other reporters in the newsroom began to laugh and heckle him and he felt his face go flush. He looked around the immediate area, but did not see Corrigan anywhere and he would have been hard to miss in his out-of-date clothes. Next he scanned his desk and a nervous shiver erupted in his hands. There sat the map with a circle around Crime Alley.
One of the other crime reporters, a grizzled old veteran with a penchant for foul smelling cigars and a little whiskey in his coffee, strolled up. "Don't let them get to you. Sometimes I want to stand up and tell 'em to leave, too!"
Ben shook his head. "Did you see that guy I was talking to? The cop?"
The other man took a long drink of his "enriched" coffee and laughed. "Cop? There ain't been no cop up here, Tinsley."
"Yes there was!" Ben exclaimed, drawing a few more stares. He regained his composure and lowered his voice. "He said his name was Jim Corrigan."
Turn a slightly more pale shade, the reporter took a long drink of his coffee. "Jim Corrigan is dead, sonny; he was a cop back in the thirties. Retired from the GCPD in the fifties. Think he died in 1969 or sometime like that."
Ben shook his head and slowly sat back down, his eyes drifting to the map and the phantom cop's cryptic warning that the future was now in his hands. All he could do was question the Almighty why he had been the one chosen to the be the harbinger of death in this city.