Chapter Nine: Impossibilities
Same day, 3:03 pm, Precinct 92...
By this time in the day, Capt. Stacy was in his office, going over some of the details of the Tombstone murder. He was flipping through the man's file, looking for any possible suspects in his death.
The man was an assassin, so he had to have quite a few enemies. the Capt. noted, throwing the file on his desk, taking a sip of his coffee.
Then, Jean walked in the room, holding a sheet of paper.
"Captain, there's something very strange about that scene."
"Now this, I already knew, Jean." Capt. Stacy replied as he looked back at the file he had been perusing moments earlier. "What did you find?"
"Well, I had one of the lab technicians do an analysis on several of the blood samples taken from the scene, and he found something rather odd; there were two different types of blood there. Whoever shot him was seriously wounded themselves. I mean, there should have been two bodies there, not just one." She handed him the paper and said, "There. See for yourself."
"Now that is strange." the captain agreed after looking over the results. "Any possible suspects?"
"Not yet, sir. We're trying to figure that out now, but since it's so recent..."
"Right, we won't have any suspects yet." Capt. Stacy said, nodding. "Just tell me if you find out anything else."
"I'll make sure of it." DeWolff said as she walked away.
Two people should have been dead? he thought, trying to figure something out. I don't get it. We didn't find another body anywhere near the scene. Maybe it's simply because we didn't expect one, so we didn't look?
Or maybe there's something else going on here.
xxx
3:41 pm...
The Hole was a notorious bar in the city. It was known that a lot of the city's criminals met there for a drink, a game of pool, or whatever.
It was a normal day for most of the bar patrons.
However, that situation was about to change.
Everybody there was severely caught off-guard when the door exploded inwards in a hail of splinters, and a man entered the bar with a fixed look of anger on his face.
A few of the patrons ducked under their tables, thinking it was the police, crashing the party. Most of them, however, pulled out their guns and aimed at the man standing in the doorway.
"I suggest putting your weapons away, gentlemen." the man, who was clad in a black trenchcoat, with sunglasses hiding his eyes, growled, arms crossed over his chest. "You won't like my reaction if you don't."
A lot of these men in the bar had killed someone at one point in their lives. The lot of them figured this guy didn't matter; that killing him wouldn't be that big of a mistake. Many of them pulled the triggers on their weapons, gunfire splitting the silence that had settled over the room in the wake of the man's arrival.
When the smoke had cleared, many of them were shocked to find that the man was still standing, unhurt, in that same position, now with four metallic limbs writhing around him.
Of course, none of them counted on this man being none other than Dr. Otto Octavius.
"I told you that you would not like my reaction if you did that."
Without warning, Octavius struck, the actuators striking down anyone within range; not hard enough to kill, but enough to get his point across. People were flying all over the place. But it wouldn't do to kill any of these non-entities; he needed them for the next part of his plan, after all.
Within minutes, the entire population of the bar was on the floor, stunned, a few unconscious.
"Now that we've gotten that out of the way..." Octavius started, walking further into the room, grabbing a bottle of scotch from behind the counter with an actuator and pouring himself a drink, "...I came to ask for a few of you to help me out with a little project of mine."
None of them spoke up for a moment, until one man asked, "Who are you?"
"That's not really important..." Octavius said, taking a drink and taking a seat on the surface of the bar, "...but for now, you can call me Doctor Octopus."
"What's the 'project'?" the same man said, standing up. "And what's it for?"
"That last question shall remain unanswered." Octavius replied, taking another drink, before setting the glass down. "But as to the first question, your part of the project is to provide a distraction. You would be breaking into a bank as your distraction."
That should allow me to break into the precinct long enough to get the file, at least.
A few of them looked at each other, nodding.
"You would keep whatever you managed to steal as payment. I just need a distraction while I carry out my part of the plan. So, who's interested?"
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then the man who had spoken up earlier said, "I'm in."
"Me, too." said another man. Before long, about ten to twelve men had agreed to this plan.
"Excellent. I was hoping for a little cooperation." Octavius said. "Now, your instructions are clear; break into the East Village Central Bank at exactly midnight. I don't care how you do it, just keep the police distracted for ten to twenty minutes. If caught, do not tell them who sent you. I will not have my name connected to this. Understood?"
The men nodded their assent; they rather liked this plan.
"Remember, at midnight, exactly." Octavius stood up, finished his drink, and set the glass down. Without another word, he left the bar, leaving behind a very stunned group of men.
That should take care of the officers at the station, at least. he thought as he took to the rooftops. Of course, the question is still if I'll actually find anything there.
xxx
4:07 pm...
"Captain! I've got a lead in the Tombstone case!"
Detective Briscoe had just run into Capt. Stacy's office with the news, and he looked somewhat pleased with what he had found out.
Capt. Stacy looked up from the case folder he was still going over and said, "What is it?"
"I followed the trail of footprints, which was rather long, by the way, through the back streets, and I found where the gunman must have finally fallen. I questioned the man whose apartment the gunman has to have collapsed in front of, and he came down to the station. Says he's got some information."
"Bring him in, then!" The Capt. said, glad that something was finally going right for a change.
Briscoe left the room, only to reappear moments later with a man who looked to be in his early fifties.
"I hear you've got some information for me?" the Capt. addressed the man. "What is your name, first?"
The man looked up at the Capt. and said, "I'm Mendel Stromm. Yes, I have some information on what happened."
"Could you tell me what it might be?"
"Yes. I'll start from the beginning. I went outside last night, and there was someone lying wounded outside my apartment, a pistol in hand. I wasn't sure of what happened, but it appeared that they'd been in a gunfight of some sort. But I took the person inside, to see if I could help. I'm a doctor, and I knew what to do. They wouldn't have made it to the hospital before blood loss became an issue."
"Yeah? And who was he?" Capt. Stacy asked, interested in what he was being told.
"Well, actually, the person was a she." Mendel corrected. "And I'm not permitted to tell you that."
"Right, the whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing." the Capt. growled. How he hated that law right about now. "Can you at least tell me what she looked like?"
"All I can definitively tell you was that she had black hair and ice blue eyes. I'd say she was around five and a half feet. Other than that, I didn't pay much attention. She left early this morning."
"Wait... she's not at your place anymore?"
"We already checked." Briscoe said, still standing in the doorway.
"And you had no idea that the person you were hiding was a murderer?" Capt. Stacy asked, his voice edged with steel.
"N-No, I didn't!" Mendel said, in defense. "She said she couldn't even remember what happened to her! And considering the state she was in when I found her, that's not surprising!"
"Alright, I can give you that." the Capt. replied. "Is that all?"
"Yes, that's all I know." Mendel said, nodding. "Can I go now?"
Capt. Stacy nodded and Mendel left the room. The Capt. leaned back in his chair, bewildered by what he had just heard.
Why does this person he described sound so familiar! This case is so damn frustrating!
Wait a minute. he thought, an idea coming to him. Now that I think about it, the more some of these pieces start to fit together. But... this should be impossible!
Still, it doesn't hurt to check.
"DeWolff? Could you come in here a minute?" he said over the intercom.
When she walked into the room, she asked, "What can I do for you, captain?"
"I need you to go down to the records room." Capt. Stacy replied as he picked up a pen and started writing something down on a nearby notepad. "Get me the file on Carolyn Trainer."
"What? Why?" DeWolff said, obviously confused. "You're not considering her a suspect, are you? If I remember right, Tombstone shot her. How could it be the other way around?"
"But we never found her, did we?" the Capt. replied, matter-of-factly. "Just get me the file."
DeWolff shrugged and walked out of the room. Capt. Stacy called Briscoe in the room next.
"I believe I may have a lead in this case. I need you to put out an APB. We're looking for a black-haired, blue-eyed female of unknown name. About five and a half feet in height." There was no need to tell Briscoe of his suspicions; what if he was wrong?
Briscoe did not reply as he walked out of the room.
This really seems like it should be impossible. Capt. Stacy thought. But Sherlock Holmes once said that once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth. I'll find out my truth soon enough.
xxx
Elsewhere in the city, Rosie was still listening in on the police scanner, pacing the floor, still trying to catch a squawk about him. She hadn't heard anything promising in hours, and she was starting to get afraid. Not nervous, but afraid; it shouldn't have taken this long to find him! What if he had already been killed, and the police would never find him? Would she just worry like this forever?
Just then a squawk came over the radio; not about her husband, but intriguing nevertheless.
"...we have a nine-sixty-two, be on the lookout for a five and a half foot, black-haired, blue-eyed female of unknown name..."
Rosie stopped her pacing and walked over to the table, listening closely.
"...wanted for connection in the death of a man by the alias of Tombstone..."
Here, Rosie couldn't help but be shocked by what she was hearing. Tombstone had been killed last night? Was that the second round of gunfire that she heard after Tombstone left?
"...be advised, she may be armed, possibly dangerous. Approach with caution..."
Rosie was stunned at what she had just heard. She knew she should be glad Tombstone was dead; that meant he couldn't come back to finish the job.
But still, there was one thought that kept nagging at her. She dismissed it, knowing it was impossible.
Could Tombstone have been killed by...?
xxx
Midnight...
By now, the station of Precinct Ninety-Two was completely empty; they were all dealing with a situation occurring a few blocks away. The situation, of course, was the one that Octavius had devised to distract the police long enough to get into the files that may contain the information he needed to take the Scrier down.
But now came the hard part; getting into the precinct's database to find the identity of the Scrier.
He entered the precinct through a back door, after picking the lock with an actuator blade.
When he entered, he was surprised to find the precinct completely devoid of life; he had thought there'd be at least one officer watching over the place.
He made his way through the building, taking care to stay out of range of the security cameras, until he found the file room.
Picking the lock, he entered the room, disabled the security camera, and took a look around.
Now which of these filing cabinets would contain files on anyone with a criminal record?
He looked over at one of the cabinets, noticing the words 'criminal record files' written on a piece of paper taped to it.
Perfect. That's just what I was looking for.
He walked over to the filing cabinet, opened it up and looked through the files. He found the names of several people he knew in it; the names of Mendel Stromm, Curt Connors (now that one surprised him greatly; he figured it must have been from the Moscow incident), and even his own name were all there. But nothing stood out as the Scrier's possible identity.
There has to be another way of finding this out!
He looked at the next drawer down; it contained files for those who went under aliases in the criminal underworld.
...Talk about being obvious.
He closed the top drawer and opened that drawer, noting the names of people like The Rhino, The Lizard, and even Octavius' alias, Doctor Octopus, were all there.
And here I thought I had kept that alias pretty well concealed from the police.
But tucked away in the "S" section, was a file on a man... called the Scrier.
With shaking hands, Octavius removed the file, but had not yet opened it.
This could be it right here. he thought as he opened the file.
When he saw who it was, his face went white and he dropped the file to the floor.
"No... no, he's supposed to be in prison... nonononono... it has to be a mistake..." he stammered, before the sound of footsteps made itself known to him.
He ran for the back door, leaving the file, with the picture of Norman Osborn staring out of it, lying on the floor...
xxx
Octavius was several blocks away from the precinct before he stopped running. He was completely unwilling to believe what he had just found out.
How can Osborn be the Scrier! he thought, dumbfounded. He's supposed to be locked up! There's no way he could execute this plan from in prison!
Then, he heard the scuffling of boots behind him. He turned around to locate the source of the noise, but did not see anything.
Was I followed? Why didn't I hear them sooner, if-
He was not able to finish the thought as someone behind him wrapped a strong arm around his neck, trying to pull him back farther into the alley. He tried to fight his way out of the headlock, but whomever it was, they were inhumanly strong.
"You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do this." the man hissed in his ear, in a voice that sounded way too familiar.
Octavius did not have time to retaliate as his assailant slammed a heavy object into the back of his head, knocking him to the ground. He laid there, black at the edges of his vision, as he looked up at the man who was even now standing over him, a downright sadistic smile on his face.
He did not have time to say anything as his vision went completely black, as the pounding in his skull at the impact subsided, and he slipped into unconsciousness, knowing that, chances are, he would not make it out of this situation aliveā¦
