Stranger from Another World
July 28, 1942
Clark was the only person in the court room that wasn't sweating. Some hid it better than others, mere drops running down necks. Others, like the judge, or the juror in the fifth seat were soaked, mopping their brows with sleeves and cloths. The building was poorly ventilated and based on everyone else's reactions, the summer heat in Georgia was oppressive. Temperature couldn't bother Clark. He could sense heat and cold, have a loose sense of their intensity, but his physiology was simply too robust to react to them. Yet, Clark felt as though a cold sweat was pouring down his back.
It was the subject of the trial, the one that he had harangued Perry into letting him cover, which had Clark in such a state. The defendant was one Greg Stanley. He was a thin, short boy, even for 14, with narrow cheeks and bright, inquisitive eyes, which flicked all about the courtroom, especially during the longer testimonies. There were moments, small moments, unseen by all but Clark, where the weight of the matter threatened to crush Greg, as the tension in his shoulders mounted. He was only a boy, but he understood the severity of the situation. Greg was black, the only black person in a courtroom which held as many as a hundred observers, all white, as was his counsel, the prosecutor, the judge, every witness called to the stand, and perhaps most importantly, the jury. The charge was the murder of two girls. Two white girls.
The defense attorney, a public defender, had the novel strategy of allowing the prosecution to traipse all over his client. He had not questioned any of the police officers or witnesses called to the stand and had done nothing to investigate the validity of Greg's apparent confession, one gained in the privacy of the interrogation room shortly after he was picked up from his home, the girls' bodies being found on his family's property. By the time both sides had rested their case, Clark wasn't sure the man had strung together more than three words at a time.
The judge sent the jury away for their deliberation, sweat dribbling off his nose, while the courtroom cleared. Clark found a spot near the end of the hall to go over his notes; he had been sending dispatches every day to the Daily Planet. A quick glance with his x-ray vision confirmed that Greg's family was still outside the courthouse, waiting on any word about their child.
"I thought that was you Kent," said a familiar voice. Clark looked up from his notepad. Neil Mosley, Gotham Gazette. One of their best, in spite of his propensity for colorful reporting.
"I'm surprised it took you this long to notice Neil," said Clark.
Neil clapped him on the shoulder, leaning against the wall with all the grace of a scarecrow. "I only got here yesterday. Gazette didn't want to foot the bill for my travel expenses."
"You didn't miss much," said Clark.
"I admit, I'm a bit surprised it's you the Planet sent down here. Usually this kind of work is Lane's bread and butter," said Neil.
That's what Perry had thought too. "She was busy." Simpler that way.
"Too bad. I like talking shop with her. No offense Kent." Neil glanced back over his shoulder, then lowered his voice. "That kid is done for. I wouldn't have been surprised if they tarred and feathered him right there in the courtroom with how much they're piling on him."
"We'll see," said Clark. Behind Neil, a lean man took a long pull from a hip flask. He had caught Clark's eye two days ago in the courtroom. At first, he figured the man to be another reporter, but there was something off about him. A flash of x-ray sight confirmed he had a gun holstered beneath his jacket. Not a cop.
"Believe me the jury's already made up their mind about him. The whole town has. Most of them just needed to hear that he was a Negro," said Neil. "We're in the part of this country where it's a real gamble if they hear I'm a Jew. Hicks all of them."
Clark didn't respond.
"Kent? You there pal?"
Clark twitched his head back towards Neil, returned to the hallway.
"Good grief. You look like someone walked over your grave," said Neil.
"I lost focus for a moment," said Clark. His fellow reporter would have never believed the real reason, even if it proved him right. Clark had been listening to the jury. Ten men, two women. All white. They had been in deliberation for around fifteen minutes.
A decision had been reached.
July 30, 1942
The histories of Krypton that filled the halls of Kal-El's fortress described a veritable utopia by Earth's standards. Yet, its history was not without those grim chapters that echoed his current home. There had been, for instance, a long stretch where one's genetic caste, one's ethnic imprint, determined their place, a status quo championed by the mighty for generations. This time of injustice did not end in studied debate, instead falling apart through impassioned resistance by the underclasses, who forged a better world than the one they had been dealt. There was no revisionism in the retelling, no desire to beautify the horror. Only the stark perspective of a people who had come to expunge this evil from their hearts.
Clark wasn't sure why he had remained in town. The story was over, as far as the Daily Planet's involvement in it could go. Greg Stanley was to be sentenced to death for the murder of Dalia Little and Jean McCray. Perry had offered his condolences and told him to catch a bus back towards Metropolis. Somehow that last part had slipped.
It was here in the sway of the southern twilight that he found a purpose for remaining. Superman left Clark's hotel room, faster than the eye could see, setting out into the humid air. This was not the raucous soundscape of Metropolis, nor the whistling prairies of Kansas. It had its own character, as the breeze walked through dogwoods and magnolias, while crickets sang their sweet songs. Back in Briar, the town was winding up for an evening out, the local bar filling up, the restaurants putting out their outdoor tables and lighting up their string lights. Somewhere someone plucked a guitar. Elsewhere, fishing lines were reeled in, tackle boxes stowed. The blades at the sawmill spun no more. These were not what drew him from the town, out into the woods that surrounded it.
The police wagon was halfway in the ditch, its front end caked in mud. The windshield was shattered. The driver was out cold in his seat, while the other guard was prone on the road. Superman picked them up, flying swiftly to the nearest hospital, before returning to the scene of the crash. The back of the wagon was empty, the chains that once held their prisoner broken. Out in the dark, a twig snapped, miles away. Superman left the wagon.
The cabin was an extension of the woods around it, so much so that it could have plausibly been grown from it. Tree branches crisscrossed its roof, while the walls played host to moss and vegetation which peeked between the boards. No light could be seen within.
Superman opened the door. There was a grunt of exertion. A sledgehammer bounced off his chest, the handle split in two by the force of the impact. His attacker was a brawny man with a black hood. Burn scars layered his forearms and biceps. A rope, coiled like a noose hung around his neck. The hooded man dropped the splintered handle, though he made no move to continue his assault.
"I thought they might send a costumed type to get me. Never thought it'd be you though," said the man.
"You ambushed the police wagon," said Superman.
"Couldn't let them reach their destination," said the man.
Superman stared past him at the bright eyes that stood out in the dark of the cabin. Even without his vision, he would've seen them. The boy's breaths were jerky, fearful. The hooded man noticed Superman's gaze.
"I ain't gonna pretend I can stop you. But, you know why I did it." This man would die before he let Superman take away his charge.
"I do." He addressed the boy. "Hello Greg. I'm glad you're unharmed."
Greg didn't answer, continue to shiver in the dark.
"He didn't kill those kids," said the hooded man.
"No, he did not," said Superman. Another set of noises caught his ears.
"You believe him?" said Greg, still shaky.
"You're no killer," said Superman.
"You gotta tell them that. If they hear it from you.." said Greg.
"It won't change anything. Not on its own," said Superman. He swiveled around to scan the nearby woods.
The hooded man scoffed. "If they won't believe you, who will they?"
"They need evidence. Evidence that can prove his innocence."
"If they cared about that we wouldn't be in this mess."
"We can discuss that later. I need to move you two."
"What?' said Greg, fully emerging to be beside the hooded man. His protector still put himself between the boy and Superman.
"People are coming for you. I can hear them, see them." He was surprised at how quickly a response had been organized. The passenger wasn't as out of it as he had first appeared. Men's voices and the dogs they had with them called out from the woods. The cabin was not as well hidden as its inhabitants thought. Especially once the dogs had their scent.
"Take the boy. I'll give them something to chase," said the hooded man.
"No," said Superman, blocking him from the door. "Greg needs someone to keep him safe wherever we go."
"That'll be you," said the hooded man.
Superman got right up to the man. "He trusts you. When everyone else turned their back on him, you came for him. Don't throw that away."
The man relented. "Fine. What now?"
"If you're afraid of heights, now would be a good time to close your eyes."
August 1, 1942
The files weren't there. Clark checked again and again, but this was no clerical error. This was complete absence. The records room of Briar's police department was not well-maintained, rife with loose papers and dusty boxes. He took one last look before closing the cabinets, wary of the oncoming footprints. His presence was not a welcome one.
A quick use of his speed saw Clark returned to the street overlooking the station. It was next to the courthouse, adjoined by a passage in the back. He had considered taking a more mundane approach to the records, but decided against making his snooping apparent.
Greg had told him everything he could about his side of the story. Or nearly everything. How he found the girls' bodies by the pond that bordered his family's property, already dead. His mother had been the one to reluctantly alert the police, who had immediately arrested Greg. The "confession" they had touted about in court had come after days in jail, his cooperation assured through violent means. The thought of the bruises on Greg's torso made Clark tighten his fist. The boy was holding something back. There had been a moment of hesitation during the retelling, a little twitch in his jaw. What it was Clark could only speculate.
The lack of a case file was problematic. Greg's testimony was a starting point, but it held no legal weight, not after his guilt was presumed. He was considering his options, when the distinct fellow from the courtroom passed by the other side of the street, talking with a black man in workman's clothes. Mention of the Stanley family came up in their conversation, namely where Greg's parents and siblings were staying these days. On a whim, Clark began to follow the pair.
They strolled another block, rounding the corner by the gas station before the lean man parted ways from his companion. The black man had offered only possibilities as to where the Stanleys were. Clark kept his distance, but he trailed the lean man as he passed through the town, making stops at the Negro store and barber shop. Each visit contained a similar batch of questions, with similarly vague answers. They didn't trust this man, not enough to offer anything definitive.
Clark was entering the back street behind the barber shop when a gun barrel was pressed to his side.
"Have a nice walk?" said the lean man. He used his free hand to shove Clark towards the wall. Clark played his part obligingly, feigning surprise.
"I don't know what…"
"You know, around here I bet they'd be fine with me dropping you for following me," said the lean man.
Clark was silent. The barrel lowered, though he kept the gun at his side.
"I thought all you vultures would be gone by now," said the lean man. "Though I guess a fresh hunk of meat fell into your lap."
"I'm working a story. For the Daily Planet," said Clark.
"Ohhh. A high class vulture. Still failing to see how that involves following me."
"You're looking into Greg Stanley's case. So am I. I don't think he did it."
"I never said anything about the Stanley kid," said the man.
"Then why are you carrying his case file?" said Clark, holding up the file.
The man squinted at Clark, his face impassive. Clark prepared to roll with whatever blow was coming, so he didn't break the man's hand. Instead, the man holstered his pistol, holding the other hand for the files. "You get five minutes. Not here though."
The man, who Clark now knew as Tim Trench, stubbed out another cigarette in his growing pile. "...worked together back in Opal. Anyway, Sydney reached out to me about trouble with his nephew. I thought it was going to be some minor affair, not the biggest thing in this county since someone showed them a telephone. I prefer to ply my trade a little to the north or way out to the west of here."
The men at the pool table swore as one of their number sunk another ball. Trench paused as the bar's waitress checked in with them. They were as far away from the other patrons as could be, but he was on edge the whole time. Clark couldn't blame him. Nearly everyone had in the place had made mention of them. This was a place that could detect an outsider.
"Kent, Kent, Kent...Clark Kent..Why does that sound familiar?"
"Superman," said Clark.
"What?"
"I've written a number of articles on Superman. That's usually where people remember me from."
"No it wasn't that," said Trench. The man lit another cigarette, only half-finished with the last one. He snapped his fingers. "The Lexcorp story. The one about the housing. That's where I remember you."
Clark couldn't help a smile. It was nice being noticed for his actual journalism.
"I thought there's a man that knows how to treat someone with power. We'll need that for this work," said Trench. He tapped the files in his jacket pocket. "This is pretty barebones, even for a department like this one."
The report was slim. Officers Thorn and Flanagan had arrested Greg upon their arrival to the crime scene on June 12. The girls had gone missing two days prior, on the tenth. They supposedly had an eyewitness, a neighbor, who had seen him trying to cover up the bodies.
"Already sought him out. Man isn't in town anymore. Probably was told to make himself scarce."
The coroner's report said the girls had been killed with a blunt object. They claimed it was a length of pipe found at the Stanley household. The coroner did not believe the bodies had been moved.
"You buy this part?" said Clark.
"Without seeing them for myself, I don't know."
The confession was the lynchpin, a rambling statement in which Greg apparently confirmed that he had killed the girls when they rejected his advances and had planned to hide the bodies before being spotted, at which point he had his mother summon the authorities to avert suspicion. That last part hadn't come up in the trial. Too flimsy even for that one-sided affair.
"Well, Kent. Now that you've seen it, what're your thoughts?"
"It's weak. Inconsistent. Spare. They're patching over something. What though?"
"That is our job to find out," said Trench. He took a long drag. His face reminded Clark of one of those stern statues you'd see in a museum. "The fact that the kid got sprung won't do him any favors in the court of public opinion. They didn't let the locals string him up from a tree the first time. If they get him now...I'd say all bets are off whether it's the chair or the rope that sends our friend Greg on his way."
They wouldn't find him. Of that, Clark could be certain. Though it mattered little if the boy had no more to look forward to than life as a fugitive. Trench wasn't wrong about the atmosphere of the town though. There were posses prowling the woods. The name Greg Stanley was said so often that Clark couldn't listen for it alone without being overwhelmed.
"Where do we start?" said Clark. The pool cue clacked again. Another round of moaning. Heated words.
Trench slid the file back into his jacket. "You sure you're on board for this? Things go wrong here and we'll both be face down in the woods with a little unwanted lead in our diet."
"I'm sure."
August 1, 1942
The Stanleys had relocated to a house a few miles outside of the main stretch of the town. Trench had finally found someone willing to talk, who revealed they were staying with their cousin's family. The father was fired from the mill right after news broke that his son was arrested for murder. Accusation was guilt enough in a place this small.
Clark and Trench were walking along the dirt road that led to the house when they heard people coming their way. His partner instructed Clark to step off the path, ducking behind the foliage. Three men passed them, white men, laughing and jawing along. He studied their faces. Their gait. The guns carried in their coats. They waited till the men were out of sight to continue.
"Stanleys are going to get more social calls than they planned for," said Trench.
"They were here to threaten the family," said Clark.
"Reporter's intuition?"
"You could say that." Or hearing the tail end of their conversation. It was difficult to pull useful information from the bed of noise that underpinned Briar and the land a round it. Adjusting to a new soundscape took time. The cacophony of Metropolis was easier to sift through.
"If they're out of things to say, we'll know why," said Trench.
Henrietta Stanley had the same bright eyes her son. She was a tall woman, with full cheeks. She refused to sit down while she talked, moving about the room, cleaning and adjusting as she spoke. Trench sat comfortably in his chair, while Clark lingered by the front door.
"Marina, my daughter is here. Her brother Sheldon doesn't live with us anymore. He signed up for the army," said Henrietta, dusting off a cabinet.
"Your husband?" said Trench.
"Charles is out of town for a few days. His cousin Terrence and his wife Pam are here though."
Terrence was two rooms over, listening with his rifle on his lap. Not that Trench could see that. Clark didn't blame them from being cautious.
"Gentlemen, if I'm being honest with you, I don't have anything to say. Nothing the papers haven't already printed," said Henrietta.
"We're not chasing a story," said Clark.
"Odd thing for a reporter to say."
"What my friend here means is that our main interest is Greg. We think there's more to the case than the trial revealed," said Trench.
The woman kept her back to them, moving on to one of the side tables. She was tense, her back muscles tightened.
"We know he's innocent," said Clark. "The trouble is proving it."
She carried on with her task. "They already have their mind set. What makes you think you can change it?"
"If we can provide alternative evidence, convincing evidence of the real culprit, they won't have a choice," said Clark.
"I don't even know if my son is alive right now," said Henrietta. She was in pain, but she would not grant these strangers the intimacy of tears.
"We have to assume.." started Trench.
"He is ma'am," said Clark.
That got her to turn around. Trench stared at him too.
"How would you know?"
"I've been in contact with someone involved in that incident...he can confirm that Greg is healthy and safe. He'll stay that way till he can return home," said Clark.
"You're talking nonsense."
"No, ma'am. I am not." He met those bright eyes with his own.
Henrietta sat down across from Trench. "What do you want to know?"
The woman explained how Greg had run into the house, frantic, talking about dead bodies. It had taken seeing them herself to grasp what was going on. She had run over to the neighbor's house, as they had a phone line.
"I already knew in my gut that something wasn't right. Two white girls turn up on a black family's property and you know there'll be hell to pay. If my husband was home, I woulda had half a mind to leave right then. Never got the chance though. Those coppers came quick. Little too quick considering how long it takes to drive here. Like they were on their way already. First thing they did was come get Greg. That wasn't in the papers. Barely even looked at the bodies."
"Did they say why they needed Greg?" said Trench.
"Gave the usual noise about answering a few questions. But we knew what that meant."
"Did you or Greg know the girls before this?"
"Only their families. The Littles own the pharmacy and the McCray girl's daddy works for some company. He's out on business a lot."
"So Greg didn't know them?" said Clark, pressing it again.
"White kids and black kids don't mingle much around here. It doesn't pay for black boys to hang around white girls especially."
Trench rested his elbows on his knees, hands propping up his chin. "Where was Greg the day those girls went missing?"
There was the start of a frown on Henrietta's face, that instinctual contraction of anger, but she caught herself before it could be apparent to anyone but Clark. In an even tone, she said, "He was home, with us."
The conversation dried up soon after, the goodwill exhausted. Henrietta saw them out.
"You have other unwanted visitors, let us know," said Trench. She only waved noncommittally.
"You didn't tell me you knew who took the kid," said Trench, not trying to hide the frustration in his voice.
"It didn't come up. Journalistic integrity."
He shot Clark a look that told him it wasn't finished. "She's lying about one part," said Trench. "Where the kid was."
Clark lay in his hotel bed. He had spent a few hours as Superman back in Metropolis and around the country. He couldn't afford to let his other responsibilities slip. Perry wasn't thrilled by him staying in Briar, but he was giving Clark time to develop the story. Sleep was nearly upon him when he heard the chant.
It came from the hills beyond the town. An invocation of hate, a promise of blood to come. From the air above the hotel, Clark could spot the burning cross.
A singular cry rose above the rest.
"The White Knight shall rise!"
August 2, 1942
"You read the paper yet?" said Trench. He shoveled the bacon and eggs in his mouth like a man fresh from famine. Every time they got food, downed it quickly. Odd that a man with such a voracious appetite was so thin. Reminded Clark of Jay. Clark ate his meal at a more leisurely pace. They were in the cafe attached to Trench's hotel. There were only three places to stay in the whole town.
"Haven't had a chance."
The private detective plopped down the latest edition of local newspaper. The headline would have made Clark choke on his eggs if he could choke.
"Superman Implicated in Murderer's Escape," read Trench. He was studying Clark's reaction in between bites. "Couple of local boys saw him flying off with our boy and another fella."
Sloppy. He had flown far below optimal speed to avoid scaring Greg and the man he now knew as John Henry. It had barely crossed Clark's mind that there would be anyone able to see him that night.
"I take it that's your secret source," said Trench.
"We know each other from my work in Metropolis."
"Might want to warn him then. This is only going to grow. Is it true he's bulletproof?"
Clark nodded.
"Wonder if that extends to his reputation."
The McCray house was a two story colonial, complete with its own secluded arching driveway, shaded by well-maintained trees that lined the path. Black gardeners worked the grounds, undoubtedly a constant task. The servant that greeted them at the front door was also black, guiding them to a parlor, complete with high ceilings and scrawled designs protruding from the finish.
"This is a step up, huh Kent?" said Trench, as he pulled out a cigarette.
"I'm glad you like it," said a woman in a pale pink dress with white gloves. She had lightly tanned skin with blond hair that curled by her ears. "Would you mind not smoking? My son Brandon is sensitive."
Trench put away his cigarette. Mrs. McCray found her seat, a placid smile composed on her face. "Thank you."
"Mrs. McCray, we're investigators looking into a few loose ends with the Stanley case."
"That's what I was told. I don't think I have much of use, but I'll share what I can."
"Anything helps, ma'am," said Clark. Anything would be better than what Dalia Little's family had given them. They never made it through their gate.
They ran through the day of the girl's disappearance. The two were friends from school. The families went to the same church. Not much stood out in Mrs. McCray's retelling thus far.
"Jean rode her bike to Dalia's house. They often went for walks around the town. I understand they liked to play games by the creek."
"Did they ever find her bike?" said Trench.
"It never turned up." She added, "It was a blue Columbia. We got it for Jean after she wrecked her Schwinn three years ago." The smile gained a hint of warmth.
"Sounds like an adventurous kid," said Clark.
"The lone girl among boys. If I'm being candid, she is bolder than her brothers." A slight flinch were the woman caught her usage of "is". "No tree too tall to climb, no body of water too cold to jump in. Some men discourage that in their daughters, but my husband loved it. I did too."
Clark was suddenly aware of the amount of weight borne by this woman, the sheer volume threatening to crush her at any moment. That dim smile etched on her lips was all that was holding back the floodwaters.
"Thank you for sharing that with us, Mrs. McCray."
"Oh, of course. Where was I? It wasn't uncommon for them to get in late, but this was beyond the norm. After I called the Little household, I had David, my eldest, go to look for her. It was about two hours after that that we alerted the police."
"Had Jean ever vanished before? Or Dalia?" said Trench.
"Once when she was six, she ran off into the woods and got lost four about four hours. But, nothing like this. Honestly, I wasn't too worried for the first night. Things like this don't happen around here. There's been a few drunken arguments that went too far, but…. The last one I can think of was Marie Baptiste before Jean was born."
"What was the nature of that?" said Trench.
Mrs. McCray tilted her head back as if searching for the answer on the ceiling. "I don't recall the details, but a drifter kidnapped and murdered the poor girl. Only fifteen. It was during those days when people wandered all over after the crash. Cops got him on the road to Augusta."
"Did you know Greg Stanley? Or his family?"
"Not well. They're nice enough folks. Godly, humble. I didn't think that boy had it in him for such savagery, but…" She let the pause hang between them. There was something unsaid here. "I hope they can end this soon. Is that what you're helping with?"
"Yes, ma'am. We intend to wrap up this matter," said Trench.
"You've been mighty kind, volunteering your time like this. I have one last question, if you don't mind" said Clark.
"Go ahead."
"Did anything stand strange happen in the days or weeks before Jean disappeared? Anything at all that you can recall?"
"Do you think someone else was involved? The man that helped break that boy out?" Clark was glad she didn't mention Superman.
He shook his head. "That remains to be seen ma'am. Like we said, anything could help."
She ran a finger over her lips, while Trench drummed his cigarette case. Clark could see the gardeners trimming the trees.
"Jean said one thing that stuck with me. A week or so before..she went by the gas station with Dalia and their other friend Beth. She told me at dinner that someone had said something strange to her, bothered her there. I can't for the life of me remember if she told me who it was."
"That's plenty Mrs. McCray."
She led them out, not her servants. "I'll pray for your success."
While they walked down the curated path, Clark heard her sobbing behind the closed door.
The men at the gas station had no recollection of the encounter. Nor did the mechanics across the street. Beth's family wasn't in town anymore, apparently having moved to Savannah. The responses they were getting told Clark that the townspeople were growing wary of them, like a body activating its immune response.
"This could be the slog," said Trench. "Question is whether or not we can keep moving."
"We can," said Clark.
A group of policemen and men in plainclothes marched down the street calling out to passersby and businesses. "Stay in tonight. Danger roams the woods. Men can sign up for one of the hunting parties at the station or Miller's store."
"How long till they realize they're chasing vapor?" said Trench.
Clark listened to the group. "It won't matter. This is going to be directed at someone."
The hardware store bore fresh posters on its exterior. The reward money sat at 3,000, contributed by concerned citizens.
"The Littles, the Boothes, the Greys and the Millers," read Clark.
"The real power in this town. Anton Grey owns the sawmill. The Boothes and Millers have a stake in that as well, along with another dozen businesses. That's on top of the farmland they've got."
"It's a lot of money."
"It's nothing if it means they quiet things down again."
"They'll be worth looking into," said Clark. If he had learned anything from Luthor, it was that money was a smokescreen.
Trench sighed. "Unfortunately, you're right."
It took a few passes before Clark found the spot. The report had been vague enough in describing the location the girls were discovered, another of its many deficiencies. It would have been hopeless without his enhanced vision. Traces of blood and hair lingered, invisible imprints. It had been enough time since the bodies were placed here that much of the evidence would be long gone. Bruce's expertise was sorely missed here.
Trench was off calling in favors from friends in other departments, tracking witnesses like Beth's family. His absence was alright. Nothing Clark found would be admissible. This was all for his benefit.
It was an unremarkable patch of grass, mud and bushes. Small pockets of stagnant water pooled in divots. Nothing about the spot was fit for disposing of a body, save perhaps for the softness of the earth. There were many better places to dump one. Unless, being found was the goal.
There, caught on a branch, smaller than the eye could see, a scrap of leather. Fine leather. Clark examined it, memorized it down to a molecular level.
August 3, 1942
A thunderstorm wandered away from the barn, content to trawl over empty land. Superman breathed deep of that familiar Smallville air.
"So my momma is alright? Rest of them too?" said Greg. He sat on the second floor of the barn, legs hanging from the platform.
"I won't let anyone hurt them," said Superman.
"Who's that lady keeps bring us food?" said John Henry. He didn't wear his hood anymore. The burn scars ran all the way to his neck, melded with the rope marks. He was a handsome man, with the kind of face you'd see in the pictures.
"A friend, same as me." Ma wasn't the most subtle then.
"Well friend, how long do we have to stay holed up in this barn?"
"We're making progress on the case. It doesn't have the strength to hold up to prolonged scrutiny," said Superman. "Greg, I need your help."
"Never thought I'd hear that from Superman."
"When we talked about what happened, you held something back. I need to know everything. The smallest part could make a difference."
The boy remained silent, bright eyes low.
"Please Greg. Anything."
"I didn't tell you about one thing."
"You were scared. It's okay."
The boy took a sharp inhale. Thunder boomed over the plains. "I was friends with Jean and Dalia. Jean especially." He held his face in his hands. "Not in any way more than being friends, I ain't nuts, but we would spend time together. Usually outside of town. Fewer problems that way. White folks don't like seeing my kind talk to white girls."
"How did you get to know them?" said Superman.
"My sister and I caught them wanderin around our house, bout two years ago. I saw them before, of course, but we got to talking that day. They were fun to run around with. Dalia was real sweet. Loved animals, always talked about learning to be a vet. Jean told stories. Invented stuff. Jean was one of those people that just pulls you right in." He smiled, but if didn't last. "She'd get bold occasionally. Whisper to me in town. Make a weird face walking by in town to make me laugh. That scared my brother Sheldon. He told me to stay away from them."
"But you didn't?"
"Nope."
"When was the last time you saw them?"
"We got together a few days before they went missing. I don't even remember what we talked about, but I remember it was nice. I was supposed to see them the day they...they never showed." He made a shuddering noise, his shoulders heaving. "When I saw them..I couldn't understand they were gone..That fella that saw me with the bodies didn't lie. Not entirely...I was trying to wake them up. I thought I could wake them up."
Superman sat next go Greg. He put an arm around him, steadied him through the tears. John Henry just watched. "I'm so sorry Greg."
"I didn't kill them. I loved em. They were my friends."
"I know Greg, I know."
The boy cried for a few minutes more. He sat up, wiping his eyes. "There was one more thing. A week or two before they disappeared, Jean said she saw someone watching us in the woods. It really spooked her. Dalia got all bent outta shape too when Jean said it was the guy from the gas station."
"The guy from the gas station?"
"Yeah. They said he was a creepy fellow who talked to them there. I didn't get a name. I don't know if they knew it."
"Hang in there Greg. You've been a real help."
"It sounds like a right mess, Clark," said Lois over the phone line. He could hear the clacking of her typewriter. No doubt making a mess of the spelling, a thought that warmed him up. He had spent the last half hour catching her up on the story.
"We're at that balance point. All we need is one push and everything will come together," said Clark.
"I admit, I like hearing you fired up about it," said Lois. "Luthor's been having a grand time now that Superman's been caught up in it."
"He's keeping the boy safe. That's what I've been told," said Clark.
"I thought he gave the scoops to me."
"Only most of them. You're still his favorite."
"Don't get jealous on me Smallville." She still hadn't mentioned kissing Superman. The irony of being jealous of yourself did not elude Clark. Unfortunately neither did the sting of that betrayed trust.
"I've got to go Lois. Trench and I have a few more leads to handle."
"Be careful Clark. I don't want to write a story about one of the Daily Planet's finest being fished out of some swamp."
"I will be Lois. As careful as you are."
She groaned. "I love you."
He said it back.
Clark was nearly at the hotel when he was intercepted. The two men that shuffled him into the back alley were confident enough that they didn't wear masks. He had seen one of them in the march through the central town the other day.
"We've heard a lot about you and your friend these last few days," said the taller of the two. His breath reeked of beer and chewing tobacco.
The stouter man jabbed Clark in the ribs. "You been abusin out town's hospitality."
Clark let them make their threats. Threats he could handle. The problem would start if they tried to follow through on it here and now.
"What's gonna happen is you're gonna get on the first bus tomorrow and head back to whatever city you came from," said the stout one.
Clark shrugged. "Gentleman, if you tell a reporter there isn't a story, you just make him more curious."
"Ain't he slick?"
"Real slick."
The punishment never arrived. A thwack signaled the fall of the tall thug. The second didn't have time to face his attacker as Trench clubbed him as well.
"I'll tell you this Kent, you got a spine. A spine that was about to be separated from your body, but a spine nonetheless."
"What brings you here?"
"Had my own personal visitors. Figured they'd be trying you as well. We might want to change hotels."
The masked men came for the Stanleys that night. Superman had started spending his nights hovering over their home, but he was half a state away when the first interloper touched their doorknob, having been summoned by a capsized ship. Still, even with that delay, Superman was back in Briar by the time their boots settled on the floor of the house. Judicious use of heat vision cooked their firearms. He had them out cold or bound in metal within seconds.
"Good lord, what is happening?" shouted Terrence. Henrietta was next to him, her own handgun ready for action.
"Unwanted guests. I showed them the door," said Superman.
"Jesus wept," said Henrietta. "They're gonna get us. This ain't the end of it."
"No, ma'am it is. No one is getting you. Not while I'm around."
"So you're just gonna guard us all day?"
"If I have to," said Superman.
Still, there was risk. These men might not be held for long. Others might try. Unless… Superman was already in a precarious spot with his involvement. Why not use that as an advantage.
August 4, 1942
Superman stood on the steps of Briar's courthouse, the subdued Klansmen beside him. It hadn't produced the crowd he would have liked, but there were enough reporters to make it worth going through with.
"I am aware that there has been concern over my recent actions. I've seen them referred to as criminal. Today is an opportunity to explain myself."
He pointed at the bound men. "I stopped these men on their way to accost and assault the family of Greg Stanley, the boy accused of heinous crimes in this very town. Men who would take the law into their own hands and pervert it for the sake of bloody retribution.
I did help free Greg Stanley."
There was a mix of gasps, affirmations and swearing. Reporters scribbled fervently. Bulbs flashed.
"I freed Greg because he is innocent. A victim of a campaign to frame him for another's crime. A crime I intend to solve as soon as possible.
Greg is safe and he will remain safe until proper justice is rendered. As will his family and everyone involved in the cause of justice. Anyone takes issue with that will have to go through me."
With that, Superman took his leave, departing into the air. Someone below uttered the words, "The White Knight shall strike him down."
"Your friend decided there wasn't a big enough target on his back, huh?" said Trench.
"He can take it. Maybe it will dissuade any repeat guests," said Clark.
"Or move up their timetable," said Trench.
They entered the auto shop, the worker behind the counter hustling them into the back office. A sweating man in worn overalls was already waiting for them. One of the gas station workers leaned on the desk.
"My friend Ross here had his memory jogged. Thought he could help you," said the gas station attendant.
"Appreciate that," said Trench.
They joined the sweating man. "You need some water friend?" said Trench.
"Naw. Just nerves."
"What's the story then?"
"I remember when you two came into the shop askin questions...Superman made me think of some stuff I hadn't thought of then..and I wanted to..well I figured you two might.."
"Tell us straight. No one's after you on this Ross," said Trench, a bit harshly. Impatience was getting to them. His own nerves.
"Those girls were in there one day. There was a man that was talkin to them. I think he was being a real pain the neck to them. They sure made fun of him once he was gone. One of the girls, she was a bit shaky though. Dropped her change when she paid me."
"Do you know his name?" said Clark.
Ross's face was sliding towards outright fear. "We just need a name. Yours won't come up at all," said Clark.
"You swear."
"On my mother," said Clark. Ross looked to Trench.
"On my life."
"Francis Boothe."
"Dammit," said Trench, pinching the bridge of his nose. He kept twiddling an unlit cigarette.
"He's part of the Boothe family."
"One of the boys. Hell, if he is our man this is why it seems like half the town is in on it."
Clark lit him a match. "Doesn't change anything."
"Sure, if you don't mind a pinewood box for a bed." He accepted the light. "Not that we'll even be that lucky. Our fate is to be gator food or fertilizer."
"Trench, I didn't take you for a chicken."
"Did you take me for a fat head?"
"Weren't you the one talking me up for sticking it to Luthor?"
"I can appreciate a bull rider. Doesn't mean I'm eager to hop on one myself. Though you're reminding me more of a rodeo clown right about now."
"We can get him," said Clark, blocking Trench. "Think of Greg, think of his family, think of Dalia and Jean and everyone else he may have preyed upon. If we can't nail him, no one will."
Trench flicked away his cigarette. "Let's make sure it sticks then."
August 8, 1942
Clark turned over the device, explained its operations once again. Trench granted him his full attention. It was a nifty piece, a recorder courtesy of Batman. Superman had gone to him, expecting a reprimand for his actions in Briar and received none. The contrarian in Bruce beat his cautious side on this one. The same could not be said of all Superman's allies. The JSA offered a cooler response. Hawkman stressed that they were sympathetic, than any of them might have done the same, but that such a unilateral display was bad for them. Clark couldn't muster much guilt over his actions. It was bigger than their reputations. The All-Star Squadron had taken it with a less cooperative spirit. Commander Steel was in Briar, as a counter-weight to Superman's apparent disregard for law and order. Clark hoped he could just avoid the man.
"You're sure this will work when the time comes?" said Trench. "I'm not fond of putting my faith in gimmicks."
"It's no gimmick. It'll work."
The last few days of investigation had shed light on Francis and what he got up to. The man lived on his family's estate, but he spent a lot of time in town, wasting time with his friends. Two of whom were the police officers that arrested Greg. The same ones that were there for his confession. Flanagan and Thorn. The pair was fond of unwinding in the bar at around the same time each night. Trench's role was to get them to talk. On the record. Or at least a recording.
"Is that disguise enough?" said Clark.
Trench had changed his appearance. Put on glasses, added some facial hair, rearranged his real hair and added makeup in the right spots. "Hasn't failed me yet," said Trench, his voice pitched lower and off from its usual timbre. "I won't doubt your gizmo, you don't doubt my disguise."
While Trench was talking to the officers, Clark decided the time had come to take a closer look at the Boothe estate. He had neglected to mention that last part to the detective. His companion would have advised against it.
If the McCray's home was impressive, the Boothe household was downright palatial. It was one of those old colonial plantation homes, ringed by fences and signs that made it clear whose property you were trespassing on. Acres of farmland ran behind the main house.
Clark kept a low profile on approach, using his speed as a cloak. He had considered going in straight as Superman, but he wanted to avoid provoking a bigger confrontation. The family's cars weren't by the house, though the grounds still milled with servants. It was easy enough to get inside. For all their care, the back door was open. He made a rapid inventory of the many bedrooms and studies. Francis's bore nothing of interest.
Except…
A key, tucked away inside a box behind his rows of untouched books. To what though. He scanned its length, reverse engineered the locks it would fit. None of the locks in the house. Not stables, nor the bunk houses on the farm. Not the servant's quarters. He was nearly out of options, when he noticed the shack nestled in the magnolias.
The key turned in the lock. Clark had resisted the urge to scan with his x-ray vision prior to entry. He regretted that, though the impact would have been the same.
A pair of shoes. A bow. Earrings, plenty of earrings. Necklaces, rings and bracelets. A watch, with the letters MB engraved on the backside. Wire frame glasses. And a blue Columbia bike.
It was Clark that entered the shack. Superman left.
He gathered the servants, the employees on hand. For once, he was unbothered if he frightened them. He made them stand at the rear of the house, in distant view of the shack.
"At least one of you saw something," said Superman, his voice booming through the trees. "You've lied enough already. Don't lie to me."
Avoidant eyes, weak shoulders. A cleared throat.
"Children. The weak, the vulnerable. In sight of this house. Someone saw something."
Nothing.
"Someone saw something."
A man stepped forward, a farmhand. As did a maid. A groundskeeper.
"That's a start."
Francis Boothe came home late. He often used a driver, yet this time he was alone in his Cadillac. The car pulled up to the darkened house.
Superman could have waited till he got out of the car, but he was tired of waiting. It had taken all his willpower to wait for Francis to return home rather than hunt him down out there. Metal screamed and glass flew and by the time Francis understood what was happening he was brushing the bottom of his boots along the clouds.
Leather boots. A particular kind of leather.
"Jesus Christ. The hell is…" screamed Francis.
"You've done terrible things Francis," said Superman, holding the man fully extended. Francis refused to look down, his eyes either shut or locked on Superman.
"Don't drop me. Please bring me down. We can talk this over."
Superman loosened his grip.
"Ahhh..No, not that. I don't understand."
"You understand Francis. You understand exactly what I mean." Superman could sense his eyes flaring with heat vision. He wasn't honesty sure he could control them, so hot did the anger pound in his breast.
"You murdered those girls Francis. Dalia. Jean."
"You got it wrong," sobbed Francis, clawing at Superman's arm. "I never killed anybody."
"You killed those girls. You killed who knows how many more. You had Greg Stanley take the fall."
"You're wrong," said Francis.
"No, I'm not," said Superman coldly. He pulled the man in closer. "I'm giving you one chance to do the right thing Francis. You can't make it right, but you can admit your crimes."
"I didn't…"
Superman let him go. He only fell about fifteen feet before Superman caught him, but from the scream, it would be enough.
"You're going to tell the truth for once. You killed those girls."
"I did. I did. I'm a sick man," said Francis.
Superman blinked away the red. He lowered to the ground.
"We're taking a short trip Francis."
August 11, 1942
"You sure this ain't a trap?" said Greg.
"It isn't. And if it is, I'm here," said Superman.
"That's something I guess."
Greg was due in court. Again. Francis Boothe had turned himself into the police. A number of witnesses had come forward, willing to testify that they had seen him moving the bodies, that he kept possessions from the deceased. Trench ponied up a tape where Flanagan outed himself as targeting and coercing Greg. All that was left was to see it made official.
They touched down on the main street, beside the courthouse. Reporters tried to swarm Greg, while the locals called out abuse and support. Trench waited by the doors, the cops next to him trying to kill him with a look. Superman helped him up the steps.
"Nearly there," said Superman.
Commander Steel stepped forth, in front of them. The sunlight gleamed off his metallic shell."I'm here to assist with your escort."
Greg glanced at Superman, who nodded. Behind them, there was a shout, then a scream. Superman turned to see a Klansman burst from the crowd, a flaming sword in his right hand.
"Fall before the White Kni-"
Superman was in front of him in a blink. He merely pushed out his hand, the impact sending the man skidding through the opening in the crowd, wind fully knocked out of him. The flaming sword fell on the ground. He extinguished it with a single puff of breath.
There was a gunshot and the twang of a ricochet off metal. Commander Steel held up the gunman by his freshly broken wrist. One Officer Thorn, sans uniform.
Greg was startled, but unharmed.
"Anyone else?" said Superman.
Clark put the phone back on the receiver. He had phoned ahead the details for Perry, though it would still need a write-up back in Metropolis. He could already hear the grief he was going to get from Lois and the rest of the office.
"Hell of a story," said Trench, leaning by the bank of phones.
"You're not wrong. Couldn't have broken it without you."
Trench shook his hand. "That's not why you did it though. You did it for the kid. For all those kids."
Clark shrugged. "I suppose so."
"You ever get tired of reporting, gimme a call. I'll make a proper gumshoe of you yet."
Henrietta Stanley threw the last bag in the trunk of their car. She said her last few words to Mrs. McCray, giving her a parting hug. Superman purposefully tuned out their conversation, not wanting to pry. He waited till the other woman was gone before he landed.
"You saved my son," said Henrietta.
"I didn't do it alone."
"That boy won't shut up about you now. Superman this, Superman that.. I get the picture."
"I'm sure you do, ma'am," said Superman, chuckling. He pointed to the car. "I see you're all packed up."
"He may be innocent, but he is not free here. None of us are after that. The ones that think we wronged them won't let a little thing like the law stop them."
"Where will you go?" said Superman.
"We got family in Dakota City. My husband can get a job up there. There'll be more prospects for the kids." It sounded like she was trying to persuade herself too.
"I'm sure you'll thrive there," said Superman.
"Greg told you about how he was friends with the girls. With Jean."
"He did."
"She knew. She pretended not to, but that woman knew who her daughter was spending time with."
Superman furrowed his brow, puzzled. "I thought that sort of thing was frowned upon. Especially on her side of town."
"You wouldn't know by looking at her, but Jackie McCray's got a daddy who's blacker than me. Most of the town doesn't know, least not the white folks. Her husband certainly doesn't. And God bless her, but she doesn't act like she's one of us. Not when it counts. But, she let her daughter befriend my son."
"That's something."
"Maybe. Maybe it is. If you want to say goodbye to Greg, he's out back, helping his sister."
"Take care ma'am."
"Make it quick, cause we're leaving soon. And thank you."
Superman found Greg in the back.
"I kept wishing you'd come by," said Greg.
"Wouldn't have missed it," said Superman, the boys eyes beaming at him.
"We have to leave. It's gonna be a big change. I suppose it'll be good..."
Clark thought of leaving Smallville. Kal-El thought of leaving Krypton. "You'll find your way. The way that works for you."
"Will I ever see you again?"
"If you need me Greg, I'll be there."
"If you had said that a month ago, I would have told you you're full of it."
"Now though?"
"You're Superman. Of course I believe it."
August 18, 1942
Lois sat at her desk, looking at the pictures Jimmy had sent her. A bog-standard corruption racket with the transportation department. Her mind wasn't in it.
Clark's return from Georgia had set off a well-deserved celebration. Perry had been in high spirits. Even Lombard praised him, albeit in his abrasive way. Lois was happy he was back safe, happy he had gotten the story.
Yet, there was a lingering bad taste, the kind that crawled around your mouth and got stuck on its rough. The sort that you'd almost forget about till your tongue flicked it on accident and then it would come flooding back. She thought of those records in her apartment, the ones she made sure Clark never saw. The case had been broken by Clark and that PI, Timothy Trench. And Superman. Clark and Superman in nowheresville, Georgia.
Clark and Superman. The two men in her life.
Superman and Clark.
Lois went back to typing. That story would have to wait.
August 20, 1942
"Tell me you have something General Lane," said Secretary Stimson.
Lane was savoring having the upper hand, though he concealed it beneath a veneer of protocol.
"Could you be more specific, sir?"
"A counter-measure for our Superman problem. Senator Russell's baying for blood and he's got more congressmen joining him by the minute. The governor wants him arrested."
"I was not aware that President Roosevelt had sanctioned any such counter-measures."
Stimson shot a dagger at the general. "You are aware of the nature of my request. Consider this an inquiry into preparedness, not a mandate of deployment. Yet."
"Excellent. Now that we're clear, let me tell you about Metallo."
The inclusion of this chapter was inspired by Pirate King Ray, who. introduced me to the subject. and historical context. This chapter is based on George Stinney, the youngest American to be executed in the 20th century. Stinney was accused of murdering two white girls, Betty June Binnicker and Mary Emma Thames, in the. town of Alcolu, South Carolina in March of 1944. The all-white jury took less than ten minutes to decide his guilt. He was tried in April, 1944 and executed by the electric chair in June of the same year. Contemporary examinations of his case have found that it was grievously mishandled, with the conviction vacated in 2014.
