GreenGrenade — Roleplayer Guild

Chapter Two
Sunday, March 20th, 2005
7:21am

At the CCPD, David Singh’s temper was legendary. No man was safe from his wrath. While Darryl was captain of our precinct, Singh was the boss. He was just the director of the crime lab, and as such had no jurisdiction in the rest of the precinct; but the tales of his fury were enough to sway even the toughest of officers. The slightest slip-up got him going. Misplaced some case files? He’d explain exactly what kind of idiot you are. Forgot to hand in the day’s reports? You’d better hope he wasn’t having a bad day. Come to work late? May god help you.

But things were different for me. Six years of working with the guy allowed me to get to know him, learn what made him tick, just what got his blood boiling. I could read him like a book. So when I arrived at 20th and Kanigher with a felafel in hand, I knew exactly how to deal with him.

“Oh, would you look at who decided to show up. Sherlock freaking Holmes. Where the hell have you been, Allen?” he roared. I could see every individual muscle twitch as his face contorted in anger, every line that formed, the individual droplets of spittle that flew from his mouth. I smirked, but he didn’t see it. I was too fast for him.

“It’s Sunday, Dave,” I said, moving past him without a backward glance, “Live a little.”

We were in an alley behind Jitters, Central City’s idea of Starbucks. Police tape refused the public entry, multiple cruisers parked out front with officers on watch. The air was thick with an unpleasant energy, a discomfort that seemed to follow the police force to every murder. It shouldn’t have been this way; no officer was a stranger to homicide. It was part of the job. But the Gem Cities were supposed to be sunny, and happy, and innocent. They were no Gotham. Something that Iris always used to say came back to me-- “New York may be the city that never sleeps, but the Gem Cities are the ones always on the run.” And in a way, I saw the truth of it. The people there did like to run from reality. 

The body lay in the center of the alley, untouched since its discovery. It was a middle-aged man, probably in his late forties, dressed in an inexpensive business suit, the kind you’d buy from a second-hand store: scruffy, worn, and in dire need of a wash. He was bald, clean-shaven-- no hair to obstruct the frozen terror on his face. His chest was littered with stab wounds, his suit stained red by blood; the lacerations were deep and frenzied, as if done in a hurry. From afar, it looked unprofessional, probably the work of a mugger or junkie. But there was only one way to be sure. 

Pulling on a pair of gloves, I turned back to Singh. “What happened here?”

“Guy’s called Clancy Whittaker,” he grunted, “Forty-nine years old. He was found by a Jitters employee doing early rounds at six fifty. The kid says he heard a scuffle outside, came to check it out. That’s when he saw this damn mess.” He nodded at the body, then looked back to me. “You know what to do, Allen.”

Sunday, March 20th, 2005
4:30pm

The man, as I saw him, was slow. He sprinted down the empty street, every step slower than the last, drawn out over time he didn’t have much of. Ragged breaths came out in lengthy intervals. His hair jumped up and down, like a gazelle leaping in the air, swept backwards by his momentum. I figure he was running at around twenty miles per hour; if he wanted to, and he would, he could outrun nearly everyone on the force. Everyone but me. 

It wasn’t hard to keep up with him. Yellow lightning arcing behind me, I was speed walking at best, catching up to him within milliseconds. Reaching his side, I stopped, sticking my leg out in front of him, scowling as his feet collided with my ankle, a low pitched yelp escaping his lips. It took a long time for him to meet the ground. When he did, he pulled out a pistol, taking aim and pressing down on the trigger. A loud bang echoed through the street, fire spitting out from the muzzle, a lone bullet ambling its way towards me. I watched in a sort of detached fascination as it inched closer, catching it between my pointer and thumb.  

I smiled.

Flicking the bullet away, I walked up to the man, picking him up by the lapel. Then I spoke. Very. Slowly. “Jared Cannes,” I said, “You killed a man this morning. Do you know what that means?”

“I-I’m going to jail,” he bumbled, an uncomprehending look on his face.

“That’s right,” I confirmed, “But first, you’re coming with me.”   

Sunday, March 20th, 2005
5:00pm

Jared Cannes arrived at the CCPD less than a minute later, courtesy of the Flash. He was our man. When I examined poor Clancy, I found blood under his fingernails; ten bucks said it wasn’t his. I sent it back to the lab for analysis. Patty Spivot gave me a name in half an hour.

Turned out that Cannes was an amateur hitman. And when I say amateur, I mean amateur. He was the guy you turned to when you couldn’t afford anyone else. The guy you turned to if you wanted to get arrested. And that’s exactly what happened to Clancy Whittaker’s ex-wife.

As she was dragged through the precinct, hands cuffed behind her back, I turned to Patty, easily the smartest, and blondest, person in the room. 

“Good work, Patty.”

“Just doing my job, Barry.”

“Right.”

A comfortable silence followed. Then--

“SPIVOT!” It was Singh. “Where the hell is your goddamned report?”

She looked to me for backup. I just shrugged. I wanted no part of this.
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