by Ron Goulart
During the next year, if there was a fire, a major accident, severe weather of any kind or a natural disaster, she was there. She moved too fast for anyone to take a clear photograph of her. Once, a lucky, and now rich, tourist accidentally caught her blurred image on videotape. Advanced computer enhancement revealed only the feminine outline of the city’s new hero, nothing more.
She never stayed to be thanked. She did not give interviews. She did not issue press releases. Nothing more was known about her, not even her name.
Needing to call her something, the city’s various television stations and its newspapers held a meeting. After much discussion, and many warnings from comic book publishers, the new hero was dubbed “Turquoise,” for the blue-green combination of her costume. That, and because all of the good names were protected by copyright laws.
Naturally, the city went crazy. After repeated denials, city government admitted to an “extra-normal” force in the city, protecting its citizens. The mayor tried to take the credit for arranging her presence, but no one really believed him. Tourism grew, and Turquoise-oriented businesses sprung up over night. The city put “Home of Heroes” on all its letterheads, stationary and correspondence. The sports team changed their uniforms to a blue, green and, of course, turquoise, color scheme. The sale of comic books increased 200%, and everyone owned at least one Turquoise T-shirt.
The crime rate dropped too, for a while. The police were closed mouthed about how much help, if any, they were receiving from Turquoise. They were those who claimed that she had saved them from muggers, rapists, and killers, but most of these claims proved false. It soon became apparent that, however much she involved herself with saving people from fires and accidents, Turquoise had no interest in fighting crime, a fact that the newspapers and television stations were quick to reveal. Thus assured, the criminals took to the streets again, their main targets the flood of tourists coming into the city hoping for a glimpse of the hero.
Everyone was talking about Turquoise. There was endless speculation as to who she was and from where she had come. Several women, and a few men, stepped forward to reveal that they were Turquoise, and were available for private interviews, book deals and movie contracts. Most quickly recanted after being taken to a high rooftop and asked to fly away. One or two did try, but were restrained by security guards hired for just that purpose.
What the real Turquoise thought of this no one knew. Keeping true to her original pattern, she remained silent, with one exception.
A few months ago, there had been an election. The campaign for the city district attorney’s office had been close. The polls called the race a toss-up. Then the billboards appeared. “Harper and Turquoise—a Winning Team,” they announced, displaying the face of the Republican candidate next to an artist’s conception of Turquoise. The night after the last billboard went up, they were all painted over. No one saw the vandal, but a blue-green streak was reported passing by several of the signs. Harper lost by a wide margin.
And the mayor’s a Republican, thought Larkins. Which probably explains this move to unmask her. Flying was one thing, ripping open doors was another, but being able to influence an election—that was real power.
The mayor wanted, no, he needed a hold over Turquoise. Larkins would discover who she was. The mayor would pay her a quiet visit. A deal would be struck. Turquoise would be given a choice—cooperation in exchange for silence, collaboration or an end to a private life. Larkins hoped that when he found her, she’d be stronger or smarter than he was; that she’d show the courage he lacked.
And he would find her. He knew that. He was not a vain man, but he did not suffer from false modesty. He was one of the best detectives there was. Given any kind of a lead, he’d track his man, or woman. He always had, and he would this time as well.
The file that Bishop had given him was of little help. All the reports of any accident or other events in which Turquoise had been involved had been provided. There were media accounts of Turquoise’s exploits. Newspaper clippings and magazine articles were included. There were transcripts of local and national television broadcasts. There was a listing of available videotapes of these broadcasts.
When she had first appeared, both the print and video media had tried to find out who Turquoise really was. News footage and amateur videos were studied frame by frame. Anyone who had any contact with her had been extensively interviewed. The best description that had been developed from all sources was that Turquoise was blond, of average height with an average figure. No one had ever gotten a clear look at her face.
The effort to discover Turquoise’s secret was soon halted. Not only had no progress been made, but it quickly became clear that the public was against it. Everyone knew that in order to be most effective, a hero needed a secret identity. They also knew that only the bad guys had an interest in unmasking the hero.
Larkins wondered what that made him. “Just a guy doing his job and providing for his family,” he said to himself. He almost believed it.
Looking over the file, Larkins realized that something was missing. It took him a while to realize that there was no mention of any federal involvement in the hunt for Turquoise. The Feds had to be interested. But there was no record of anyone from Washington showing up before, during or after any Turquoise-related incident. It couldn’t be that Washington was not interested. It was either that the Feds were taking great care not to be noticed, or else they were behind Turquoise to begin with. In either case, Larkins did not expect any help from any federal agency. He also did not expect any interference, unless he got too close to their secrets.
Larkins spent the rest of the day going over the file. When he finished, he had no idea where to start. Two weeks later, he was still at a loss.
He had gone back and re-interviewed all the witnesses. He had watched all the videos and read all the reports and newspaper clippings. He had explored and abandoned over a dozen theories, from secret government projects to rich, bored heiresses. Still, he had nothing to satisfy the calls coming from Bishop’s office demanding progress.
In his office, Larkins picked up Turquoise’s photograph; the one made from the now famous videotape. “You’re out there somewhere,” he said to her picture. He tried to focus through the photo, as if to make clear the fuzzy figure and indistinct features.
“If you were a crook, it would be easy. There would be a crime scene, evidence of some kind, something to provide a clue. But you’re one of the good guys.” Larkins thought about this for a moment.
“So let’s start treating you like a bad guy.” He stared at the photo again, then looked through his desk drawers for something. Remembering that he had had a different desk somewhere else, he went back downstairs to the homicide office. Grabbing a magnifying glass, he went back upstairs and studied Turquoise’s picture yet again. His guess had been right. He picked up the telephone and called Max.
Max Hammond was one of the reasons that Larkins was as good a detective as he was. Max had been the crime scene technician on Larkins’s first murder case. Larkins had heard about Max from other detectives, and had been told that Max was one of the best evidence techs around. Larkins took Max aside, confessed that it was his first murder, and asked Max for any help or advice that he could give.
The civilian with twenty years experience took a liking to the rookie detective. He took the time to explain to Larkins just what he was doing and why he was doing it. Larkins was smart enough to listen, and the two formed an almost unbeatable team.
That was ten years ago. Now with thirty years in the department, Max was eligible for retirement. Larkins had not too long ago asked him when he was going to pull the plug.
“Trying to get rid of me, Kid?” Max replied. Max had been calling Larkins “Kid” since that first murder, and was not about to stop just because Larkins had two children of his own.
“No, Max. I’m just worried about what I’m going to do without you.”
“Well, don’t start worrying
yet. I’ll quit when I can’t do the job any longer.”
“Then you’re good for another ten years. We’ll retire together, and let the place go to hell without us.”
When Max came to the phone, Larkins asked him to meet for lunch. He tried to keep his voice even, to make it sound like a casual date between friends. Max put him off, claiming that the Lab was too busy for him to take a break. He finally agreed to meet the detective for coffee after their shifts were over.
By the time Larkins got to the coffee shop, Max was already waiting. However busy the Lab had been, the crime scene man had gotten off early.
“How’s it going, Max?”
Larkins’s greeting was met with a gruff hello. The detective put that off to one of Max’s moods, signaled the waitress and ordered coffee. After she had brought his cup, and refilled Max’s, Larkins started to explain what he wanted to do.
“No.”
Larkins hadn’t been ready for Max’s interruption. “What was that, Max?”
“I said ‘No,’ I’m not going to help. It’s not right, and I won’t be a part of it.”
“Look, Max…”
“No, Kid, you look. Ten minutes after you were called into Bishop’s office, the word went around that you had drawn the Turquoise case. When you called today, I knew what you wanted, that’s why I put you off. I had to have time to decide how I felt about it.”
Max picked up his cup and took a sip of his coffee, giving Larkins a chance to comment. The detective stayed quiet, waiting to hear his mentor out.
“Turquoise has been good to this city, and good for it. She’s saved a lot of lives and brought us quite a bit of fame and prestige, not to mention tourist money. All she’s asked is to be left alone, that we respect her privacy.”
“She’s never really asked that, Max,” challenged Larkins.
“By her actions, she has,” Max snapped, waiting for the younger man to argue the point. When Larkins did not reply, he went on.
“That’s all she’s asked … to just be left alone, and now, His “Honor,” the mayor, would deny her that. I’m telling you it’s not right.”
“You know what’s right, Max? What’s right is that I have a job to do, one that I’m good at. I find her, I stay a detective. If I don’t, it’s back to patrol, and you know what that means.”
Max nodded, he knew what the loss of hours and overtime would mean to Larkins.
“So this is not about right and wrong. It’s about following orders. Whatever we owe Turquoise, whatever I owe her, it doesn’t match what I owe my family.”
The older man thought for a moment. “I see your point, Kid, but think about this. When you do find Turquoise, and the mayor puts pressure on her, or her identity is exposed, what if she just ups and leaves the city? Who’s going to catch the blame? The mayor? The commissioner? Bishop?”
Max shook his head and pointed a finger across the table. “You, Detective Darryl Larkins, you’ll be the man who exposed the hero and caused her to abandon our town. The papers, TV, the same men who gave you the assignment, they’ll crucify you.
“Speaking of which, you know, Darryl, there’s a very good reason nobody names their kids ‘Judas’ anymore.”
“I’ll take that chance, Max, and their silver if it comes to that. For my family, yes. But also because I know that whatever happens, I’ll keep my mouth shut. I’ll find Turquoise, and when I do, I’ll give her up. What the mayor does with the knowledge is up to him. If I turn this job down, they’ll just give it to someone else. I can’t be sure that whoever it is won’t sell out to the press at the first opportunity. My silence, that’s all that I owe her.”
“That’s all you’re willing to pay. You owe her a lot more.”
“Max, I need your help. If I can’t have it, fine, no hard feelings. But I’m asking you for the last time because I know you’ll keep your mouth shut as well. Can you say the same for anyone else in the Lab. Will they stay quiet, or will they tell what they find out to a wife, or husband, or friend? How soon before something leaks out if we leave this to others?”
Max finished his coffee. He stared past Larkins at some unknown point in the distance. Finally, he said, “Good point. Maybe it is just that simple. We are the only ones that we can trust.” He stood up to leave. “Let me think about this, Kid. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
* * * *
The next day, Max called just before noon.
“I’m in, Kid, but let’s keep that between ourselves. I’d hate to be the last person ever to be named Max.”
They met that night at Max’s apartment. Larkins showed Max the picture of Turquoise.
“So? I’ve seen that picture a hundred times. What about it?”
“Look at it again, oh highly trained observer.”
Larkins held up a magnifying glass to the part of the photo that had drawn his attention. Max stared at it for a moment, then realized what had interested Larkins.
“Turquoise, darling,” he said to her photo, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that a proper lady always wears gloves when she appears in public?”
To Larkins he said, “So where do we start?”
The detective pulled out the file he had on the hero.
“Last week there was an accident. Two vehicles collided, one caught fire. The flames spread to a nearby house. Turquoise showed up just before everybody got barbecued. She ripped a van apart to save the driver and passengers.”
Larkins handed the file over to Max. “It’s the only thing we’ve got. Everything else she’s touched is either not suitable for prints or else is long gone to the junkyard or cut up for collectibles. Tomorrow head out to the city impound lot and see what you can do with it.”
“If it’s still there, you mean.”
“It’s there. The report says that the car was totaled. The owner hasn’t bothered with it, and we’re waiting for the insurance company to pay the fees before we release it.”
“And you expect me to find prints on a car that’s been burned, ripped apart and hosed down by a fire truck.”
“Max, if anyone can do it, you can.”
“True, and if not on this one, then the next one, or the one after that. Sooner or later she’ll leave me a print. I just hope nobody buys her gloves for her birthday.”
After Max reported for work the next day, he checked the recovered stolen vehicle log. He found two that had been taken in carjackings. He then advised dispatch that he’d be at the impound lot checking those two for prints. He gave the dispatcher the makes, models and tags of the cars. If anybody asked, he could now justify his trip to the lot.
Once at the lot, he did process the two cars for fingerprints. After he had finished searching the second one, he looked around the lot. The van that Larkins had described was two rows over. Not seeing anyone paying any special attention to him, Max drove over to it.
The initial accident had damaged it more than the fire had. Max could see the front end damage, the right side crushed and the two passenger side doors folded in so that they could not be opened. He knew from the report that the driver had been unconscious so, had Turquoise not rescued them the driver and her passengers would have roasted. Max had had an image in his mind of her swooping down and pealing the roof back like a food tin, freeing the passengers. Instead, he found that she had just ripped off the driver’s side door. He found it lying in the back seat.
Unable to open the side cargo door, Max had trouble getting the drivers doors out of the van. Normally he’d have called for help, but this was not a normal case. He finally thought to open the rear hatch, and then muscled the door over the back seat. The door fell with a thud into the rear storage area, barely missing Max’s left foot.
“And how would you have explained breaking two of your toes while working on a car you had no right to be in?” he asked himself. After a pause to give thanks that he didn’t have to explain, he eased the door out of the van, and leaned it against the rear quarter panel.
He found
what he was looking for right away. On the inside right doorframe were four oval impressions. He found a matching set on the left frame. Two slightly larger impressions were on either side of the outer frame. Taking out his magnifier, Max could make out the lines of the friction ridges that made up Turquoise’s fingerprints.
“Just as I had hoped. Like fingers into window putty,” he said out loud, remembering the time when he had reglazed the windows of his old house. “Turquoise, when you grabbed this door, your fingers betrayed you. You left your mark as surely as if you signed your name. Now if your prints are on file, you belong to me.”
Max got his portable power tools out of his station wagon, and removed the sections of the door that bore Turquoise’s prints. Back at the lab, he’d make rubber impressions. Then he’d roll them in ink, and then on to clean white paper. The computer would do the rest. If Turquoise was on record, he’d know who she was by nightfall.
Later, Max sat in the darkness, holding a computer printout in his hands, He had waited until everyone in the lab had either left for the day or had gone out on a call. Then he had let himself into the Latent Print Unit. Max had worked there for a time. He had taken a promotion that had promised regular hours, no night shift and every weekend free. It was two months before the boredom of doing the same thing every day drove him back on to the street. But in that time, he had learned to use the identification computer.
Working in the dark seemed appropriate. Guided by the light from the terminal, Max entered the inked pints into the system. Fifteen minutes later, there was a match.
Max held the printout for a moment before reaching for a light. Until he read what was printed on the paper the secret was still safe. At least, that was the lie he told himself. Turquoise’s secret was doomed as soon as someone in authority had decided it would be. No one can hide these days, not for long, not unless she shuts herself off from the world. And who could do that anymore?
Max reached over and turned on the light. He looked down and learned who she was and where she lived. He sat there for a longtime before deciding what to do with his knowledge.