Bystanders

by Phillip Murrell

  Mendez explains to Maria, “You have to excuse Toby. I’ve known him for ten years, and he’s always been weird. No touching, no drinking, no swearing. The guy is practically a monk. Still, he’s good people.”

  Maria doesn’t require this information. “Yeah, I don’t really care. He isn’t my type.”

  Mendez’s eyes light up a bit. “That will make a lot of guys around here happy. So, what is your type?”

  Maria rolls her eyes, thinking, not this again.

  The Data to Information, or D2I for short, News Office is a bustling place. Reporters either type away at their computers or prepare for the airing of their shows.

  A frumpy “regular” woman in her late thirties, Claire Kennedy, pops up from her police scanner. Her hair is expensively styled. Her attire, likewise, has numerous dollar signs attached to it. She hopes the decorations will disguise the extra pounds she holds in her butt, a disadvantage in the television news arena. She’s one of the writers and an occasional television personality for the twenty-four hour D2I news station. She promptly rushes into the owner of the station and editor-in-chief’s office.

  “Did you hear that, Boss?” she inquires. “Another group of thugs were found horribly beaten and left lying in incriminating evidence. That makes at least two dozen that we know of in the last week. We definitely have a hero out there. A first line defender.”

  Claire considers this last statement and says to herself, “First Line; I like the sound of that.”

  A gruff, late sixties man with shoulders that seem permanently shrugged looks up from his desk to address Claire. His name is Larry Tral, and he’s essentially the king of D2I News.

  “Claire, knock,” he begins, “that’s all I’m asking. Knock. I’m not a dictator, but I am a person, not to mention your boss, so just this one courtesy for today. We’ll work on another next week.”

  Claire stares him down, then adopts a highly prissy and faux British accent. “Mr. Tral, if you have a moment, I would be ever so pleased to confer with you on the recent thrashings of society’s delinquents.”

  Larry looks defeated. “Sarcasm. That’ll be next week’s lesson. What do you have, Claire?”

  Claire reverts to her normal voice. “I’ve been keeping track of these easy days for the cops. They keep getting street level criminals neatly wrapped up, and usually unconscious, for them. We need to find this hero before our competition and land the interview.”

  Larry looks skeptical. “You want to find a guy who takes down gangs of criminals nightly and interview him? You figure yourself to be some kind of comic book reporter? It’s not like that in the real world, Kid. Intrepid reporters end up dead.”

  “All the stations, bloggers, and newspapers are already talking about him. We need to make this station the definitive information source for First Line.”

  “First Line?”

  “As in first line defender,” Claire explains. “We need to give him a flashy name, preferably one that doesn’t bring trademark infringement down on us. Everyone else calls him a vigilante. This name will sex it up a bit and manipulate people into thinking we have an inside source. If we’re really lucky, it may even bring him to us to explain his story, or at least correct his name.”

  Larry, always eager to increase ratings, appears to accept this line of reasoning. “Fine, you can run the name. Let Gabe know that he’ll use it when he goes on in an hour.”

  This small victory excites Claire.

  “Thanks, Boss! You’ll see a spike in ratings overnight.”

  Claire turns to leave and give Gabe the good news. Larry stops her.

  “One more thing.”

  Claire turns to face him. “What?”

  “I’m sending the new guy your way. I need you to show him around and introduce him to the team. He’s as idealistic as they come, so hopefully some of him will rub off on you.”

  Claire transitions back to her faux British accent. “Not bloody likely.” She then speaks normally again. “What’s his name?”

  Larry answers, “He’s that big corn fed Iowa boy. His name is Lou Drive, but I guarantee that you won’t miss him.”

  “Great. I’ll show him the ropes.”

  Claire runs out of Larry’s office. At the door, she turns around and gives a sarcastic curtsey. She then turns and runs to the studio to let Gabe know to use her name, First Line, when referencing the vigilante.

  Power’s warehouse is swarmed with police and the media. There’s caution tape surrounding the whole building, the cleanup from the attack the previous night.

  Power observes the police activity outside his sealed off clubhouse. He’s in a crowd of people who all watch as the police look for any evidence outside of the warehouse. It took hours to remove the white adhesive that covered the inside. Power smiles because many police officers possess a drained look and demeanor. It’s good to know that his loss at least made the cops tired.

  Power looks to a young man to his left. He motions with his head to follow him.

  “We need to get the rest of the guys together and talk about this. This shit doesn’t make any sense,” he comments.

  Power’s accomplice agrees. “Power, why would The Enterprise allow this to happen?”

  Power shakes his head. “I don’t know, man. I thought we had protection, but whoever hit us doesn’t seem to fear them.”

  “You gonna ask for a meeting?”

  Power gives his friend a face that makes it clear that it’s possible to ask a stupid question. “Hell no. I was the last guy to leave before it all went down. That looks suspicious as hell. I’m gonna keep my head down and hope that nobody figures me for a snitch. I’m lucky that I got out, but whoever this do-gooder is, he just screwed me over. I won’t be able to sleep for weeks because of this Night Terror.”

  “No doubt. I’m glad I was at my mom’s last night.”

  “We need to get the product back on the streets and act like this doesn’t bother us. It’s our only play. I just hope The Speaker doesn’t show up. As long as she stays away, we’re good.”

  “That bitch scares me.”

  “Thanks, Captain Obvious.” Power simply shakes his head. “Man, let’s go.”

  The two men turn and head down the street, away from their old headquarters.

  Detective Benji Tanner, a short and slightly portly man in his late thirties, watches them as they leave. Mendez and his new partner are nearby, helping with crowd control.

  Benji watches two suspicious men depart and addresses Mendez.

  “Why do I get the feeling that I just watched suspects walk away?”

  “Because you did just watch them walk away,” Mendez answers.

  “Do you know those two?” Benji asks.

  “The one in red is Dominic Wiener, but he goes by the street name of Power. I’ll have some guys grab him for questioning once we’re done with this place.”

  Maria chuckles. “His name is Power Wiener? That’s a porn name if ever I’ve heard one.”

  “You might want to keep it down,” Mendez remarks. “You don’t get to run a crew without having a bit of a short temper and an ego complex.”

  Maria seems to accept the advice. “Sorry. Ears and eyes everywhere. I got it.”

  Benji chimes in. “You got saddled with the rookie, Mendez?”

  “Just my luck. It’s what I get for showing her around the office today.”

  “What happened to Smith?” Benji asks.

  “When is the last time you’ve seen Smith do anything in the last month?” Mendez asks. “The guy is always missing. Always late. And, he has bullshit excuses every time.”

  “Yeah, well, he comes from money and politics, so I doubt things will change anytime soon. The guy is invulnerable to punishment.”

  “That’s why I asked to trade him out for Maria here.”

  “Do you know what they’re going to do with Smith?” Benji inquires.

  “Don’t know and don’t care,” Mendez responds.

  “Well,
how’s the rookie working out?”

  Maria re-enters the conversation. She seems a bit annoyed. “The rookie standing right here in ear shot? That rookie?”

  “That’s the one,” Benji playfully responds.

  “She’s alright,” Mendez answers. “She’s picking up things quickly.”

  “Is that so,” Benji marvels. “Well, what can you tell me about this place?”

  “Not as much from outside the building,” Maria curtly replies.

  “Fair enough, smart ass. Let’s go inside and make you a detective.”

  Benji leads the three under the tape and into the clubhouse.

  Inside, the entryway seems fine. There are a few bullet holes in the walls, but for the most part the building is intact. The trio make their way past forensics examiners hauling out evidence and proceed to the living room, where a fight clearly took place. There’s plenty of evidence of the significant struggle from the night before. Tables and chairs are flipped over with copious bullet holes punctuating the violence.

  Red string is run from mannequins to these holes as investigators attempt to recreate the scene. Everywhere there’s a sticky white residue, typically near where the mannequins are standing.

  Benji picks at some of the residual adhesive. “We don’t know what this gunk is, but all the punks in here were immobilized by it. It looks like it destroyed the drugs they had, too. Mostly just crack and powder cocaine.”

  Maria appears mesmerized by her first crime scene. “They shot this place to hell and nobody was killed?”

  Benji is quick to answer. “One of the guys got hit, but he’s fine. This white crap sealed the wound pretty well and stopped the bleeding.”

  Mendez adds to the conversation. “This vigilante never used guns before.”

  “Exactly,” Benji states. “That’s why I suspect that the guy got hit by a ricochet. Our vigilante is clearly well trained in hand-to-hand fisticuffs--”

  Maria stifles a giggle. “Who talks like that?”

  Benji addresses Mendez. “She’s got a mouth on her.”

  Mendez just shrugs.

  Benji continues. “I like my word a day calendar. Anyway, his attacks have left people seriously hurt. If he was a shooter, I suspect we would have bodies here instead of suspects. This is more evidence to support my theory that the guy is a government-trained weapon. He’s practicing in our back yard until the man thinks he’s ready to be turned loose internationally.”

  “Seriously?” Maria wonders out loud. “Why would the government practice on its own citizens? I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

  Mendez fixes Maria with a dirty glare. “Great! Now we have to listen to the whole conspiracy theory again.”

  He throws his hands up in disgust.

  Benji smiles at the opportunity to get on his pulpit and discuss his conspiracy theories. “Yes, it’s a theory, but one that makes more sense than a real-life, lone wolf, superhero. Think about it. The people hit are all criminals, but nothing is ever stolen--”

  “Yeah, that sounds just like the government,” Mendez jokes.

  “There are flaws in the theory, admittedly, but let me finish. The criminal victims are always left alive but so beaten that some are paralyzed, and all of them have some form of PTSD. That’s an effective way to cut down on recidivism.”

  “That stupid calendar,” Mendez says.

  “I know what it means,” Maria states.

  “So do I,” Mendez admits, “just people never use the word.”

  “Pay attention!” Benji playfully shouts. “Soon we’ll have people like this in other cities, then it’ll spring up in other countries and the next thing you know--”

  “You get a ‘to be continued’ at the end of your comic book and nerd rage for a month until the next issue.”

  Mendez and all the other personnel around roar with laughter at Maria’s joke. Even Benji smiles to himself.

  “Like I said, it’s a theory. By definition, it’s a work in progress. Regardless, you’ll see that I’m right.”

  Mendez smiles at his friend. “You sound pretty sure of yourself. Maybe Whitmore isn’t the vigilante. Perhaps you are.”

  “Now who’s talking conspiracy theories.”

  “No, it makes sense,” Mendez continues. “You already know the whole plan, but you can’t keep yourself from bragging about it. Just like a mental person with enough of a god complex to be a superhero would be expected to do.”

  Maria adds to Mendez’s statement. “You even came back to the scene of the crime to relive the event.”

  Mendez cracks another grin as he and Maria high five each other.

  A disgruntled forensics technician approaches the group. “I’m glad that you remembered that it’s an active crime scene. If all you’re going to do is talk about unrelated crap, I’d ask for you to leave and collect your undeserved paychecks somewhere else!”

  The trio look ashamed at being called out like that.

  Benji turns toward the door. “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be such a dick, Ramone,” Mendez adds.

  Maria just follows the other two sheepishly. They leave the building, and the crowd begins to depart. The show is mostly over. Only one person, in a gray hoodie, sweatpants, and flip flops, continues to watch. He holds a smartphone out to film the scene.

  Keith Douglas-Sanders, a young acne-scarred teenager, sits in his home with his friend Kyle. They play video games on a lavishly large screen television. The game is a first-person shooter, and the two have a fun time taunting each other.

  “Boom. Dead again. Now watch my happy dance,” Keith triumphantly states. He pushes a button that makes his avatar dance while Kyle re-spawns a new character.

  Kyle, a boy fortunate to not suffer from the same oily skin, isn’t one to take the taunts without returning his own. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m still up ten kills to six.”

  “Yeah, but the gap is closing, bitch.”

  “I’m not worried,” Kyle states, “because we’re out of time.”

  “The hell we are. My mom doesn’t come home for another couple of hours.”

  “Isn’t it four o’clock? Time for your precious D2I Analysis, isn’t it?”

  Keith looks at his watch and quickly hits pause on his controller. “That’s why God invented the pause button. Don’t think this is over. You just got an hour reprieve.”

  “Sure, my hands were getting sore. That’s the only reason your punk ass had any kind of chance.”

  Keith grabs the television remote and switches components back to the cable box.

  Kyle seems compelled to comment. “I can’t believe you still have cable.”

  “My mom is a relic of the past and won’t drop it. What do I care? I don’t have to pay the bill.”

  Keith puts it to the D2I channel just as the program begins.

  The two watch the program as Gabe Hammington reports.

  “Good afternoon,” he begins, “I’m Gabe Hammington and this is D2I Analysis.”

  The television plays the promo for the show. The anchor is handsome with a pronounced cleft chin and frozen-in-place blond hair. Gabe is seen interviewing several people and acting goofy. The cheese factor is high.

  Gabe continues. “Hello and welcome to D2I Analysis. The show that takes all the data the other guys try to give you and converts it into the information that you want. Our top story today is once again about First Line.”

  The boys stare at each other and shrug.

  Gabe proceeds with his reporting. “First Line is the name of the superhero vigilante protecting the streets of Colberton at night. Our sources tracked him down, and he was willing to share that one piece of information. We promise to continue to press him to come on for an interview, but for now, take comfort in knowing that he vows to keep the city safe.”

  This revelation is too much for the boys to take. They both jump up expecting clear photographs of the hero whom they’ve spent so many hours discussing.

  “Unfor
tunately, First Line wouldn’t allow us to take a picture of him, but we promise that this, too, will come soon. However, I can tell you from personal experience that he’s an imposing figure. He’s definitely not one you would want angry with you.”

  The boys are immediately disappointed. They wanted a picture to compare to the numerous drawings the two have all over the house as possible likenesses.

  “We’ll keep you posted on this story as it develops, but our unofficial track is that he has led to the arrest of three hundred and nineteen criminals, closed three drug labs, and twelve distribution centers. He’s also rescued two hostages and ended one slave trafficking ring. This is in just one month. Imagine what he can do with an entire year. Police still won’t confirm these numbers or acknowledge that these actions were all by one person, but First Line simply commented with ‘wait until I really get started.’ Now for a look at today’s traffic across the country, Camille.”

  The boys lose interest with the program as it transitions to “useless” information. They now pay less attention to the show.

  “Did you hear that?” Kyle exclaims. “My man has a name!”

  “Yeah, a lame name,” Keith adds. “First Line is stupid. It sounds like the shit a third-rate comic book writer would come up with.”

  “Yo, don’t let First Line hear you say that. He might go gang busters on you.”

  “I just wish he had consulted me on the name first. I could have come up with something much better, like Apex Predator.”

  Kyle laughs loudly. “Apex Predator? Are you serious? That’s not much better.”

  “It was my first attempt. I’ll think of better. I just wish we had a picture. It seems a bit sketch that we don’t.”

  “Whatever, yo. You want to play the game some more?”

  “Wait until Gabe is done.”

  “You aren’t even paying attention.”

  “I’m too excited right now. I mean, the news finally admitted that there’s a real live superhero out there. Our city was first. Do you think there are more superheroes out there? Maybe even a team?”

  “Yeah, maybe. I mean, I hope so, but,” Kyle trails off.

  “What?” Keith asks.

  “I just thought about something. If this confirms a superhero, then how much longer until the first supervillain shows up? I hope First Line doesn’t draw them here.”