Latino male in battered work clothes. The soonest this guy was getting off was Woodcrest, and more likely in Heckton.
African American teenager wearing Funkmaster T-shirt and jeans with holes in them. Definitely Heckton. Funkmaster came from that neighborhood, and his merchandise had only increased in sales since he was killed by the Hippo four years ago.
Middle-aged Latina woman in an off-the-rack suit, reading the Gazette. Probably getting off with (or near) Garcia in Woodcrest.
Irish American teenagers wearing knockoff Superior Six T-shirts and jewelry, sharing earbuds for their Zap. Almost certainly Woodcrest, which still had a heavy Irish population.
Caucasian male wearing pinstriped suit, listening to music on his Zap, fancy briefcase at his feet. This guy had to be Eisnerville, which began only two stops away.
Garcia stood in front of him.
Sure enough, as the train pulled into the 85th Street station, the man in the pinstriped suit got up, and Garcia easily slid into his seat. Looking up, he saw that every piece of ad space in the car—the long rectangular ads above the windows and the square ones on the walls—was taken up with ads for Superior Soda. There were, naturally, six types—cola, diet cola, cherry cola, root beer, lemon/lime, and orange—each with a different member of the Superior Six holding up a bottle of a different beverage. Each costume was surrounded by a different group of pre-teen kids painstakingly chosen for their ethnic diversity. The images were all taken in KirbyPark, with the very same blimp that had obstructed Garcia's view of the crescent moon in the background.
Garcia was particularly amused to see that one of the six ads had Mercury holding a bottle of Superior Root Beer. Mercury had left the team late last year after retiring due to chronic back issues. He'd been replaced by Suricata. Idly, Garcia wondered how Suricata felt about the fact that she wasn't represented in these ads. He also wondered if Mercury was still getting residuals.
Then he wondered why he cared.
Forty minutes later, he arrived at the Robbins Avenue stop and got up to leave. To his amusement, the Latina woman and the teenagers sharing the earbuds got off with him.
Climbing the stairs that would bring him to the Nantier Boulevard sidewalk, Garcia felt drained. Usually, when he got home, he decompressed while watching television and eating dinner. If it was Friday or Saturday, he'd have a beer as well. But tonight, he wasn't at all hungry, and he knew if he watched TV he'd just gravitate to the news channels, and they'd all be talking about the Claw and how ineffectual the SCPD had been in capturing him.
No, Garcia decided, I'm just gonna go to bed. I could use a quiet night, especially since tomorrow will probably be worse than today.
Walking down Nantier, which was just a simple two-way street without a divider now, he looked up.
Here, he could see the crescent moon.
7.55pm
Kristin Milewski hated coming to the morgue.
It had actually gotten better since she came over to Homicide. When she was in Narcotics, trips to the morgue usually meant the end of a case—someone they were trying to track down would wind up dead, usually because of something only tangentially related to her own case. Her former partner, now retired, had always said that calls to the morgue were the death knell of good drug cases.
Now, though, the morgue visit was when things were getting rolling. True, the real beginning of the case was the crime scene, but it was a medical examiner's declaration that the manner of death was homicide that made it an official case for her.
She still hated coming here, though, because the O'Neil Building that housed the SuperCity branch of the CountyMedical Examiner's office was so bland and sterile. Milewski much preferred the brick and wood and glass of police HQ—they gave the structure some character. The O'Neil Building, by contrast, was all plaster and metal and plastic. All the worst elements of your average hospital without any of the redeeming features. She supposed it was a byproduct of their patients all being dead, but it still did nothing to make her want to come back here.
However, in all the times she'd been to the O'Neil Building, she had never once met the Chief Medical Examiner, Ryan Soohoo. Were it not for his frequent television appearances, she wouldn't even know what the man looked like. Of all the autopsy reports she'd read, not a single one contained his signature. On a whim, she'd once done a computer search, and discovered that Soohoo had only performed a dozen autopsies in his fifteen years as chief, all high-profile cases that had a ton of press coverage, and, more often than not, involved the costumes. In fact, his first autopsy was of Gold Star when she was found dead on a rooftop in Woodcrest. As Milewski recalled, they never did find out who killed the heroine.
Seeing Soohoo in person as he walked through the metal swinging doors of the autopsy room into the drab hallway, the first thing Milewski noticed was how short he was. On TV, he was always sitting down, and he had excellent posture, so he came across as tall. Now she realized that it was due to his having short legs for his height, that height not exactly being all that. Five-six at the most.
Yanking his latex gloves off with a snap, Soohoo regarded the detective through his slightly slanted brown eyes. "Detectives, what can I do for you?"
"What the hell do you think?" MacAvoy asked before Milewski could give a polite answer—which was pretty much the story of their partnership.
"My autopsy report will be filed by morning. You'll see it when it's routed—"
MacAvoy rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Seriously, Doc? You're pulling this? We're the primaries in charge of this case."
Soohoo made a clucking noise as he walked down the hallway. "There's a procedure to be followed, Detectives. My report will be filed—"
"Yeah, we know that," MacAvoy said, following him. Reluctantly, Milewski did likewise.
"So why are you here bothering me?"
"Same reason detectives are always coming down here—to get prelim from the M.E. You'd know that if you actually ever did autopsies."
Soohoo turned and regarded MacAvoy with the same look one might give to a bowl of soup in which one had discovered a dead cockroach. "I consider that unlikely, Detective, since my medical examiners are trained to never provide information to SCPD until the full report is done."
Again, MacAvoy rolled his eyes. "On what planet—"
Milewski stepped in, unable to bear this any longer. "Doctor Soohoo, I'm sorry, but this is a very important case—"
"Which is the only reason your sorry ass is even involved," MacAvoy muttered.
Ignoring him, Milewski continued: "—and we're under considerable pressure to solve it quickly. If you could at least give us something."
"Well, I can safely tell you that the manner of death is likely to be homicide, so you will still have a case."
With that, Soohoo turned a corner and opened a metal door with a nameplate affixed to the wall next to it that read dr. ryan soohoo, chief medical examiner. Soohoo opened it, went through, and then slammed it in the detectives' face.
"Good approach, rook."
Milewski whirled on her partner. "Oh, right, 'cause your method of insulting him and berating him was really getting good results."
"There are plenty of M.E.s down here I respect. He ain't one of 'em. Five'll getcha ten that the autopsy'll be leaked to News 6 at 6 or the Gazette before it ever makes it to the second floor of HQ."
"If you were so sure of that, why did we even come down here?"
MacAvoy shrugged. "Thought maybe, with four people being dead, including a kid, Soohoo might not've been such a jackass."
Shooting MacAvoy an incredulous look, Milewski asked, "What happened to the whole cynical, pessimistic act?"
Another shrug. "I have my moments of cockeyed optimism. They usually get cured pretty quick, though. Either someone acts like Soohoo or I just drink a lot. Or I talk to you for three seconds. C'mon, let's blow this pop stand."
As soon as they exited into the cool evening air, Milewski's Zap rang. The display indicat
ed that it was HQ.
"Milewski," she said as she put the phone to her ear after pressing talk.
"Can I speak to Detective Milewski please?" It was Zoey, the evening-shift secretary, and she pronounced it "mill-EW-skee." After all these years, Zoey still didn't recognize Milewski's voice on the phone, and still couldn't pronounce her last name right. She wasn't sure which annoyed her more.
"It's 'ma-LOV-skee.' What is it, Zoey?"
"Oh." Zoey sounded confused for a moment. "You received calls back from both the Superior Six and the Terrific Trio."
"Great."
"Not a hundred percent great. The Trio is off Earth right now, and their receptionist didn't really know when they'd be back on the planet."
Milewski couldn't believe that, with the Claw on the loose, the Terrific Trio thought this was a good time to go to outer space, but she supposed there was a good reason. "And the Six?"
"They've agreed to meet with you and Detective MacAvoy at eight a.m. tomorrow morning."
"As opposed to eight a.m. tomorrow evening?" Milewski asked, slightly snidely.
"Huh?"
MacAvoy cracked a smile. Milewski waved her hand back and forth across her face. "Never mind. Where's the meet?"
"You're to go to the SchwartzBuilding at 1915 75th Street, fourth floor."
"Got it," Milewski said. "Thanks, Zoey." She ended the call, then looked at MacAvoy. "We actually have an appointment with the Six." She passed on the information.
"I can't believe they keep an office in that dump." MacAvoy shook his head. "Whatever. I think we've officially exhausted everything we can do tonight—especially since, as Doctor Soohoo so snidely reminded us, we don't technically have a case until he waves his magic wand and calls this a homicide. Or, rather, four homicides. So since we've already logged in another four hours of OT—"
Milewski's eyes widened, and she glanced at the display of her Zap, which confirmed that it was just after eight p.m., four hours after their second straight shift ended. "Christ."
"Yeah. Gotta love a red-ball. We both need some shut-eye, so let's dump the Malibu back in the motor pool and head home."
Nodding, Milewski said, "Sounds like a plan. I'll let the sarge know."
As she dialed HQ, MacAvoy headed for the car, which was parked in the tiny lot next to the O'Neil Building. "We've already wasted our time with the victims' nearest and dearest, then wasted time with the M.E. Tomorrow morning, the costumes—it'll be a trifecta of useless!"
With an ease the frankly relieved her, Milewski ignored her partner while she talked to HQ, again wondering how long she'd be in Zimmerman's doghouse before the new partner request would even be considered.
PART TWO
TUESDAY
6am
"Good morning SuperCity! And welcome to News 6 at 6. I'm Chuck Ortiz."
"And I'm Mindy Ling. Later on, we'll tell you about some bad news for the residents of Woodcrest and good news for KirbyPark. We'll also have Ian Michaelson with sports with bad news for the Capes, Debra Fine with weather with good news for sun-worshippers, and Donna Brodsky with traffic with bad news for commuters. But first our top story. Chuck?"
"Thank you, Mindy. The Claw remains at large today, having added gynecologist Dr. Sophie Ashlyn, bookstore manager Pablo Martinez, delicatessen owner Soon-Li Han, and DrakeHigh School student Monte Barker to his list of victims Sunday night. According to a statement by the Superior Six, they are devoting every resource into finding the Claw. A statement by SCPD spokeswoman Regina Dent said much the same thing, which was the same statement given by Mayor Sittler. A statement from Chief Medical Examiner Ryan Soohoo this morning confirmed that the four latest victims were killed by the same method as the previous Claw victims. Seems to me, Mindy, that nobody knows much of anything that we didn't know yesterday."
"So it would seem, Chuck, but at least we made it through the night without anyone else being killed. Drake High is closed today with most of its faculty and student body scheduled to attend the funeral of Monte Barker. Meanwhile, the Severin Free Clinic, where Dr. Ashlyn worked, is surrounded by protestors from pro-life groups who are claiming that Dr. Ashlyn got what she deserved. Chuck?"
"Thanks, Mindy. The reconstruction of the south lawn of KirbyPark looks to be finished ahead of schedule, thanks to a special sod provided by the Terrific Trio. The reopening ceremony is currently scheduled for next Friday at three. It'll be hosted by Governor LaSalle, and include performances by the popular local band known as Yellow Spandex, singer Clay Aiken, and comedian Rondell Sheridan, as well as appearances by Kirby Park's architect, Jacob Kurtzberg, and, from the Terrific Trio, the Flame. Originally scheduled to attend was Super City Capes catcher Cornelius Pascoe, but his leg was broken in a collision at home plate with Evan Longoria during last night's game against the Tampa Bay Rays. Ian will have more on that later on during our News 6 at 6 sports coverage. Mindy?"
"Thanks, Chuck. There's more to come, including Spectacular Man's fight against the Riders of the Purple Wage, plus Donna Brodsky will tell you how traffic in Woodcrest has been snarled by that very fight."
"But first, a commercial break."
8.10am
Peter MacAvoy was of the opinion that if the Superior Six were really such hot shit, they'd have more up-to-date magazines in their waiting room. This is worse than my dentist's office, and she's got a copy of Time that talks about Dewey defeating Truman. At least one of the periodicals on the wooden coffee table had ceased publication six months ago.
He idly flipped through a three-month-old copy of SC Magazine, having grown bored with staring at the six framed photographs of the current roster of the Six in action that took up all the wall space. The room was disappointingly generic. It could have belonged to anyone: simple elevator to the fourth floor, a brief walk down a hardwood-floored hallway to a metal door with the Six's logo on it. He was buzzed in after identifying himself over a standard intercom, and the bored-looking middle-aged woman with the massive head of hair that looked like it'd been shellacked in place, sitting at the metal reception desk, told him in a dull monotone to have a seat on a battered leather couch that leaned up against a wall that was painted a very unfortunate shade of green.
Somehow he expected more from the "World's Premiere Heroic Team!" as intoned on the old clip of Don LaFontaine, speaking in that distinctive voice of his, that the Six had been using in their television and radio commercials for years. At least the Terrific Trio owned TriadTower, which was a nice building. In fact, they made it look snazzier every time they rebuilt it. And the Justiciars had been set up in a complex on ColanIsland back in the day.
The ugly green walls were covered with the aforementioned photos: Spectacular Man flying past the Romita Building at dawn; Komodo Dragon tussling with one of the Brute Squad on a rooftop, the SC Tower visible in the background; Suricata in the midst of a backflip off a tree in Kirby Park (she was the newest member, so hers was the only one with a pristine frame, the others being chipped or worn); Olorun lifting a Mack truck on Nantier; the Bengal delivering a nasty kick to the Osmium Obliterator; and Starling flying between the spires of the Shuster Bridge.
A buzzing sound startled MacAvoy out of his reverie, only then realizing that he'd read the opening paragraph of an article on the wineries in Miller Valley six times, and that he'd dozed. He shook his swimming head in order to clear it.
The receptionist touched a button. "Yes?"
A tinny voice replied. "Detective Kristin Milewski of the SCPD."
"That's my partner," MacAvoy added.
After fixing MacAvoy with a look that indicated that she'd just as soon swat him like a fly, the receptionist buzzed his partner in.
Milewski entered, looking breathless. She yanked out her earbuds; they were attached to her Zap. MacAvoy had one of those also, but only because Zimmerman insisted. MacAvoy considered it a point of pride that he'd never figured out how to make it play music. Besides, digital recordings didn't sound right to MacAvoy, who was raised
on vinyl records. One of his goals for retirement next year was to spend his days listening to his entire Moody Blues collection on his old turntable.
To his partner, he said, "You're late."
"Sorry, they had to divert the Platinum Line. Prism was fighti—"
MacAvoy held up a hand. "I don't care." He turned to the receptionist. "Ma'am, now that we're both here—"
"I'm sorry, Detectives, but until I am told you can go back, you have to remain in the—"
"Fine," MacAvoy said, leaning back on the couch, which made the leather squeak in a manner that sounded way too much like passing gas. He held up the SC Magazine to Milewski, who was moving to sit next to him. "Can I interest you in a three-month-old magazine? I particularly recommend the article on the wines of MillerValley as a sleep aid."
Milewski barked a laugh and took the magazine. "That's the last thing I need. Slept like a rock last night."
"Really? I'd've thought you'd have been tossing and turning all night."
"Why," Milewski snapped, "because I'm just a girrrrrl?"
"No, 'cause when I had my first serial killer, I was up all night."
"Yeah, well, I'm not you." Then she broke into a grin.. "Also, I have an Ambien prescription."
MacAvoy threw his head back and laughed. "Nice, rook, you've learned one of the first rules of Homicide."
Milewski raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Better living through chemistry. Drugs are your friend."
"Hardly. I came out of Narcotics, remember?" She started flipping through the magazine, then closed it to look at the cover. "Jesus, this really is three months old." She tossed it to the table and then looked at MacAvoy. "You shaved. Trying to create a good impression for the costumes?"
MacAvoy's hand went to his shaved (but not smooth; teenage acne had done its damage to his face at a young age) cheek. "Yeah, I figured there might be press. It is the Stupid Six, after all, and since the whole point of this nonsense is to make the department look good—"
Case of the Claw Page 7