Post by Deleted on Jul 10, 2013 1:07:13 GMT -5
Previously in Detective Comics…
My name is Jason Bard. I used to be a detective with the Gotham City Police Department, but an unfortunate incident cost me my leg and my career. Nowadays I make my living as a private detective. To most people that might sound like an exciting job, but it’s mostly a pain in the ass.
Being a detective isn't cheap, and running your own detective agency is worse. Just to stay in business I need to have an office, a phone, an answering service, a desk, files, financial records, and more. It costs me over twice as much to maintain a cruddy office in a seedy part of town as it does to live in that closet jokingly called an apartment that’s located in an even seedier part of town. That’s to say nothing of the normal operating expenses I accrue while out on a job.
So when a gorgeous woman walked into my office with the promise of a generous payday, I jumped at the opportunity without a moment’s hesitation. That turned out to be a big mistake on my part. Now I find myself enjoying the “hospitality” of the Gotham City Police Department after being framed for a murder that I didn’t commit.
Local Police Precinct: 11:45 P.M.
I get the pleasure of sitting in an interrogation room for two full hours after being taken into custody. I don’t kick up a fuss about it, because I have plenty of experience with this particular routine. Parking someone in a nearly empty room and leaving them to stew for a while is an effective technique. Doubt and a guilty conscience can do a lot to a person when they’re alone. Fortunately I have neither one of those things plaguing my mind at the moment.
Two men finally step in to end my boredom. The first guy is big, very well dressed; maybe sixty but there’s no trace of middle age soft about him. He’s not a muscle freak or anything, but he is solidly built, and more importantly he looks capable. Anyone with an ounce of sense would think twice about getting into an altercation with him. Muscle can be tough to deal with; experience even more so; muscle and experience together makes for a very unpleasant combination.
“Slam Bradley,” I greet the man. “I can’t believe you haven’t retired yet you old dinosaur. I figured you’d be kicking back in the Bahamas or some other warm, tropical paradise by now. Not stomping around on new hunting grounds.”
Calling Samuel “Slam” Bradley a friend would be overstating things a bit, but the two of us do go back a few years. That kind of connection should have prevented Slam from participating in this interrogation. Either the higher ups at this precinct are forgetful, or they just don’t give a damn considering the circumstances make this look like an open and shut case.
“That makes two of us,” Slam grumbles in response.
“Let me guess, budget cuts,” I remark. “And the first thing affected was the pension plan.”
An annoyed grunt is all I get as an answer, but it tells me everything I need to know. It figures that a good, honest cop like Slam Bradley would get screwed over while corruption runs rampant elsewhere. That’s pretty much Gotham City in a nutshell.
“Well maybe…”
The second man cuts me off mid-sentence by clearing his throat. Now this fellow I don’t recognize. He’s has to be close to three decades younger than Slam, and isn't anywhere near as rugged looking. His complexion is almost laughably artificial looking, and I find myself struggling to keep a straight face despite the seriousness of my situation. Human skin is definitely not supposed to be orange looking.
“Is there some kind of problem here?” the man asks.
“Nope,” I quickly reply before clearing my throat as well to buy myself a few seconds to regain my composure. “No problem at all, Detective…?”
“Morgan.”
I know that it’s not a great idea to laugh at one of my interrogators, but the guy basically looks like a pumpkin. He has a squat face, a low crinkled brow, and a flattop haircut that more than lives up to its description. It looks as though something heavy had fallen onto his head at some point in time, and squashed his skull. His flat nose and wide nostrils only serve to accentuate the horizontal impression of his features.
“Okay Mr. Bard,” Morgan continues. “Now that the small talk is out of the way it’s time to get serious. So, why don’t you go ahead and tell us how all of this happened? No point in wasting any more time with this. The sooner we’re done here the better.”
“Don’t be so damn impatient Morgan,” Slam barks. “This guy used to be one of us.”
“Yeah, he used to be. Look at him now.”
The barely disguised sound of disdain in his voice makes it obvious that Morgan has already made up his mind. It’s not surprising given the situation, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. At least Slam seems willing to hear me out. Maybe it’s just because I’m an ex-cop, but I appreciate it nonetheless.
“Where should I start?” I ask which causes Morgan to roll his eyes in an exaggerated manner.
“Try the beginning. You know, where all stories tend to start.”
“The beginning huh…all right. Well, first there was nothing, see? And then God said ‘Let there be light!’” I could say more, but something tells me he’s heard this particular story before.
“Cute,” Morgan comments with an irritated sigh. “But I suppose jokes are about all you have to rely on after being caught red handed.”
“You have me in the room holding the murder weapon,” I admit. “Yeah that seems bad, but the thing is you’ll have no physical evidence to prove that I’m the one who actually pulled the trigger.”
“You were found with the gun in your bare hand,” Morgan reminds me.
“Your prints are going to be all over it. A close range shot means your clothes are going to be covered in gunpowder. I thought you used to be a detective Bard. Don’t tell me I have to explain what all of this means.”
“Go ahead and check with forensics,” I tell him. “My prints are on the grip, but they won’t be on the trigger. I don’t have any gunpowder residue on me either. You see where I’m going with this, or do I need to spell it out for you?”
“You’re awfully confident,” Morgan remarks. “What happens when the results come back and the evidence completely contradicts what you’re telling us?”
“That won’t happen.”
“Oh so you’re psychic now? I guess we can go ahead and add meta human to your file here.”
“Yeah, you sure figured out my secret,” I reply sarcastically. “I got hit by this magic bullet. It gave me the blinding speed of a one legged man, but also the ability to notice details that are right in front of my fucking face. Like the fact that you have nothing that will hold up in court.”
“Aside from an eyewitness you mean?” Slam asks.
“Oh right, an eyewitness who just happens to be the daughter of a suspected crime boss. I’m sure credibility isn't going to be an issue there. Especially since she’s the one who set me up to take the fall for the crime that she committed.”
I tell them about the arrangement with Peyton, and how I walked in on her after she killed her fiancé. Slam doesn't look entirely convinced; Detective Morgan is more vocal about it. "That's bullshit! You think we’re stupid or something?”
“You really sure you want me to answer that one?”
“You smart ass piece of crap! You think you got the answer for everything? Well you don't! You’re toast, scumbag! We're gonna nail you to the fence!"
"Your 'good cop, bad cop' routine needs a little bit of work.”
“Is that right, asshole?”
“Yeah,” I respond with a smirk. “I’ll give you a little hint: It’s the intimidating one that’s supposed to be bad cop. You’re about as scary as those douchebags from the Jersey Shore. Hell you certainly got the look to fit right in with that crowd. Have you ever actually met a brand of spray on tan that you didn't like?"
Morgan makes a move for me, but doesn't get any farther than Slam’s arm. I start to smile, but Slam stops me with a glare that would probably make most guys piss in their pants. Good thing I don’t have to go at the moment.
“Enough of this,” Slam decrees. “I’m too damn old to be babysitting a couple of grown ass men. You’re adults, so start acting like it!”
“But Slam…” Strangely enough, Morgan and I both mutter the words almost simultaneously, but Slam isn't having any of it.
“No buts. Morgan, get your ass in the squad room and cool off. And as for you Bard, I’ll be back soon, and if you give me the same kind of lip you were giving Morgan here there’s gonna be problems. Understand?”
He doesn't even wait for me to nod before dragging his partner out of the room. I didn't do myself any favors by mouthing off, but I know I got my side of the story across. The lack of physical evidence won’t exonerate me on its own, but it will damn sure make it harder to build a case against me. I need more to tip the odds in my favor, but I can’t accomplish much while I’m still in custody.
The wait isn't nearly as long for Slam to return, and his puzzled expression actually gives me a glimmer of hope. Something must not be adding up right in his head, which is precisely what I need people to start seeing. If I don’t sway someone soon I’m going to be screwed.
“You said she set you up?” Slam inquired. “That she pulled the trigger and not you?”
“That’s what I’m saying. Uniform should have brought her in to make a statement. Any chance she’s still here? You can test her for gunshot residue."
“Well that’s the thing,” he replies. “They never did bring her in. They let her go home, and now I can’t seem to get a hold of her. She could just be sleeping, but for some reason I just don’t think that’s the case.”
The uniformed officers should never have let her just leave the crime scene. If she had any evidence on her person it could be “inadvertently” destroyed. An official statement is also best made when the incident in question is still fresh in the memory. Allowing her to go home is either supremely inept, or a sign that Peyton had some people in her pocket. No real way to know for sure when the GCPD is involved.
“That doesn't make any sense,” I remark. “If she wants me to go down for this then skipping town is the last thing she should do.”
“I know. This doesn't smell right to me, so I had a few words with the lieutenant.”
He pauses for what feels like an eternity before I prompt him to continue. “And? Don’t leave me hanging in suspense here.”
“Twenty four hours kid. That’s how long he can stall the DA from filing formal charges against you. That’s how long you have to find Peyton Riley and clean up this mess.”
“How in the hell did you manage to convince him to do that?”
“Favors,” he responds matter of factually. “When you been at this as long as I have you earn more than a few. Let’s just say I had to call a bunch of them in.”
“You sure about this Slam? We've known each other a while, but you sure as hell don’t owe me anything.”
“True, but my gut tells me you’re clean, kid. And if there’s one thing I've learned over the years it’s to always trust my gut.”
“Thanks Slam.”
“Don’t thank me yet kid. I might not owe you anything, but when this is all over you’re damn sure gonna owe me one.”
I’m not sure if I should be intrigued by that prospect, or utterly terrified by it. Knowing Slam it could go either way.
“So I’m free to go?” I ask, and Slam shakes his head.
“No, not exactly free. This whole thing hinges on one condition. I have to go with you every step of the way.”
“Works for me,” I reply with a shrug. “It’ll be just like old times.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Slam mutters as he holds the door open for me. “So how do you want to play this?”
“Oh, I've got a few ideas on where to start,” I tell him. “I’m not sure you’re going to like any of them though.”
“Fantastic kid," he sighs. "Just fantastic.”
My name is Jason Bard. I used to be a detective with the Gotham City Police Department, but an unfortunate incident cost me my leg and my career. Nowadays I make my living as a private detective. To most people that might sound like an exciting job, but it’s mostly a pain in the ass.
Being a detective isn't cheap, and running your own detective agency is worse. Just to stay in business I need to have an office, a phone, an answering service, a desk, files, financial records, and more. It costs me over twice as much to maintain a cruddy office in a seedy part of town as it does to live in that closet jokingly called an apartment that’s located in an even seedier part of town. That’s to say nothing of the normal operating expenses I accrue while out on a job.
So when a gorgeous woman walked into my office with the promise of a generous payday, I jumped at the opportunity without a moment’s hesitation. That turned out to be a big mistake on my part. Now I find myself enjoying the “hospitality” of the Gotham City Police Department after being framed for a murder that I didn’t commit.
* * *
Local Police Precinct: 11:45 P.M.
I get the pleasure of sitting in an interrogation room for two full hours after being taken into custody. I don’t kick up a fuss about it, because I have plenty of experience with this particular routine. Parking someone in a nearly empty room and leaving them to stew for a while is an effective technique. Doubt and a guilty conscience can do a lot to a person when they’re alone. Fortunately I have neither one of those things plaguing my mind at the moment.
Two men finally step in to end my boredom. The first guy is big, very well dressed; maybe sixty but there’s no trace of middle age soft about him. He’s not a muscle freak or anything, but he is solidly built, and more importantly he looks capable. Anyone with an ounce of sense would think twice about getting into an altercation with him. Muscle can be tough to deal with; experience even more so; muscle and experience together makes for a very unpleasant combination.
“Slam Bradley,” I greet the man. “I can’t believe you haven’t retired yet you old dinosaur. I figured you’d be kicking back in the Bahamas or some other warm, tropical paradise by now. Not stomping around on new hunting grounds.”
Calling Samuel “Slam” Bradley a friend would be overstating things a bit, but the two of us do go back a few years. That kind of connection should have prevented Slam from participating in this interrogation. Either the higher ups at this precinct are forgetful, or they just don’t give a damn considering the circumstances make this look like an open and shut case.
“That makes two of us,” Slam grumbles in response.
“Let me guess, budget cuts,” I remark. “And the first thing affected was the pension plan.”
An annoyed grunt is all I get as an answer, but it tells me everything I need to know. It figures that a good, honest cop like Slam Bradley would get screwed over while corruption runs rampant elsewhere. That’s pretty much Gotham City in a nutshell.
“Well maybe…”
The second man cuts me off mid-sentence by clearing his throat. Now this fellow I don’t recognize. He’s has to be close to three decades younger than Slam, and isn't anywhere near as rugged looking. His complexion is almost laughably artificial looking, and I find myself struggling to keep a straight face despite the seriousness of my situation. Human skin is definitely not supposed to be orange looking.
“Is there some kind of problem here?” the man asks.
“Nope,” I quickly reply before clearing my throat as well to buy myself a few seconds to regain my composure. “No problem at all, Detective…?”
“Morgan.”
I know that it’s not a great idea to laugh at one of my interrogators, but the guy basically looks like a pumpkin. He has a squat face, a low crinkled brow, and a flattop haircut that more than lives up to its description. It looks as though something heavy had fallen onto his head at some point in time, and squashed his skull. His flat nose and wide nostrils only serve to accentuate the horizontal impression of his features.
“Okay Mr. Bard,” Morgan continues. “Now that the small talk is out of the way it’s time to get serious. So, why don’t you go ahead and tell us how all of this happened? No point in wasting any more time with this. The sooner we’re done here the better.”
“Don’t be so damn impatient Morgan,” Slam barks. “This guy used to be one of us.”
“Yeah, he used to be. Look at him now.”
The barely disguised sound of disdain in his voice makes it obvious that Morgan has already made up his mind. It’s not surprising given the situation, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. At least Slam seems willing to hear me out. Maybe it’s just because I’m an ex-cop, but I appreciate it nonetheless.
“Where should I start?” I ask which causes Morgan to roll his eyes in an exaggerated manner.
“Try the beginning. You know, where all stories tend to start.”
“The beginning huh…all right. Well, first there was nothing, see? And then God said ‘Let there be light!’” I could say more, but something tells me he’s heard this particular story before.
“Cute,” Morgan comments with an irritated sigh. “But I suppose jokes are about all you have to rely on after being caught red handed.”
“You have me in the room holding the murder weapon,” I admit. “Yeah that seems bad, but the thing is you’ll have no physical evidence to prove that I’m the one who actually pulled the trigger.”
“You were found with the gun in your bare hand,” Morgan reminds me.
“Your prints are going to be all over it. A close range shot means your clothes are going to be covered in gunpowder. I thought you used to be a detective Bard. Don’t tell me I have to explain what all of this means.”
“Go ahead and check with forensics,” I tell him. “My prints are on the grip, but they won’t be on the trigger. I don’t have any gunpowder residue on me either. You see where I’m going with this, or do I need to spell it out for you?”
“You’re awfully confident,” Morgan remarks. “What happens when the results come back and the evidence completely contradicts what you’re telling us?”
“That won’t happen.”
“Oh so you’re psychic now? I guess we can go ahead and add meta human to your file here.”
“Yeah, you sure figured out my secret,” I reply sarcastically. “I got hit by this magic bullet. It gave me the blinding speed of a one legged man, but also the ability to notice details that are right in front of my fucking face. Like the fact that you have nothing that will hold up in court.”
“Aside from an eyewitness you mean?” Slam asks.
“Oh right, an eyewitness who just happens to be the daughter of a suspected crime boss. I’m sure credibility isn't going to be an issue there. Especially since she’s the one who set me up to take the fall for the crime that she committed.”
I tell them about the arrangement with Peyton, and how I walked in on her after she killed her fiancé. Slam doesn't look entirely convinced; Detective Morgan is more vocal about it. "That's bullshit! You think we’re stupid or something?”
“You really sure you want me to answer that one?”
“You smart ass piece of crap! You think you got the answer for everything? Well you don't! You’re toast, scumbag! We're gonna nail you to the fence!"
"Your 'good cop, bad cop' routine needs a little bit of work.”
“Is that right, asshole?”
“Yeah,” I respond with a smirk. “I’ll give you a little hint: It’s the intimidating one that’s supposed to be bad cop. You’re about as scary as those douchebags from the Jersey Shore. Hell you certainly got the look to fit right in with that crowd. Have you ever actually met a brand of spray on tan that you didn't like?"
Morgan makes a move for me, but doesn't get any farther than Slam’s arm. I start to smile, but Slam stops me with a glare that would probably make most guys piss in their pants. Good thing I don’t have to go at the moment.
“Enough of this,” Slam decrees. “I’m too damn old to be babysitting a couple of grown ass men. You’re adults, so start acting like it!”
“But Slam…” Strangely enough, Morgan and I both mutter the words almost simultaneously, but Slam isn't having any of it.
“No buts. Morgan, get your ass in the squad room and cool off. And as for you Bard, I’ll be back soon, and if you give me the same kind of lip you were giving Morgan here there’s gonna be problems. Understand?”
He doesn't even wait for me to nod before dragging his partner out of the room. I didn't do myself any favors by mouthing off, but I know I got my side of the story across. The lack of physical evidence won’t exonerate me on its own, but it will damn sure make it harder to build a case against me. I need more to tip the odds in my favor, but I can’t accomplish much while I’m still in custody.
* * *
The wait isn't nearly as long for Slam to return, and his puzzled expression actually gives me a glimmer of hope. Something must not be adding up right in his head, which is precisely what I need people to start seeing. If I don’t sway someone soon I’m going to be screwed.
“You said she set you up?” Slam inquired. “That she pulled the trigger and not you?”
“That’s what I’m saying. Uniform should have brought her in to make a statement. Any chance she’s still here? You can test her for gunshot residue."
“Well that’s the thing,” he replies. “They never did bring her in. They let her go home, and now I can’t seem to get a hold of her. She could just be sleeping, but for some reason I just don’t think that’s the case.”
The uniformed officers should never have let her just leave the crime scene. If she had any evidence on her person it could be “inadvertently” destroyed. An official statement is also best made when the incident in question is still fresh in the memory. Allowing her to go home is either supremely inept, or a sign that Peyton had some people in her pocket. No real way to know for sure when the GCPD is involved.
“That doesn't make any sense,” I remark. “If she wants me to go down for this then skipping town is the last thing she should do.”
“I know. This doesn't smell right to me, so I had a few words with the lieutenant.”
He pauses for what feels like an eternity before I prompt him to continue. “And? Don’t leave me hanging in suspense here.”
“Twenty four hours kid. That’s how long he can stall the DA from filing formal charges against you. That’s how long you have to find Peyton Riley and clean up this mess.”
“How in the hell did you manage to convince him to do that?”
“Favors,” he responds matter of factually. “When you been at this as long as I have you earn more than a few. Let’s just say I had to call a bunch of them in.”
“You sure about this Slam? We've known each other a while, but you sure as hell don’t owe me anything.”
“True, but my gut tells me you’re clean, kid. And if there’s one thing I've learned over the years it’s to always trust my gut.”
“Thanks Slam.”
“Don’t thank me yet kid. I might not owe you anything, but when this is all over you’re damn sure gonna owe me one.”
I’m not sure if I should be intrigued by that prospect, or utterly terrified by it. Knowing Slam it could go either way.
“So I’m free to go?” I ask, and Slam shakes his head.
“No, not exactly free. This whole thing hinges on one condition. I have to go with you every step of the way.”
“Works for me,” I reply with a shrug. “It’ll be just like old times.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Slam mutters as he holds the door open for me. “So how do you want to play this?”
“Oh, I've got a few ideas on where to start,” I tell him. “I’m not sure you’re going to like any of them though.”
“Fantastic kid," he sighs. "Just fantastic.”
To Be Continued...