RZD
bud nipper
Few of my ideas come from dreams; this is one of the few. It's fanfic, which I have never written. Do you think it is interesting?
Frank stared at the pictures, stoic, careworn hands flat on the table top. The dead man was older, balding on the crown of his skull, with shallow eyes and a flat face. His throat was open, punctured. Blood had dried brown-black around it.
“Stabbed forty-two times,” said Watts. He regarded Frank with patient eyes, but Frank did not look up.
“Overkill,” he finally replied.
“We’re looking at rage, frustration. The victim is a Harvey Quentin, 54. Abducted from his home in Chelsea three days ago; this was unexpected.”
“The killer isn’t rash. He’s focused, intelligent” rumbled Frank, finally looking up at Peter Watts. “He’s multitasking.”
Watts squared his jaw, furrowed his brow, and cocked his head.
“You’ll see it,” Frank assured, “this is a staging.”
Watts sighed and pulled the pictures back across the table.
“NYPD has no leads,” he said, slipping the photos into a manila envelope. “But there’s one source that may be able to give us something.” Then, almost reluctantly, “He’s not on the police payroll.” Watts produced two more pictures from the envelope. “Spider-man, he’s called. Local law enforcement has an unofficial APB out on him, but he helps the cops so often they give him breaks.”
“A vigilante.” Frank looked at the picture, seeming to squint. “I’ve heard of him.”
“We have reason to believe he had contact with the victim the night of the murder.”
“What have you got on him?” In the rain, a car alarm was wailing.
Now, Watts tapped one of the photos. “Surveillance has established this West Village apartment as the epicenter of his patrol area. He’s been seen coming and going via this window.”
“It would be hard for him not to attract attention.”
“The apartment is rented to a Peter Parker, a photographer for a local tabloid.”
Frank was still. He waited for insight to come. But there was nothing for a long time. When a vision came, it was of speed, momentum; it was of secrecy and precarious balance.
“It’s him.” Frank said, his tone dark with certainty.
Watts returned the pictures to the envelope and sealed it. Then he stood, crossed his arms, and looked at Frank. “Flight leaves SeaTac at 7.”
