Justice(9)

“I just heard,” Justice says. “Tell me how I can help.”

“We’re still trying to figure out what happened here,” Harry says.

Justice’s masked face turns my way. “And you, Detective? I heard you pursued him and got into a scuffle. You seem intact. Did he harm you?”

“No,” I say, glancing at Harry who remains impassive. “The car is another story.”

“Chasing him on your own was ill-advised. He could have killed you, Detective,” the superhero says harshly. “Please try to remember that next time.”

I glare at him. “Yeah, the next time a psychopath tries to get away on my watch I’ll just hold the door for him.”

I can’t see his face under the mask but I’d bet he’s glaring back. “I will let you all get back to work. I’ll assist in the search. Check his old haunts, interview a few key players. Keeping the public safe should be our top priority.”

“Duh,” I mutter.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Harry says, ignoring me. “We’ll keep you in the loop.”

“And if I find anything, I’ll do the same. It’s going to take all of us working together, but I have no doubt we’ll find him.”

“Bye,” I say super sweet with a small wave before he zooms off like lightening. All the people who were watching go back to work now that the celebrity has left.

Harry shakes his head and flips open his ringing cell phone. “Yes, sir, Mr. Mayor,” he says before walking to the stairwell.

“You can be a real brat sometimes,” Cam says.

“I’ll try to be more consistent in the future,” I say with another smile. “Let’s go check the psychopath’s cell.”

Cam’s lips purse in disapproval before he steps into the cell with me right behind. With the two photographers, two forensic techs dusting and tweezing, former wrestler Mirabelle and just plain fat Kowalski this place is jammed to the point of claustrophobic. The cells at Xavier are double the size of a normal one as the inmates almost never get to leave them except for therapy, their seven hours a week walking around an enclosed gym in shackles, and their weekly shower, also in handcuffs.

All the standards are here: twin bed, metal toilet sans lid, desk, and now destroyed trash can. Alkaline spruced the place up with a few murder mystery books, a poster of the Galilee skyline and falls, and countless clippings about Justice that cover all the free space on the walls. There are even old ones dating back from the forties to present day.

“Holy crap. Someone has a crush,” I say. One of the photographers smiles, and Cam gives me a look.

“There are blank spots,” Mirabelle says, pointing to one or two places where the white wall is visible.

“I’ll bet whatever was up on the walls is now in there,” Kowalski says, gesturing to the demolished trashcan. The plastic is melted at the bottom and twisted where the splatters hit on the side.

“It melted straight through the floor to the lead,” a tech says.

“Can you tell what was in there?” I ask.

“Doubt it, but we’ll try anyway.”

“I want all of this stuff processed and on my desk ASAP,” Cam says. “Books, sheets, everything. And fingerprint all surfaces. If there is one latent that’s not Ryder’s, run it.”

“You got it,” the tech says.

“What about the security cameras? They must have captured this clusterfuck,” I say.

“First thing we checked,” the second tech says. “He uploaded a virus. It wiped out an entire week’s worth of footage and blocked the possibility of a lockdown.”

“Of course it did,” I mutter.

“Let’s pow wow,” Cam says to us.

We follow him out and down the hall away from the blood and death. The rest of the cells are shut up, so not even the metal slots are open. I wonder what they think is going on. We’re going to have to interview them, which is not something I’m looking forward to. Especially Chameleon. It’s creepy when he morphs to look like me.

“First thoughts people,” Cam says. He’s the senior detective in the squad, and always leads the brainstorming session when Harry’s busy. He’ll be lead detective and I’ll be his number two, just the way I like it. All the fun, none of the responsibility.

“He lured us here,” I say. “He wanted us at the center of this for a reason.”

“Any idea why? Either of you had any dealings with him before this?” Mirabelle asks.

“No,” Cam says.

“I was the first responder on one of his murders a few years back,” I say. “Luis Rivas, his documents guy. And we grew up in the same neighborhood, but I never met him. Ever.”