"Ace reporter Mike Chetham follows a thread leading to a rash of heroic deeds commited by a vigilante in a black mask. Intent on unmasking him for his story, Mike gets closer to those the man in the mask saved, and closer to revealing the true identity of... The Man in the Mask."
-
There had to be some kind of mistake.
I ran into Editor in Chief Tom Clemens’s office with the paper in my hand. I didn’t bother knocking, the door was open. He was sitting behind his word processor smoking a cigarette and staring at the keys. Small sweat stains in the pits, his suspenders hanging loosely off of his chair. No one felt deadline pressure like Tom.
“Tom, what the hell is this?”
He looked up, the ash dropping from his cigarette onto his pants.
“What?”
“The crime report. Where did you get this.”
Tom inhaled sharply, pulling in the rest of the sweet tobacco before casually tossing the butt into a garbage can.
“The police station.”
“It can’t be right. This puts us below… Well, some boroughs of Chicago.”
A chuckle shot forth from his damaged lungs. “Yeah, ain’t it a bitch?”
“How the hell can crime in this city go down thirty five percent? Rape capital of the continental US and our crime has suddenly dropped an insane number. There’s… Could the police be mistaken?”
“You could ask them. There’s no real story in it.” He paused, shooting me a glance. “What’s that story your cooking up again?”
“Don’t ask,” I muttered.
“Well, I need it by the end of the week.”
“So, the police? Wouldn’t they have sent a retraction or something?”
“Dunno. Listen, I have to get back to this. It’s not going to write itself, and the printer is waiting.”
I nodded and made my way towards the door.
“Hey, Mikey, what’s the story your working on?”
I grabbed the doorknob, looking over my shoulder. “How Richmond is the rape capital of the continental US.”
Clemens uttered an expletive as I swung the door shut.
I grabbed the keys from my desk drawer, a tape recorded from my desktop and my coat from the back of my chair. It wasn’t cold enough to warrant the coat, but it went with the more traditional look of journalist: Knee length with a sash to tie in the middle. It looked very Private Eye, or “Investigative Journalist From Days of Yore When You Actually Left The Office To Pursue Leads.”
Next stop, the police station.
-
My car chugged up in the parking, almost exhaling more smoke than Clemens on a good day. The door was heavy and the deskman at the front wasn’t exactly happy to see me. I had a bad habit of painting the police for our fair city in a less than glamorous light… Although it didn’t take much. I had interviewed this kid when he was a street-officer. He spilled the beans about some brutality case, which landed him the job behind the desk.
My article didn’t help his defense much either way.
“Michael Chetum,” he smirked, mispronouncing my last name purposely.
“It’s pronounced ‘Chet-um,’ not ‘Cheat-him,’ officer.”
“Oh, not to me. What can I do you for, Chetum?”
I sighed. This was going to be over fast or take a painfully long time. Officer Sparks had nothing better to do than hang me up here. He could smell a good story on me like a wolf can smell steak hanging from the neck of a condemned prisoner.
“I was just checking my facts before I printed another story, Sparks.”
“You? Check facts? Turned over a new leaf?”
I’d bite. “Oh, yeah. I felt awfully bad about a story that I ran that really screwed someone over. There were some bad goings on, and I manipulated a quote that may have hurt someone, so now I’m doing it by the book. No more creative journalism for me.”
Sparks glowed. “What article?”
“Oh, a woman who lived out by the tracks had too many puppies. Special interest piece. I feel like a bastard, lemme tell you.”
The grim look on my face changed to a broad smile as his broad smile was wiped clean. “What do you need, CHEAT-him?”
“The latest report that we requested at the Dispatch said that crime in the city was down thirty five percent. You guys trying to pull a fast one over us? Make us look incompetent?”
Sparks picked up a styrofoam cup and sniffed it, his moustache twitching. “Why would we need to do anything to make you look bad? It’s common knowledge that you don’t really go for facts much.”
“Which is exactly why I’m here. Not going for facts.”
The door behind me opened and a solitary officer led a woman in handcuffs through the lobby into the back. Probably to be processed.
“Well, CHEAT-him, I’ll tell you this: The report… Well, I’m not sure what I can tell you about it.”
Sparks was beginning to destroy my personal good nature.
“Listen, Sparks, I don’t want to be in here. I don’t have many friends on the force, so just answer my question and I’ll be out the door before you can sell out your fellow officers for a paper quote again.”
He snorted. It hadn’t been the first time I had used that line. This wasn’t going to go well.
“Well, CHEAT-him, I guess-“
A hand clapped down on his shoulder. Chief Dentin stood behind him, staring down like a cat would stare at a wounded mouse. No fun of the chase, but interesting to toy with.
“Sparks, what exactly is Chetum doing here?”
“He wants to know about the crime report we filed.”
Dentin snorted.
“Well, what did you tell him?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“And why not?”
“Well, he’s-“
“Personal reasons? Sparks, it’s a big accomplishment. Why would you hold out from good press, especially after all the bad we’ve gotten? Chetum, the report is entirely correct. You can quote me on that.” Dentin turned around, heading towards the back. “Oh, Sparks, one of the drunks in the tank couldn’t hold it. Grab a mop.”
I chuckled.
One thing Sparks didn’t know about me was that I went to high school with Dentin.
I didn’t like Sparks.
-
I slammed the door to my car, pulling the report from one of my inside pockets, next to the can of mace I carry.
The police had done well. I was absolutely floored.
My cell phone began to vibrate on the dash. I flipped it open.
“Mikey, get back to the office. I got something to show you.” There was a wry chuckle on the other end before the line cut out.
-
Clemens flung the tabloid down on my desk, tapping it twice with his sausage finger when I didn’t pick it up.
“It’s a tabloid, Clemens. What the hell do you want me to do with it?”
“Try reading it, Mikey. You might learn something.”
The front page, in a splash of uncharacteristic color, giving the words “Masked Vigilante Lowers Crime Rate” an odd glow.
“Yeah, what do you want me to do with it? They probably got the same report we got and made up a story to go with it, Clemens. You know how they work.”
His bald-spot shined in the overhead lights.
“Take a look at the last line of the story.”
I did. Simply read, “The police refuse to comment on the existence of the lone man, who has single-handedly taken crime down in the city.”
“Alright, Clemens, tell me what exactly you make of it, then.”
“They can’t run that line unless they asked the police station first, otherwise they’d get sued for libel. As much as everyone knows their stories are fake, they still operate under the pretense of being a newspaper, actual and whole. Someone asked the station, and the station refused to comment on it… Now, why would the police do that when they could flat out deny, Mikey? I think there’s something there.”
“You think there’s a guy in a,” I scanned the article, “Black mask and black jumpsuit running around the city, stopping bad things from happening?”
“Now, I didn’t say that. I just said not to rule it out entirely. But think about what a good story that would make if it were true, Mikey.”
It would, but they ran it first. Although, their publication reaches about five thousand, where ours reaches close to half a million. People would believe it from us over them.
Dirty journalism, but there was one small snag.
“So, how do we go about proving the existence of this guy?”
“There’s no ‘we’ here, Mikey. It’s you.”
“Alright, so what angle should I take on it? Should I unmask this guy, if he exists? I mean, this is an incredible thing that we might have on our hands here.”
“We prove he exists, run a weekly story about what he’s done, and then when the time is right try and figure out who he is. How does that sound? That sounds like money in the bank to me, Mikey.”
Money in the bank. I thought about my car in the parking lot, paint peeling, having to wiggle the gear-shift to start the car. Money in the bank was not bad at all.
“Alright, I’ll get on it. I’ll hit up the tabloid offices first, I guess.”
Clemens knocked twice on the desk before walking down the office and into his room, shutting the door.
-
I was surprised at the offices of “The Weekly Inquisitive,” and how much nicer they were than the offices at “The Dispatch,” but as my brother used to say, “There’s more money in fiction.”
I always found that ironic, considering his occupation: Biographer.
There were eight desks, four on either side of the office, staffed with pudgy old men. It was like stepping into a room full of Clemens, minus the sweat. These men were working very comfortably, pounding away at the keyboards quickly and quietly.
A door in the left wall opened and a young woman walked in, pushing a cart with brown bags on top and a stack of papers on bottom. It was absurd how much this reminded me of an elementary school classroom, the young woman walking around, placing baggies on desks and checking the names on the papers before dropping those off as well.
Finalized edits, I assumed, that these men would spend five minutes pouring over again before sending them to the editor. The woman pushed the cart over to me, sizing me up.
“Can I help you, sir?”
I smiled. “I’m here for an interview.”
She smiled back. White teeth. Lipstick stain. She was still cute.
“Job, or…”
“Other.”
She blushed. I thought she might not get out of the office much, considering how completely average I look. I must have looked like some kind of Golden God compared to the men she was surrounded with constantly.
“I’ll page him.”
“Thank you, Miss…”
“Oh, call me Claire.”
“Thank you Miss Claire.”
She blushed again. This was too easy.
She led me back through the room to the solitary door on the back wall. I stepped inside, nodding at Claire. She giggled and shut the door.
“That is quite a fine secretary you have there, sir.”
The man behind the desk didn’t even look up. I was talking to the top of his head, his black hair slicked back as he read over a paper on the desk. He black suit was impeccable, save for that thin layer of dandruff that covered his shoulders.
I took my coat off, swinging it over the back of the chair before taking a seat and kicking my feet up on his desk. People are more likely to slip up when they’re annoyed.
“Beautiful. I’d take her out in a heartbeat. What about you? You ever think about maybe taking her out for a test-drive? I’m sure your wife wouldn’t mind, considering you take off your wedding ring at the office.”
The thin tan line on his left hand was a tell tale sign. He looked up at me, his beady eyes trying to read my face. Years of poker have taught me that I’m no good with poker faces. I smirked, removing my feet from the desk.
“There’s a few questions that come to mind when it comes to the legitimacy of your marriage. You wear your ring enough to get that awful tan-line there, meaning you’re not faking it. You’re not going out to clubs often enough and trying to pick up home-wreckers, because it looks like you’re cooped up at the office enough.
“So, lunch? Flirt with the waitresses? Or just your secretary?”
“If I don’t take it off, I get an abrasion on my finger from where the ring rubs against it.”
I chuckled. He was a bad liar. This would be easy.
“Your secretary, then?”
“She’s my daughter!”
“Well, color me impressed.”
I put on the face of introspective thought and kicked my feet back up slowly. There was a big juicy worm on the hook.
“What do you want?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“What do you WANT?”
I smiled. “Right. I read an interesting story in your paper this very day, saying the reason crime was down so much is because there was a man in a mask running around saving people before disappearing in the blink of an eye. I thought it was wonderful fiction.”
The man behind the desk laughed. “That, sir, is no fiction.”
Time to play the legitimacy card. He would be proud if the story was real.
“Oh, come on. Your paper runs nothing but the biggest pieces of crap ever. Why would you run a real piece?”
“When one like that comes around, you have to.”
Legitimate.
Step two. Procuring the names of the “Anonymous’” sprinkled through the story.
“Well, why would you mask the identity of all those people who have been helped and saved by this vigilante?”
“I would have loved to run their names, but they requested it. You can’t go against the wishes, especially when you run a piece like that.”
“Would it be possible to get a list of the names, though? I know you have a copy around here somewhere.”
“I can’t do that. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name or why you’re here.”
“Jim. Jim Branskin. I go to college down the road. I’m interested in journalism, see, and I’m looking to learn everything I can.”
“You’re a bad liar, son.”
“Oh, you caught me. I’m here to take your daughter out for a night on the town. Oysters, chocolate, roses, musk, the whole nine yards. After I drop her back off at her apartment, I have a few things to tell to the ol’ misses when it comes to you and your marriage.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Well, I mean, if I had a list of names, it’d placate me for a fair amount.”
The man behind the desk furrowed his brow. He was once again trying to read me.
“If not, then I’ll just step outside and run a few errands.” I stood.
“No, no, there’s no need to do that. If you sit in the office out there for a second, I’ll send a packet in with some information about journalism school.”
I pulled my coat from the back of the chair and stepped out of the office.
Claire walked up to me. “How did it go?”
“Very well, thank you for asking.”
There was a pause as she tried to think of something to say. All she did was smile, open her mouth and close it again.
“I was wondering, Claire, if I could have your phone number? I have a few extra dollars and I know a great place down town where they have the-“
She nodded and walked into her father’s office. She walked back out with a manila folder.
“He said to give this to you. I was just going in to borrow a piece of paper. I’ll write my number down on this top sheet.”
She did, and I stepped out of the office.
I added her number to my cell-phone. I pulled the top sheet out of the folder, reading it over. There were two names listed. A married couple. An address and a phone number.
I started the car, checking the clock. Six thirty.
-
Their doorbell rang at seven. The husband opened the door, smiling.
“Hello.”
“Hi. I’m Mike Chetum with the Dispatch. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
“In regard to…”
“The vigilante.”
The man frowned. “Come in.”
The house was well decorated. These people were loaded. Satin sofa, crystal chandelier, and a maid clearing the dinner table.
“Are you hungry, Mr. Chetum?”
“Oh, no. Thank you.”
A woman appeared at the top of the stairs, coming down. She was wearing a white dress with a fair amount of slink in it. She smiled, hand on the railing and ascended.
“Hi, my name is Mike Chetum. From-“
“The Dispatch,” she finished, stepping onto the first floor. “I’m familiar with your work.”
She walked over, through the room, past her husband to the sofa. She stretched out, her brown hair falling over the edge. She made a cute sound as she brought her stretch to a close, smiling at me. Or her husband. I turned. He wasn’t beside me anymore.
“I’m here to ask about the… The vigilante that saved you.”
The woman nodded.
“Could you explain to me exactly what happened, Mrs. Orman?”
“Certainly. I was out at the Opera with my husband, and we decided to take a shortcut in the alley of the theatre to get to our car. A man appeared with a gun, and my husband tried to wrestle it out of his hand. The gunman threw my husband to the ground, aimed, and was knocked out by another man behind him. I was in tears when it happened, so I didn’t get a clear look, but he was about six feet, wearing a black mask and black suit…
“My husband and I ran. When we got to the car, we realized that in the confusion, the robber had stolen my pearl necklace. We drove to the police station and filed a report. That’s it.”
I pulled a pad out. “When were you held up?”
“The ninth.”
“The only item stolen was a pearl necklace?”
She nodded.
“Alright, thank you.”
She nodded again, a brown curl of hair bouncing furtively over her white dress.
Seven fifteen. Time for me to go.
On my way out of the house, Mrs. Orman close behind me, I noticed something odd in passing. Her husband was hunched over their computer, editing photos.
The photo he was working on was a nice picture of the couple, together in front of their house.
The photo was dated the eleventh. She was wearing a pearl necklace.
Before the door shut, I asked her about it.
Her flirtatious smile disappeared.
“I have another.”
“Alright, thank you for your time.”
-
I left Clemens a message ten minutes later:
“I talked to one of the victims. It seems that this is legit. There were one or two details that didn’t add up, but they might have been for embellishment purposes.”
I left one other message that night.
“Hey, Claire. It’s… You don’t know my name,” at that point I laughed, “This is the guy from the office today that got your number. My name is Mike. Gimmie a call when you get this. Maybe we could get together.”
-
Clemens returned my call first, lauding my work, shouting something about a bonus. I did get a return from Claire, as well.
She wanted to go to an art museum. Couldn’t hurt. One of the names on the list was the curator. I could kill two birds with one stone.
I wasn’t a big fan of art unless there was someone there to explain to me what exactly was going on in each painting. I let Claire lead me around for an hour, grabbing my hand and pointing at everything that was only mildly interesting because she was there. After an hour, I asked her if I could run to the lobby for a surprise. She giggled and said yes.
Lobby was my second stop. First stop, third floor. I had to have a talk with the curator.
I stepped inside of his office. He sat back.
“Ah, Chetum. I was expecting you.”
“How-“
“The Ormans’ called. Said you might be over to ask a few questions about the vigilante rescue.”
I nodded.
“I’m at the museum till eleven every night. I was leaving one evening, when I noticed three men in jumpsuits making their way down the hallway to the Egyptian exhibit. I hid back in my room and tried calling the police, but the line was dead.
“Ten minutes later, I heard commotion. I walked down the hallway to find all three men on top of each other, unconscious. I saw a man running around the corner, in a black suit with a mask on. I didn’t know what to do, so I ran back to my office.
“An hour passed and I stepped back into the exhibit, but everyone was gone. I drove myself to the police station and told them what happened, but they said they couldn’t do anything with no culprits or items missing. They said they were impressed, though, because this guy was getting around. They gave me the number of the Ormans’ who had been saved by this guy, as well… I called them.”
He paused, swallowing.
“Good people.”
I nodded. “This man is very impressive, don’t you think?”
“A real godsend.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll just let myself out.”
Ten minutes later, Claire was holding a plastic rose, smiling, and leading me around again.
-
I began to put a story together about the masked vigilante, using names, places, and adjectives, something “The Weekly Inquisitive” had never heard of. This piece would be amazing: A few weeks of buildup, following this guy around, talking to the people he saved, running an interest piece.
After a few weeks, catch up to the guy, interview, and unmask.
Peabody worthy.
-
As I went down the list of people, all the stories began to blend together. The last name on the list, Lucile Leophold loomed in the distance.
She was the worst off of all the people. The vigilante had helped other people by fighting off the assailant: He had actually killed hers.
Lucile was reluctant to talk to me, but I promised not to run her name. I just needed to talk to her to fit the final pieces together.
Her house smelled of cigarettes. The ashtray was full to spilling. She was a nervous wreck, her red hair in a weave. It looked like she didn’t even live there anymore. The furniture, unused, the desks all covered in dust.
“He saved you?”
“Yes. I was… There was… I was going down the alley outside of the theatre-“
“Where the Ormans’ were assaulted?”
“Yes, and a man jumped on top of me. He… Forced himself… Inside of her- me- and I was screaming and there was nothing I could do. Out of nowhere, this man appeared with a bat in his hand, wearing a mask, yelling something. He hit my attacker over the head three times, killing him before running away. I want to thank him.”
She was crying. I offered a tissue.
“How did he hit him?”
“He swung the bat down like an axe.”
I jotted something down in my notebook.
“I was protected by the man in the mask. It was amazing. He was a godsend.”
I nodded, pulling another piece of paper out of the file. The solitary police report that had been sent with the names. A mortician’s report stapled to her name.
“Cause of Death: Blunt force trauma to the side of the head.”
“When he was hit with the bat, did he have his head turned?”
“No.”
I sighed. “Did you kill him?”
“What? No. I couldn’t-“
“You killed him. It’s understandable. You beat him on the side of the head. The mortician’s report said blunt force trauma to the back of the head, not side. And… The way you explained things… It seems feasible that you knocked him off and… Not meaning to kill him, but… It’s alright. You’re not at fault here.
“But why make up the story about the man in the mask? It’s very coincidental that an actual man would start running around after you filed your report.”
In my minds eye, I saw Sparks getting the idea and buying a suit. I dismissed the notion quickly. He was far too lazy.
“I didn’t want to go to jail.”
“It was self defense, ma’am.”
A piece slid into place.
“Ma’am, have you ever been back to that alley?”
“Once.”
“What about the museum?”
“I saw the Egyptian exhibit the other day. It was quite nice.”
I sighed. The vigilante was a frail red-head.
“Are you the man in the mask?”
She snorted, smiling at me. “You wish.”
I stood. “Thank you for your time, Ma’am.”
I headed for the door, pulling my phone out. “Clemens, you’re never going to believe-“
“Hang up the phone, Chetum.”
I turned around. She was holding a knife.
I complied.
“It’s not me.”
“Lucile, the pieces all fit.”
“I know who it is, though. If I tell you, you have to promise never to say a word about the true identity of the hero.”
Hero… Loose term. But I was intrigued. “Alright.”
Lucile sighed, taking a seat.
“I killed my attacker and said it was a man in black. A man in black began running around, helping those in distress in my neighborhood. Crime began to die down, because the stupid little shits that were committing the crimes got scared. They heard the stories of the man in the mask. They were afraid.
“And when the man in the mask helped the curator at the museum, people began to hear tell of him out there. They got scared, began to deal more discreetly or stop dealing at all.
“The very idea of this man has scared them to the point where they can no longer function in the same manner anymore.”
“Well, who is it?”
She grinned.
“The very idea of this man is stopping people.”
My face blanched. This was incredible. This was better than any story of any man stopping crime: A group of people propagating a lie so strong that it scared the very criminals that ran the city.
“And you can’t say a word about it.”
I could lie.
“Because if you do, well… We have the name and number of that dishy little blonde you’ve been seeing.”
“What?”
“Oh, yes.”
My face blanched again.
“Christ… You wouldn’t?”
“To protect this place, you really have to wonder.”
I closed my eyes.
-
I left Clemens another message that night.
“There’s a man running around with a black mask, saving people, but I can’t track him down. We can run the story, it’s entirely true, but this guy seems to be one step ahead of me at all times. I don’t think we’re going to be able to unmask him anytime soon…”
I left another message with Claire.
“Hey. Want to go get some ice cream later? Leave me a message.”
After I hung up the phone, I smiled. I was her man in black. I was protecting her from these people.
I got the raise, and a Peabody nod, although I didn’t win.
I married Claire later that year.
It turns out; crime is down an additional ten percent in the city.
All thanks to the man in the mask.
-
Mal
-
There had to be some kind of mistake.
I ran into Editor in Chief Tom Clemens’s office with the paper in my hand. I didn’t bother knocking, the door was open. He was sitting behind his word processor smoking a cigarette and staring at the keys. Small sweat stains in the pits, his suspenders hanging loosely off of his chair. No one felt deadline pressure like Tom.
“Tom, what the hell is this?”
He looked up, the ash dropping from his cigarette onto his pants.
“What?”
“The crime report. Where did you get this.”
Tom inhaled sharply, pulling in the rest of the sweet tobacco before casually tossing the butt into a garbage can.
“The police station.”
“It can’t be right. This puts us below… Well, some boroughs of Chicago.”
A chuckle shot forth from his damaged lungs. “Yeah, ain’t it a bitch?”
“How the hell can crime in this city go down thirty five percent? Rape capital of the continental US and our crime has suddenly dropped an insane number. There’s… Could the police be mistaken?”
“You could ask them. There’s no real story in it.” He paused, shooting me a glance. “What’s that story your cooking up again?”
“Don’t ask,” I muttered.
“Well, I need it by the end of the week.”
“So, the police? Wouldn’t they have sent a retraction or something?”
“Dunno. Listen, I have to get back to this. It’s not going to write itself, and the printer is waiting.”
I nodded and made my way towards the door.
“Hey, Mikey, what’s the story your working on?”
I grabbed the doorknob, looking over my shoulder. “How Richmond is the rape capital of the continental US.”
Clemens uttered an expletive as I swung the door shut.
I grabbed the keys from my desk drawer, a tape recorded from my desktop and my coat from the back of my chair. It wasn’t cold enough to warrant the coat, but it went with the more traditional look of journalist: Knee length with a sash to tie in the middle. It looked very Private Eye, or “Investigative Journalist From Days of Yore When You Actually Left The Office To Pursue Leads.”
Next stop, the police station.
-
My car chugged up in the parking, almost exhaling more smoke than Clemens on a good day. The door was heavy and the deskman at the front wasn’t exactly happy to see me. I had a bad habit of painting the police for our fair city in a less than glamorous light… Although it didn’t take much. I had interviewed this kid when he was a street-officer. He spilled the beans about some brutality case, which landed him the job behind the desk.
My article didn’t help his defense much either way.
“Michael Chetum,” he smirked, mispronouncing my last name purposely.
“It’s pronounced ‘Chet-um,’ not ‘Cheat-him,’ officer.”
“Oh, not to me. What can I do you for, Chetum?”
I sighed. This was going to be over fast or take a painfully long time. Officer Sparks had nothing better to do than hang me up here. He could smell a good story on me like a wolf can smell steak hanging from the neck of a condemned prisoner.
“I was just checking my facts before I printed another story, Sparks.”
“You? Check facts? Turned over a new leaf?”
I’d bite. “Oh, yeah. I felt awfully bad about a story that I ran that really screwed someone over. There were some bad goings on, and I manipulated a quote that may have hurt someone, so now I’m doing it by the book. No more creative journalism for me.”
Sparks glowed. “What article?”
“Oh, a woman who lived out by the tracks had too many puppies. Special interest piece. I feel like a bastard, lemme tell you.”
The grim look on my face changed to a broad smile as his broad smile was wiped clean. “What do you need, CHEAT-him?”
“The latest report that we requested at the Dispatch said that crime in the city was down thirty five percent. You guys trying to pull a fast one over us? Make us look incompetent?”
Sparks picked up a styrofoam cup and sniffed it, his moustache twitching. “Why would we need to do anything to make you look bad? It’s common knowledge that you don’t really go for facts much.”
“Which is exactly why I’m here. Not going for facts.”
The door behind me opened and a solitary officer led a woman in handcuffs through the lobby into the back. Probably to be processed.
“Well, CHEAT-him, I’ll tell you this: The report… Well, I’m not sure what I can tell you about it.”
Sparks was beginning to destroy my personal good nature.
“Listen, Sparks, I don’t want to be in here. I don’t have many friends on the force, so just answer my question and I’ll be out the door before you can sell out your fellow officers for a paper quote again.”
He snorted. It hadn’t been the first time I had used that line. This wasn’t going to go well.
“Well, CHEAT-him, I guess-“
A hand clapped down on his shoulder. Chief Dentin stood behind him, staring down like a cat would stare at a wounded mouse. No fun of the chase, but interesting to toy with.
“Sparks, what exactly is Chetum doing here?”
“He wants to know about the crime report we filed.”
Dentin snorted.
“Well, what did you tell him?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“And why not?”
“Well, he’s-“
“Personal reasons? Sparks, it’s a big accomplishment. Why would you hold out from good press, especially after all the bad we’ve gotten? Chetum, the report is entirely correct. You can quote me on that.” Dentin turned around, heading towards the back. “Oh, Sparks, one of the drunks in the tank couldn’t hold it. Grab a mop.”
I chuckled.
One thing Sparks didn’t know about me was that I went to high school with Dentin.
I didn’t like Sparks.
-
I slammed the door to my car, pulling the report from one of my inside pockets, next to the can of mace I carry.
The police had done well. I was absolutely floored.
My cell phone began to vibrate on the dash. I flipped it open.
“Mikey, get back to the office. I got something to show you.” There was a wry chuckle on the other end before the line cut out.
-
Clemens flung the tabloid down on my desk, tapping it twice with his sausage finger when I didn’t pick it up.
“It’s a tabloid, Clemens. What the hell do you want me to do with it?”
“Try reading it, Mikey. You might learn something.”
The front page, in a splash of uncharacteristic color, giving the words “Masked Vigilante Lowers Crime Rate” an odd glow.
“Yeah, what do you want me to do with it? They probably got the same report we got and made up a story to go with it, Clemens. You know how they work.”
His bald-spot shined in the overhead lights.
“Take a look at the last line of the story.”
I did. Simply read, “The police refuse to comment on the existence of the lone man, who has single-handedly taken crime down in the city.”
“Alright, Clemens, tell me what exactly you make of it, then.”
“They can’t run that line unless they asked the police station first, otherwise they’d get sued for libel. As much as everyone knows their stories are fake, they still operate under the pretense of being a newspaper, actual and whole. Someone asked the station, and the station refused to comment on it… Now, why would the police do that when they could flat out deny, Mikey? I think there’s something there.”
“You think there’s a guy in a,” I scanned the article, “Black mask and black jumpsuit running around the city, stopping bad things from happening?”
“Now, I didn’t say that. I just said not to rule it out entirely. But think about what a good story that would make if it were true, Mikey.”
It would, but they ran it first. Although, their publication reaches about five thousand, where ours reaches close to half a million. People would believe it from us over them.
Dirty journalism, but there was one small snag.
“So, how do we go about proving the existence of this guy?”
“There’s no ‘we’ here, Mikey. It’s you.”
“Alright, so what angle should I take on it? Should I unmask this guy, if he exists? I mean, this is an incredible thing that we might have on our hands here.”
“We prove he exists, run a weekly story about what he’s done, and then when the time is right try and figure out who he is. How does that sound? That sounds like money in the bank to me, Mikey.”
Money in the bank. I thought about my car in the parking lot, paint peeling, having to wiggle the gear-shift to start the car. Money in the bank was not bad at all.
“Alright, I’ll get on it. I’ll hit up the tabloid offices first, I guess.”
Clemens knocked twice on the desk before walking down the office and into his room, shutting the door.
-
I was surprised at the offices of “The Weekly Inquisitive,” and how much nicer they were than the offices at “The Dispatch,” but as my brother used to say, “There’s more money in fiction.”
I always found that ironic, considering his occupation: Biographer.
There were eight desks, four on either side of the office, staffed with pudgy old men. It was like stepping into a room full of Clemens, minus the sweat. These men were working very comfortably, pounding away at the keyboards quickly and quietly.
A door in the left wall opened and a young woman walked in, pushing a cart with brown bags on top and a stack of papers on bottom. It was absurd how much this reminded me of an elementary school classroom, the young woman walking around, placing baggies on desks and checking the names on the papers before dropping those off as well.
Finalized edits, I assumed, that these men would spend five minutes pouring over again before sending them to the editor. The woman pushed the cart over to me, sizing me up.
“Can I help you, sir?”
I smiled. “I’m here for an interview.”
She smiled back. White teeth. Lipstick stain. She was still cute.
“Job, or…”
“Other.”
She blushed. I thought she might not get out of the office much, considering how completely average I look. I must have looked like some kind of Golden God compared to the men she was surrounded with constantly.
“I’ll page him.”
“Thank you, Miss…”
“Oh, call me Claire.”
“Thank you Miss Claire.”
She blushed again. This was too easy.
She led me back through the room to the solitary door on the back wall. I stepped inside, nodding at Claire. She giggled and shut the door.
“That is quite a fine secretary you have there, sir.”
The man behind the desk didn’t even look up. I was talking to the top of his head, his black hair slicked back as he read over a paper on the desk. He black suit was impeccable, save for that thin layer of dandruff that covered his shoulders.
I took my coat off, swinging it over the back of the chair before taking a seat and kicking my feet up on his desk. People are more likely to slip up when they’re annoyed.
“Beautiful. I’d take her out in a heartbeat. What about you? You ever think about maybe taking her out for a test-drive? I’m sure your wife wouldn’t mind, considering you take off your wedding ring at the office.”
The thin tan line on his left hand was a tell tale sign. He looked up at me, his beady eyes trying to read my face. Years of poker have taught me that I’m no good with poker faces. I smirked, removing my feet from the desk.
“There’s a few questions that come to mind when it comes to the legitimacy of your marriage. You wear your ring enough to get that awful tan-line there, meaning you’re not faking it. You’re not going out to clubs often enough and trying to pick up home-wreckers, because it looks like you’re cooped up at the office enough.
“So, lunch? Flirt with the waitresses? Or just your secretary?”
“If I don’t take it off, I get an abrasion on my finger from where the ring rubs against it.”
I chuckled. He was a bad liar. This would be easy.
“Your secretary, then?”
“She’s my daughter!”
“Well, color me impressed.”
I put on the face of introspective thought and kicked my feet back up slowly. There was a big juicy worm on the hook.
“What do you want?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“What do you WANT?”
I smiled. “Right. I read an interesting story in your paper this very day, saying the reason crime was down so much is because there was a man in a mask running around saving people before disappearing in the blink of an eye. I thought it was wonderful fiction.”
The man behind the desk laughed. “That, sir, is no fiction.”
Time to play the legitimacy card. He would be proud if the story was real.
“Oh, come on. Your paper runs nothing but the biggest pieces of crap ever. Why would you run a real piece?”
“When one like that comes around, you have to.”
Legitimate.
Step two. Procuring the names of the “Anonymous’” sprinkled through the story.
“Well, why would you mask the identity of all those people who have been helped and saved by this vigilante?”
“I would have loved to run their names, but they requested it. You can’t go against the wishes, especially when you run a piece like that.”
“Would it be possible to get a list of the names, though? I know you have a copy around here somewhere.”
“I can’t do that. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name or why you’re here.”
“Jim. Jim Branskin. I go to college down the road. I’m interested in journalism, see, and I’m looking to learn everything I can.”
“You’re a bad liar, son.”
“Oh, you caught me. I’m here to take your daughter out for a night on the town. Oysters, chocolate, roses, musk, the whole nine yards. After I drop her back off at her apartment, I have a few things to tell to the ol’ misses when it comes to you and your marriage.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Well, I mean, if I had a list of names, it’d placate me for a fair amount.”
The man behind the desk furrowed his brow. He was once again trying to read me.
“If not, then I’ll just step outside and run a few errands.” I stood.
“No, no, there’s no need to do that. If you sit in the office out there for a second, I’ll send a packet in with some information about journalism school.”
I pulled my coat from the back of the chair and stepped out of the office.
Claire walked up to me. “How did it go?”
“Very well, thank you for asking.”
There was a pause as she tried to think of something to say. All she did was smile, open her mouth and close it again.
“I was wondering, Claire, if I could have your phone number? I have a few extra dollars and I know a great place down town where they have the-“
She nodded and walked into her father’s office. She walked back out with a manila folder.
“He said to give this to you. I was just going in to borrow a piece of paper. I’ll write my number down on this top sheet.”
She did, and I stepped out of the office.
I added her number to my cell-phone. I pulled the top sheet out of the folder, reading it over. There were two names listed. A married couple. An address and a phone number.
I started the car, checking the clock. Six thirty.
-
Their doorbell rang at seven. The husband opened the door, smiling.
“Hello.”
“Hi. I’m Mike Chetum with the Dispatch. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
“In regard to…”
“The vigilante.”
The man frowned. “Come in.”
The house was well decorated. These people were loaded. Satin sofa, crystal chandelier, and a maid clearing the dinner table.
“Are you hungry, Mr. Chetum?”
“Oh, no. Thank you.”
A woman appeared at the top of the stairs, coming down. She was wearing a white dress with a fair amount of slink in it. She smiled, hand on the railing and ascended.
“Hi, my name is Mike Chetum. From-“
“The Dispatch,” she finished, stepping onto the first floor. “I’m familiar with your work.”
She walked over, through the room, past her husband to the sofa. She stretched out, her brown hair falling over the edge. She made a cute sound as she brought her stretch to a close, smiling at me. Or her husband. I turned. He wasn’t beside me anymore.
“I’m here to ask about the… The vigilante that saved you.”
The woman nodded.
“Could you explain to me exactly what happened, Mrs. Orman?”
“Certainly. I was out at the Opera with my husband, and we decided to take a shortcut in the alley of the theatre to get to our car. A man appeared with a gun, and my husband tried to wrestle it out of his hand. The gunman threw my husband to the ground, aimed, and was knocked out by another man behind him. I was in tears when it happened, so I didn’t get a clear look, but he was about six feet, wearing a black mask and black suit…
“My husband and I ran. When we got to the car, we realized that in the confusion, the robber had stolen my pearl necklace. We drove to the police station and filed a report. That’s it.”
I pulled a pad out. “When were you held up?”
“The ninth.”
“The only item stolen was a pearl necklace?”
She nodded.
“Alright, thank you.”
She nodded again, a brown curl of hair bouncing furtively over her white dress.
Seven fifteen. Time for me to go.
On my way out of the house, Mrs. Orman close behind me, I noticed something odd in passing. Her husband was hunched over their computer, editing photos.
The photo he was working on was a nice picture of the couple, together in front of their house.
The photo was dated the eleventh. She was wearing a pearl necklace.
Before the door shut, I asked her about it.
Her flirtatious smile disappeared.
“I have another.”
“Alright, thank you for your time.”
-
I left Clemens a message ten minutes later:
“I talked to one of the victims. It seems that this is legit. There were one or two details that didn’t add up, but they might have been for embellishment purposes.”
I left one other message that night.
“Hey, Claire. It’s… You don’t know my name,” at that point I laughed, “This is the guy from the office today that got your number. My name is Mike. Gimmie a call when you get this. Maybe we could get together.”
-
Clemens returned my call first, lauding my work, shouting something about a bonus. I did get a return from Claire, as well.
She wanted to go to an art museum. Couldn’t hurt. One of the names on the list was the curator. I could kill two birds with one stone.
I wasn’t a big fan of art unless there was someone there to explain to me what exactly was going on in each painting. I let Claire lead me around for an hour, grabbing my hand and pointing at everything that was only mildly interesting because she was there. After an hour, I asked her if I could run to the lobby for a surprise. She giggled and said yes.
Lobby was my second stop. First stop, third floor. I had to have a talk with the curator.
I stepped inside of his office. He sat back.
“Ah, Chetum. I was expecting you.”
“How-“
“The Ormans’ called. Said you might be over to ask a few questions about the vigilante rescue.”
I nodded.
“I’m at the museum till eleven every night. I was leaving one evening, when I noticed three men in jumpsuits making their way down the hallway to the Egyptian exhibit. I hid back in my room and tried calling the police, but the line was dead.
“Ten minutes later, I heard commotion. I walked down the hallway to find all three men on top of each other, unconscious. I saw a man running around the corner, in a black suit with a mask on. I didn’t know what to do, so I ran back to my office.
“An hour passed and I stepped back into the exhibit, but everyone was gone. I drove myself to the police station and told them what happened, but they said they couldn’t do anything with no culprits or items missing. They said they were impressed, though, because this guy was getting around. They gave me the number of the Ormans’ who had been saved by this guy, as well… I called them.”
He paused, swallowing.
“Good people.”
I nodded. “This man is very impressive, don’t you think?”
“A real godsend.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll just let myself out.”
Ten minutes later, Claire was holding a plastic rose, smiling, and leading me around again.
-
I began to put a story together about the masked vigilante, using names, places, and adjectives, something “The Weekly Inquisitive” had never heard of. This piece would be amazing: A few weeks of buildup, following this guy around, talking to the people he saved, running an interest piece.
After a few weeks, catch up to the guy, interview, and unmask.
Peabody worthy.
-
As I went down the list of people, all the stories began to blend together. The last name on the list, Lucile Leophold loomed in the distance.
She was the worst off of all the people. The vigilante had helped other people by fighting off the assailant: He had actually killed hers.
Lucile was reluctant to talk to me, but I promised not to run her name. I just needed to talk to her to fit the final pieces together.
Her house smelled of cigarettes. The ashtray was full to spilling. She was a nervous wreck, her red hair in a weave. It looked like she didn’t even live there anymore. The furniture, unused, the desks all covered in dust.
“He saved you?”
“Yes. I was… There was… I was going down the alley outside of the theatre-“
“Where the Ormans’ were assaulted?”
“Yes, and a man jumped on top of me. He… Forced himself… Inside of her- me- and I was screaming and there was nothing I could do. Out of nowhere, this man appeared with a bat in his hand, wearing a mask, yelling something. He hit my attacker over the head three times, killing him before running away. I want to thank him.”
She was crying. I offered a tissue.
“How did he hit him?”
“He swung the bat down like an axe.”
I jotted something down in my notebook.
“I was protected by the man in the mask. It was amazing. He was a godsend.”
I nodded, pulling another piece of paper out of the file. The solitary police report that had been sent with the names. A mortician’s report stapled to her name.
“Cause of Death: Blunt force trauma to the side of the head.”
“When he was hit with the bat, did he have his head turned?”
“No.”
I sighed. “Did you kill him?”
“What? No. I couldn’t-“
“You killed him. It’s understandable. You beat him on the side of the head. The mortician’s report said blunt force trauma to the back of the head, not side. And… The way you explained things… It seems feasible that you knocked him off and… Not meaning to kill him, but… It’s alright. You’re not at fault here.
“But why make up the story about the man in the mask? It’s very coincidental that an actual man would start running around after you filed your report.”
In my minds eye, I saw Sparks getting the idea and buying a suit. I dismissed the notion quickly. He was far too lazy.
“I didn’t want to go to jail.”
“It was self defense, ma’am.”
A piece slid into place.
“Ma’am, have you ever been back to that alley?”
“Once.”
“What about the museum?”
“I saw the Egyptian exhibit the other day. It was quite nice.”
I sighed. The vigilante was a frail red-head.
“Are you the man in the mask?”
She snorted, smiling at me. “You wish.”
I stood. “Thank you for your time, Ma’am.”
I headed for the door, pulling my phone out. “Clemens, you’re never going to believe-“
“Hang up the phone, Chetum.”
I turned around. She was holding a knife.
I complied.
“It’s not me.”
“Lucile, the pieces all fit.”
“I know who it is, though. If I tell you, you have to promise never to say a word about the true identity of the hero.”
Hero… Loose term. But I was intrigued. “Alright.”
Lucile sighed, taking a seat.
“I killed my attacker and said it was a man in black. A man in black began running around, helping those in distress in my neighborhood. Crime began to die down, because the stupid little shits that were committing the crimes got scared. They heard the stories of the man in the mask. They were afraid.
“And when the man in the mask helped the curator at the museum, people began to hear tell of him out there. They got scared, began to deal more discreetly or stop dealing at all.
“The very idea of this man has scared them to the point where they can no longer function in the same manner anymore.”
“Well, who is it?”
She grinned.
“The very idea of this man is stopping people.”
My face blanched. This was incredible. This was better than any story of any man stopping crime: A group of people propagating a lie so strong that it scared the very criminals that ran the city.
“And you can’t say a word about it.”
I could lie.
“Because if you do, well… We have the name and number of that dishy little blonde you’ve been seeing.”
“What?”
“Oh, yes.”
My face blanched again.
“Christ… You wouldn’t?”
“To protect this place, you really have to wonder.”
I closed my eyes.
-
I left Clemens another message that night.
“There’s a man running around with a black mask, saving people, but I can’t track him down. We can run the story, it’s entirely true, but this guy seems to be one step ahead of me at all times. I don’t think we’re going to be able to unmask him anytime soon…”
I left another message with Claire.
“Hey. Want to go get some ice cream later? Leave me a message.”
After I hung up the phone, I smiled. I was her man in black. I was protecting her from these people.
I got the raise, and a Peabody nod, although I didn’t win.
I married Claire later that year.
It turns out; crime is down an additional ten percent in the city.
All thanks to the man in the mask.
-
Mal
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