Byrd Man

...

Just "catchamber" all lower case.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Decided I'd make Thursday noir day going forward.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

06/22/46
Gotham Central
7:21 AM

Charlie Fields said, "Scotty Lees. Damn. Over the years I probably lost five hundred bucks betting on and against that bum."

Max sat at his desk in the Homicide pen. He eyeballed crime scene pix. Crime scene techs shot photos of Scotty Lee's body at various angles. They shot photos of the broken window and the motel room where he took the plunge. Max flipped through them. Something was off, he couldn’t place it. He tried for brain clicks. His brain clicked out. He tossed the photos on the desk.

Pix mingled with framed photos. Photos of Mary, photos of Max with Alice in the years before it fell apart. One of stone-faced USMC Lt. Eckhardt. The photo took him back to Guadalcanal. The heat and bugs. Flamethrowers and charging bunkers. A Jap commander with a samurai sword. The smell of burning flesh and the sound of screaming Japs.

Max blinked and looked over at Fields, "What was he like? Lees, I mean."

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Not a boxing guy?”

Max shrugged. “More of a baseball man.”

"Well, Scotty was a puncher. He never had a defense, always went for the big hits and didn't protect his face. The last fight of his I saw ended in a TKO. The little negro he was fighting kept working a cut on his eyebrow. Kept tagging it until the ref called the fight in the sixth round. If a fighter could go the distance with Scotty and avoid his punch they could turn him into hamburger meat."

Max scratched his neck. "He's hamburger meat now."

Max checked his watch. Another late night turned into a long morning. He was supposed to take Mary to school. He called Mrs. Roselli next door and told her the details. She agreed to get her up and ready and to school for a few bucks. Another night and day without seeing his daughter. He kept promising her he'd take time off. He had vacation time accrued. As soon as he went off nights he'd take a long vacation.

Charlie walked off. Max went back to the case file. Something gnawed. He put his finger on it: Scotty Lees: punchdrunk and a half-wit for sure. Suicidal? It didn't jive with cooperating with the DA on a major investigation. A sign flashed in his head: YOU MISSED SOMETHING.

The phone ringing snapped him out of his reverie.

"This is Eckhardt."

"My office."

Max hung up and hit the lieutenant's office. Lieutenant Boyle sat behind his desk. Boyle was rail thin. He was trying some experimental treatment for the Big C. Cancer ate at his lungs going on five years now, since before Max left for the Pacific. Boyle’s clothing sagged off him. His hair fell out in clumps. He still smoked like a freight train. The fuck was too nasty let cancer do him in.

Boyle with no preamble. "You caught the jumper from last night, yeah?"

"Yes, sir."

"It's a suicide, right?"

Boylet lit a cigar. Max bristled. Boyle almost always gave them a long leash working murders. Now he was calling it a day. He was short shifting it. Something did not wash.

Max futzed with his necktie and said, "I want to wait on the medical examiner's official report on cause of death before I rule anything out or come to any conclusions. I'd also like to conduct an interview with the two officers and the remaining witnesses and find out what they have to say."

A voice behind him, deep and southern drawl. "Hell, I can get all that for you, Sergeant."

Two-Gun Jack Grogan strolled in. Max knew him by reputation and rumor alone. He wore six-guns and spat tobacco. He killed six men in the line of duty. He ran bag for Mayor Hill and the DA. He did the dirty work for Congressman Thorne. He shook down the mob for campaign contributions. He once beat a drug dealer to death for spitting on his boots. He was beaucoup bad news.

Grogan flopped in the chair beside Eckhardt. He stretched out and put a new plug of tobacco in his cheek. He looked at Eckhardt and winked.

"I got a meeting with the DA in an hour. He is gonna tear me a new asshole and I'm gonna try and calm him down, but I can expect he'll be mighty pissed. This was supposed to be his stepping stone to the US Senate."

Boyle blew cigar smoke and said, "His case was dependent on a Mexican obsessed with barely legal trim and a feeb with a battered brain. That was a pretty damn shaky stepping stone."

Grogan slapped a knee. It meant son, you slay me.

Two-Gun Jack said, "Sergeant, I will talk to my men about setting up an interview with you sometime later today. Joe Porter's wrath is looming close at hand, so I'll worry about that at the moment."

Boyle pointed at Max. He said, "I want your preliminary report written up by noon today. If Captain Grogan can't get his men to talk to you, I still want a final summation no later than the day after tomorrow. Understood, Sergeant?"

Max looked at Grogan. The captain grinned, flashing brown spit covered teeth. He spat tobacco juice in a paper cup and winked again.

Max nodded slowly and said, "Understood."

*****​

District Attorney's Office
8:30 AM

"Do you know what you've fucking cost me?"

District Attorney Joe Porter fumed at Slam. He sat at a desk fuck orgy-sized big. The entire wall behind him was glass. It looked out over the city. Three ADAs flanked his desk. They stonewalled Slam. They played indifferent. They gave him stink-eyes across the board. Grogan sat beside Slam. He held his hand up and called for peace.

Two-Gun Jack said, "Now, Joe, it ain't Samuel's fault he fell asleep. If you're looking for a scapegoat, blame me. I had him and Burke working a double shift before they relieved Harris and Simpson last night."

Porter pointed at Grogan. "Oh, I do blame you, Jack. I blame you and I blame him and if not for your fucking clout with the mayor, I would have you both charged with dereliction of duty and have you run out the PD!"

Grogan sniffed and lowered his eyelids. He went from agreeable to bored like that. When he spoke, the southern drawl was a little diminished and the charm was all the way gone. "If. If I weren't so tight with the mayor. If I didn't help get contributions to his slush fund. If I didn't help contributions to yourslush fund. If I didn't help your daughter get out of that jam with those nigger hopheads. If I didn't know all your dirty little secrets. If you didn't need me, and if I didn't need Samuel. That's a lot of goddamn ifs, Joe."

Porter's face went coronary red. He threatened to burst a blood vessel. An eyelid twitched. Grogan barely kept it together. Slam wanted to laugh out loud.

Porter said softly, "Go. Both of you get out of my sight. I'll be talking with Commissioner Akins soon."

They breezed out. They hit Gorgan's car and hit the parkway. Two-Gun Jack drove. They both laughed out loud and made fun of Porter. Their laughter subsided. Conversation hit a lull.

Grogan said, "Did you talk to the homicide man who showed up at the scene this morning?"

"Yeah. Eckhardt was his name."

Grogan spat tobacco juice and said, "What do you know of him?"

"Nothing other than he smelled like booze."

Grogan chuckled an expounded. "He wants to interview you, Burke, and Garcia about the events this morning. I said I would allow it. You caught a whiff of hooch? That’s with good reason. Max Eckhardt is a primo lush. They call him Whiskey Max. He has a stick up his ass and grand illusions about his career. He wants to make rank, but he can't stay sober long enough to make a decent case. He used to be ruthless and ambitious, but he's been worn down by this city, the war, and the bottle. Those things can do that to weaker men, Samuel. Men like us are resilient. Despite his boozing, Whiskey Max is still highly dangerous. If you made any mistakes with Scotty, he’ll come for you."

Slam popped his knuckles.

"He can fucking try."

*****​

GCPD Western District Station
11:40 AM

Max stretched. He fought back cramps. He sat in his car and took pulls off a flask of gin. Max knew he should be home sleeping. Night work fucked with his sleep cycle. He worked when the sun was down and slept when it was up. Insomnia seeped into the sleep and blew it up all to hell. The booze helped him stay asleep, but it did not bring sleep on.

The case also contributed to no sleep. He banged out a quick first summation report to Boyle. It said Scotty Lees was a probable jumper. A caveat at the end: He would not confirm that fact until the morgue cut loose its findings later tonight. Doubt ate at him. YOU MISSED SOMETHING flashed big time. YOU MISSED SOMETHING meant he got no sleep.

THIS helped to bring forth sleep. It calmed his nerves. It was a weekly routine. He was parked down the road from the Western station house. Prowl cars cruised by. Max sat low in his seat. They came and went. THERE: radio car 223. HIS car. It swooped into the parking lot. HE got out. Marcus Driver in uniform. His golden blonde hair hidden under his cap. Sergeant stripes on his sleeves. Max's pulse raced. Driver talked to a fellow uniformed officer. He rubbed his chin as he laughed. He smiled. Max swooned. He went gaga. Four years since 04/17/42 and he still peeped him from afar. His house, his job, anywhere Max knew he'd be.

The radio squaked, dispatch asking for a follow-up. He keyed the mic and talked. Said summons turned out to be bullshit. Alice’s lawyer asking for a callback or else. He pulled out on to the street and found the closest payphone and fed it quarters. He got an operator to direct the call to Merv Hamilish’s office .

The shyster was cheerful: “Sergeant Eckhardt. Good morning. Maybe I should say good afternoon by now. It’s almost noon, sergeant. Hopefully you’re not too inebriated.”

Max played it nonchalant. “Say what you have to say so I can get back to work.”

“Work, right… well, I’d like you to know that we’re suing for custody of little Mary. You’ll be served papers in the coming days, sergeant.”

Max gripped the phone so hard his knuckles turned white. He felt sweat drip. His legs went rubbery. His world started to spin. Max got tight. He practically mumbled. “You can’t do this.

The lawyer chuckled. “There’s an old adage, sergeant: to the child the mother belongs.”

His eyelid twitched. “Alice gave up her rights to my daughter the minute she walked out on us. How is that going to look to a judge? You forget who I am, Hamlish? What I did?”

“I know very well who you are, sergeant. And I know your daughter sees babysitters and neighbors more than she sees you. As for what you did, sergeant? I know what you did… quite well..”

Max felt his stomach drop. Implications, but the threat was clear: Alice told the fucker about 04/17/42. The day before he shipped out for the Pacific. Alice threw him a going away party. Neighbors and PD friends mingled with spiked punch and finger foods. Max caught Driver’s eye. They meet in the bathroom for a quickie. A farewell fuck. They’re mid-coupling when Alice walked in. Alice dropped a plate of cold cuts when she saw Max had Driver in his mouth. Their marriage went up in flames. She kept up a facade to the neighbors while he was gone. She never wrote him a letter for the two years he was gone. Two days after he’s back, she packed a bag and left for parts unknown.

Hamlish came off smug. He said, “We can do this two ways, sergeant. You can forfeit your rights to sole custody of Mary without a fuss. Or we can go in front of a judge and make this real nasty.”

Max said, “Fuck you,” and pulled the phone’s handset until the cord snapped. He let it clatter to the ground and ran back to his car.

He drove with shaking hands back to the Western station house. Driver was long gone. He skedaddled during Max’s phone call. Max sighed. His longing for Driver simmered with his dread. He put his head on the steering wheel. He banged his forehead against the wheel again and again and--

THERE.

He sat upright. Leg cramps and back cramps cramped him cripple. Brainwaves blew strooong. THAT'S IT flashed in his head. He dug through the backseat. Case files piled up. He found the Lees file. He flipped through it. He found IT. The excitement burned through the booze. He felt a hangover come on strong. A headache pounded. He felt jacked. To hell with sleep. He started his car and blew code 3 across town.

The Gotham Arms. Crime scene rope still on the sixth floor. Crime scene pix in his arms. Max walked the room in grids. He rehashed original crime scene walkthrough. The THERE right in front of his face. An indent in the wall beside the window Scotty Lees fell out of. Max looked at the picture, compared it with the real McCoy. Something made that dent. Something smashed against the wall. That something was Scotty Lees' head. Max worked angles and heights. Scotty topped out at 6'2. The angle skewed tall. Someone grabbed Scotty's forehead and smashed it into the wall. Max went back to last night Feature: Slam Bradley. Swanky Slam came in at 6'4” easy.

Angles, brain clicks, thesis, and theory made a theorem.

Theorem: Slam Bradley smashed Scotty Lees' head into the wall. He made Scotty woozy and pushed him out the window. Bradley made it look like a suicide. Bradley worked for Two-Gun Grogan. Grogan pulled strings. Grogan ran rackets. Grogan and Bradley wanted the job shit canned. They were politically connected. The boxing probe was all political pandering. Powerful people wanted it to perish.

Summation: Bradley killed a state witness in cold blood to derail Porter’s investigation. Max pulled out his flask and slugged booze while he figured out his next move.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

I hate you.

Need a post deleted

Looks like nothing at all to me...

Post Deletion Please

Done and done.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Hey y'all doing some planning stuff for season two and I was wondering if anyone had any plans for Nitro. Figured I'd ask while I'm still sketching things out.

@Hexaflexagon

*Hides plans for fedora wearing Nitro*

Can't say that I do...

What Are You Listening To?

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Part I:
Punchdrunk

EXTRACT: Gotham Globe, 06/17/46

DISTRICT ATTORNEY'S OFFICE LAUNCH PROBE INTO SOUTHSIDE BOXING​

After much speculation, the Gotham City District Attorney's office announced today that it will be launching a sweeping investigation into the city's boxing and prizefighting scene. Their explicit target: Connections between organized crime and the boxing community. District Attorney Joseph Porter held a press conference for reporters today, laying out the details of the upcoming investigation.

"For far too long the professional fighting scene in this city has been controlled by bookmakers," said Porter. "Fans of the sport, people who pay to see honest and fair fights, are instead often treated to fixed contests that the gamblers control. This inquiry is the first step in a battle to wrestle control of the sport from the criminal elements of this city."

Porter himself will serve as the lead counsel on the investigation. Heading up the team of investigators will be the always colorful GCPD Captain John "Two-Gun Jack" Grogan, commanding officer of the GCPD's Major Case Squad. Captain Grogan's six man task force will provide the brunt of the investigative force, as their operational mandate lies within organized crime.

"Ain't nobody [sic] better at policing organized hoods than me and my boys," Grogan said during the press conference. "If there's anything worth finding, we'll find it."

While forthcoming with details of the probe, District Attorney Porter remained mum on his political future. He is among a small handful of candidates who have been rumored to seek the US Senate seat recently opened by the sudden death of long-time senator Charles Henderson. When asked if this is a stepping stone to a possible campaign run, Porter discouraged any such talk and only offered a “no comment” on the subject.

---

06/19/1946
West Gotham
1:13 AM

Slam Bradley rode shotgun in the car. Captain Grogan sped through the city at "Fuck-Traffic-Laws-I'm-A-Cop" speed. Slam smoked and saw the sights. Winos blasted on cut-rate hooch wagged their wieners at the passing car. Hookers peddled their stuff by the curb. Slam cracked the window and blew smoke.

He smiled. He felt alive. He felt jazzed. Grogan's squad worked the streets. They ran the streets. They were the landlords out here, and everybody paid their rent. The cost for not paying up was a quick and brutal eviction from this world. Two-Gun Jack was a hick from somewhere out west -- Oklahoma or Texas or something -- and he had that southern twang prairie accent. The hump wore two six-shooters on both hips. The hump wore shit-kicker boots and a white stetson with a goddamn bolo tie. He chewed tobacco and thought he was Jonah Hex reincarnated. He looked like a clown on the surface. Beneath it he was all killer.

Grogan spat tobacco juice in a coffee cup. He wiped his mouth and said, "Samuel, how you been liking these past few months."

Slam beamed. "Fantastic. Anything to get me out of Vice."

Vice straight bored him. It was either hooker rousts or gambling busts. He was too well known around Gotham to work undercover, so it was roust duty. Pop prosties and bust bookies. It was straight shit-work. His brain was wired for the street. He needed to be out here in the thick of it. This was his element. Grogan picked him because he was big and intimidating. The captain promised muscle work and he made good on the promise. Anybody he wanted worked over, Slam worked over. Fist work, brass knuckles work, rubber hose work, followed by dental and surgical work.

Slam flicked his cigarette out a window. The butt hit a passing wino in the forehead. The wino flipped it away and shook his fist at the car. Slam laughed. Gorgan roared.

Grogan wiped his eyes and said, "And what do you make of our current assignment?"

Slam made the jack-off sign. "Prizefighting has been corrupt since the days of gladiators. And now they want to get a hard-on for it?”

Slam knew firsthand how corrupt the shit was. Corruption got him a pass on the war. He threw a fight back in ‘40 and got a judge paid a few grand. Said judge remembered the favor when Slam’s draft number came up. Said judge helped him get a job on the PD and deemed “essential personnel.” No war for Shirker Slam. He parlayed his status as a local celebrity to get plum patrol beats. Southpaw Slam volunteered to box in late-night smokers for the GCPD brass and city hall bigwigs. The fights got him political clout. Smart Slam leverages clout for internal juice in the PD. He went from harness bull to gold shield detective rápidamente.

They had two ex-boxers under lock and key who weren’t as slick as Shrewd Slam. Said pugilists were working with the DA to present testimony to the county grand jury. They were, to wit: heavyweight Robert "Scotty" Lees and light heavyweight Manuel "Goodnight" Garcia. Slam went six rounds with Lees back in ‘38. Even back then he was a fucking stumblebum. Years of too many pops to the dome meant Scotty couldn't remember who he was half the time. Goodnight Garcia played up a faux swish persona, but he had a taste for young stuff. Said taste had gotten him in the jackpot. Testifying would quash a 'stach rape beef.

Grogan said, "The good District Attorney wants his pound of flesh, more so for a launchpad than anything else. So we do our job and give it to him. But I suspect the investigation will be coming to an abrupt end shortly."

They hit county territory. Upper-middle class homes became the main view. Slam chained three cigs while Grogan spat tobacco and the radio squawked Bing Crosby. The radio crackled as Jack Benny pitched toothpaste. Grogan pulled up to a three-story home sprawled over four lots. It ate up half a block. Feature: A bronze R.T. plaque on the mailbox.

They got out. Grogan led, Slam followed. They walked around the house and to the backyard. Floodlights on: A pool, patio, pool house. A fat man with gray hair did laps in the water. Slam checked his watch. Two in the morning. The fat man flopped out the pool. Butt ass naked. He dried his hair on a towel and walked over to them. Still sans clothing.

Grogan shook hands with the man and said, "Congressman."

"Captain Grogan."

Grogan looked to Slam. "Congressman, this is Detective Samuel Bradley. Samuel, this is Congressman Rupert Thorne."

They shook hands. Slam kept his eyes from drifting downward. Thorne guided them to the patio. He flopped on a chair. They followed suit. Thorne sprawled and smiled at Slam.

"I need no introduction, Slam,” said Thorne. “I saw you fight Mike Moldando years ago. I think you won that one.”

“TKO, sir,” said Slam.

Thorne smiled. “A win is a win, right? Captain Grogan has been telling me an awful lot about you, son. He says you have potential."

Two-Gun Jack spat juice in his coffee cup. He winked at Slam, "Slam here was originally recruited because he looked every bit the part of the mean sum bitch he actually is. Turns out he's smarter than he looks. I think he's ready."

Thorne reached for a wooden box on the table. He pulled out a fat cigar and lit it. A look passed between the two older men. Grogan nodded. His nod meant GO.

Thorne said, "Slam, do you believe that certain aspects of crime, vices like gambling and prostitution and drugs, are unavoidable and should be allowed to exist in a contained form?"

Slam shrugged. "Yeah. We can't stop people from doing what they want to do. As long as nobody gets hurt, it's fine with me."

Thorne and Two-Gun Jack traded looks. Grogan took off his stetson and placed it on the table. He leaned forward. Slam caught whiffs of tobacco. Grogan's tie was tobacco spritzed. His teeth were brown with tobacco juice.

Grogan said, "The three of us are riding the same wavelength. People like the DA see it like we do, but they're worse. They act like they want to change things but what they really want to do is make just enough change to fuck over the rest of us and get themselves elected to a higher office."

"Crabs in a bucket," said Thorne. "Nobody wins."

Slam picked up brainwaves. He rode a hunch into speculation. DA Porter, "higher office." He implied: The boxing probe. His implication confirmed by the congressman.

Thorne looked straight at Slam and said, "This little fact finding mission Porter is carrying out has the potential to damage a lot of important people who share our common outlook on this city. These people are your gateway to a whole new world, son. If you hitch yourself up to the captain and I, you'll be police commissioner within ten or fifteen years. After that? Who knows. But before that destination can manifest, the journey must begin. If you share our common interest, Slam, then we expect you to step up and see that this investigation ends before it can go before a grand jury. Do this, Slam, and you'll be one of us."

Slam scratched his neck. "How?"

Thorne opened up the wooden box. He laid a stack of bills down on the table. C-notes tied together in two thousand dollar bundles. Ten thousand dollars in cold, hard cash.

Grogan spat tobacco into his cup and said, "Be creative."

*****

06/22/46
The Gotham Arms

Scotty Lees dug into his nose and stared up at the ceiling. He sat on the bed while the radio played late night big band music. Slam sat on the other bed and chained-smoked. Night work, guarding Scotty from anybody who would do him harm. Ten grand stashed in the truck of his car assured he would be the one doing the harm. Thorne laid out the details. Goodnight Garcia would play ball once Scotty was dealt with. He'd spout qué? No hablo inglés to the DA until he was blue in the face. Slam's eyes fell on Scotty. Robert "Scotty" Lees: a pale as fuck heavyweight with bright red hair. The Glasgow Gouger had a record of 22-5-32. He had mush for brains and brayed like a donkey.

A radio commercial featured a talking rabbit shilling cars. Scotty hee-hawed and ate boogers. Slam stubbed his fifth cigarette out and stood. He peaked into the room next door. There's Goodbye Garcia sleeping his ass off. His bodyguard Officer Tommy Burke was ditto. They snored in sync. Slam closed the door softly and turned off the radio.

Lees said, "Aww... why'd you stop it?"

"We need to talk, Scotty. Answer a few questions for me."

"I can try, Slammy."

"What year is it, Scotty?"

Scotty made a face. It looked like somebody asked him to do advanced trig.

"I... 1943?"

"What did you have for dinner tonight?"

"I... I don't remember."

"Who won when you boxed Chili Rodriguez?"

His eyes lit up. He said, "I did. It was by majority decision. Chili had a hell of a left cross, but I got underneath it and managed to go the distance with him. Nobody can beat me when I get my jabs working."

"Quick, Scotty, what's twenty-four times twelve?"

His eyes stayed bright. "Two hundred and eighty-eighty. See, some stuff I don't know good... but I can ‘member names and numbers. It's why I used to run bets for Frankie Momo and Mr. Thorne."

Slam cursed. He shook his head and adjusted his necktie. He sighed and cracked his knuckles.

"Come here, Scotty. I need to show you something."

Scotty stood and walked over. Slam guided him to the window. Sixth story looking down. Slam pushed him hard against the wall. He banged Scotty's forehead into the plaster. His eyes went cross. He went loopy. He babbled incoherently. Slam shoved him hard into the window. Scotty broke glass. He fell out the window screaming. Two seconds and then a loud crash. Slam looked out. Scotty's broken body resting on top of a parked car.

*****​

Max polished off a bottle of gin on the way to the crime scene. He swilled Listerine to help cover up the smell. He chewed gum to hide his booze breath. Rolling to the southside of the city in an unmarked. His notebook resting in the passenger seat.

Second straight month working the graveyard shift. Nights tapped him out. The work tapped him out. His career was tapped out at sergeant. Five straight lieutenant's exams, five straight times scoring at the top of the list, five straight times he was passed over. He had a reputation as a lush and someone with a hard-on for the rules. They could handle promoting a drunk to LT, but not a tight ass. So here he was. He worked the midnight to eight shift and paid a sitter to watch Mary while she slept. The late nights meant grief from his ex-wife. She'd left him before the war and never looked back. She was talking through a lawyer conduit, threatening to challenge him for full custody of Mary. Just one more problem on the pile.

The current call he was on came into the homicide pen twenty minutes earlier. He and Fields played rock paper scissors to decide who went. Max pulled scissors, Fields pulled rock. Max flipped him off and got his gear. He drove at a steady pace and no lights. It was a code 7, probable jumper. No rush on a suicide. He hit the brakes when he saw police lights.

Three prowl cars parked in a semi-circle around the Gotham Arms. Lights and crime scene rope. Max got his notebook and walked towards the tape. He flashed his badge to the uniform on sentry duty and identified himself: Sergeant Eckhardt, Homicide.

Max stepped on the scene and went to work with the layout and details. The DB: sprawled out on top of a car. A broken window six stories up. The body a white man, his pale skin cut up and bloody from the impact with the car. Someone loomed close by. Max turned. A big man with black hair eye-balled him. He had a good five inches on Max.

"You the homicide dick?"

Max said, "Yeah." They shook hands. "Sergeant Max Eckhardt."

"Detective Sam Bradley. I'm with Major Cases."

“I thought you looked familiar. I think--”

Bradley shook his head and looked down at Max.

"I did this..."

Max looked at Bradley and raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

Bradley's hands shook. He swallowed loudly. "I was supposed to be protecting him and... I... he... just jumped."

Max frowned. He opened his notebook and got out a pencil.

"So tell me what happened."