Byrd Man

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

For season two:

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

MARTIAN MANHUNTER

^{_{JOHN JONES/J'ONN J'ONZZ ♦ DETECTIVE♦ SEATTLE ♦}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

---

^{"They beat him up until the teardrops start/But he can't be wounded 'cause he's got no heart."
-- Elvis Costello}

J'onn J'onzz is an alien from the planet Ma'aleca'andra (Mars). As a young man J'onn served with the Ma'alec'andra Grand Army during the planet's war with the hive-mind like white Martians. J'onn was part of a special unit know as the Manhunters, committed to finding and bringing to justice the most heinous White Martians. In the final days of the war, a war that would end with a Green Martian victory, J'onn and his Manhunter unit were engaged in a firefight when a wormhole opened up on the battlefield and pulled J'onn into it.

He tore through time and emerged out the other side in a strange place with a strange looking creature watching him. It turned out the man was Dr. Saul Erdel, a scientist experimenting in quantum mechanics, and he was on the planet Earth. The year was 1946. The stress of seeing a full-fledged alien caused the elderly Dr. Erdel's heart to give out. The old man died before J'onn could figure out what was going on. Confused and not sure what to do, the Martian fled into the night.

Over the years J'onn traveled the world, using his powers and abilities to help as many people as possible while trying to discover a way home. Any hopes and dreams he had were crushed when NASA's probes and rovers on the surface of Mars reported that the planet was a dead one, and had been dead for a long time. The wormhole Erdel had opened sent J'onn through time as well as space. Mars and his family were long gone. Acting now as John Jones, a private investigator in Seattle, J'onn still grasps with being the last Martian and trying to find his true place in his adopted homeworld.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

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In the greater expanse of the mystery genre, the PI character often works best as a detached outsider to society. J'onn, a literal alien, is the perfect encapsulation of that spirit. I have an overarching story in mind that involves feds, crime, and the realization that J'onn isn't the only alien on the planet.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

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Cameron Chase -- Field agent of the Department of Extra-normal Operations.
Theo Neil -- Seattle PD detective and John's former partner.
The Firefly -- Unknown serial arsonist operating in Seattle.
Martin Malvo -- Chase's partner.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

Seattle, Washington

~Did I turn off the stove?~

~She knows about me and her sister. I don't know how, but she does!~

~Kill! Kill! Kill!~

~I'm going to kill myself today.~

~Man, I've got to pee.~

This is my life. Even walking down the street in the earthly guise of a middle-aged man I cannot help but be bombarded with the thoughts of the rest of the world. These are just what lies on the surface, the loudest in the churning cauldron of free-flowing thought that is the human mind. These innocent monologues, repulsive ideas, and mundane observations all swirl together in a loud cacophony that now register as little more than background noise to me.

I had the collar of my jacket turned up against the low drizzle that morning. The thoughts of others filled my ears, but I had them tuned out with my mind focused on the upcoming meeting. The day before I had received an email from someone wanting to meet at a specific location. I was suspicious, but also curious. I would know well in advance if I was walking into a trap, and if I was then god help the people trying to trap me.

The diner the customer picked for the meeting was a typical greasy spoon. There were beginning to be fewer and fewer of those in Seattle as gentrification ran roughshod over the city and outlying suburbs. I sat at the counter for a minute and perused the menu before something caught my eye just as the waitress walked up.

"What'll it be, hun?"

"It says here you offer an Oreo milkshake."

"Sure do. Is that what you want?"

"Yes," I said with a smile. "Yes, please."

She went off the fix the shake while I turned around to look through the diner. Someone was watching me and thinking about me. I found the owner of the eyes and thoughts in the corner. A teenaged girl with curly red hair locked eyes with me and instantly turned away. In the brief moment our eyes met I felt a wave of thoughts and emotions flood through her. Crippling sadness, uncertainty, loneliness. Feelings I could identify with very well.

"Did you email me?" I asked her as I approached the booth.

"Yes," she said softly. "I read about you on the internet at the library. You were a detective?"

"Yes. Yes, I was. Seattle PD, LAPD before that. I'm a private one now. Mind if I sit?"

"You can..."

The waitress brought me my milkshake and I offered some to the girl, only for her to turn it down.

"So, what do you need help with?"

"It's... my sister... she's gone missing... I'm... I'm all alone now, I have nobody left. Will you help me? I don't have any money, Mr. Jones... please?"

More thoughts and emotions, almost too sad to comprehend. Visions of a pretty young woman with blonde curly hair, visions of hypodermic needles, razor blades, men with gold teeth and switch blades. Way too much violence for a girl this age to have seen. And now she's all alone.

"First things first, tell when you last saw your sister."

P O S T C A T A L O G:

---

TBA

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

@JunkMail So I took a night to think about this entire issue and I can't fathom how you could have posted that message in the first place. You knew it was offensive, and yes I'm at fault for not responding earlier but there's no way that post should ever have made it into the OOC thread. So I'm sorry to say, but I'm officially removing you from the game. Thank you for your contributions but, I just can't have a repeat of this incident and I've received several concerns about the content of your posts.

Apologies and best of luck moving forward. If you have any questions, please direct them to me in a PM.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

<Snipped quote by Lord Wraith>



Glad to be aboard, looking forward to joining in!

@Pacifista

You're making me think of a certain gif that is not appropriate to share on this site...

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Part II:
SNAPSHOT

BANNER: Gotham Globe, 06/30/46
DA FILES NO CHARGES IN BOXING PROBE

BANNER: Gotham Herald, 08/21/46
DA PORTER DECLINES SENATE BID

EXTRACT: Gotham Herald, 10/10/46

FOURTH WOMAN KILLED, POLICE SAY NO CONNECTION

The body of a woman found yesterday morning is the latest in a string of murders on Gotham City's west side. The victim, identified as twenty-eight-year-old Jane Lewis of a Dutch Hill address, was found just after three in the morning near a west side bar. Like previous victims, Ms. Lewis was killed by gunshot wound.

"There is no way these murders are connected," said Sgt. Max Eckhardt, squad sergeant in GCPD's Homicide unit and lead investigator of the case. "The similarities in question are too vague. Causes of death are the same, but that's it. There's nothing else that connects these crimes."

Despite denial from Eckhardt, sources say that Ms. Lewis' body was left in a manner similar to previous victims. What that is, sources will not reveal for fear of provoking copycats or false confessors. When pressed about the possibility of a connection, Sgt. Eckhardt remained placid. "Everyone's tendency is to always assume the worse. There is no way the same killer committed these murders."

Sgt. Eckhardt said that, regardless of the lack of connections, the GCPD is treating each and every unopened murder as serious as the next one. "There is no statute of limitations on murder," said Eckhardt. "And we will continue to look into the deaths of Ms. Lewis and the other girls who were murdered. Absolute justice is demanded."

The GCPD are asking that anyone with relevant information regarding Ms. Lewis' murder and any of the other murders to come forward.

BANNER: Gotham Globe, 11/6/46
THORNE ELECTED TO SENATE IN LANDSLIDE

BANNER: Gotham Herald, 11/14/46
SIXTH BODY FOUND, POLICE ADMIT LINK TO OTHER MURDERS

BANNER: Gotham Gabber, 11/20/46
IS YOUR HUBBIE A MURDEROUS MANIAC? FIVE WAYS TO FIND OUT INSIDE!

BANNER: Gotham Globe, 12/01/46
SOURCES: KILLER LEAVING PHOTOGRAPHS OF VICS AT CRIME SCENES

BANNER: Gotham Globe, 12/19/46
SNAPSHOT KILLER CLAIMS SEVENTH VICTIM, GCPD WARN WOMEN OF DANGERS

*****​

December 21st, 1946
Western Gotham City
3:29 AM

Detective Jim Corrigan cruised the strip towards county territory, his sights on a shakedown sortie. Shakedown Jim, the Narco Nightshift Ne'er-do-well. He was the scourge of sycophantic scum and stimulant selling stooges. He'd pop pill peddlers and pilfer their prescription pile. He popped pills with aplomb. He dug the delirious dope high. This baaaaad bloodhound beats beaucoup bad bums and breaks the bones of bandits.

Jim rode a righteous rapture of speed and painkillers. A killer kombo kreated krazy kreations of the kranium. He cruised and saw Christmas trees melting and molting. He saw reindeer dripping blood from their snouts. Nobody out tonight. No whores walking the beat, no pimps plying their pugilistic power. No drug dealers digging on the diabolical dichotomy of their dreary lives.

Nobody out tonight because a psycho sought out senoritas to slash. Said psycho killer slaughtered with skill. Seven bodies stacked up in the moldy municipal morgue. The Snapshot shooter seriously spooked slum squatters. Nix on that. Tonight the big bad bloodhound bounced through blocks of blight to bag his blow.

Near the county line he pulled into a side alley. Nobody on the street, nobody on the corners. Nobody out to shakedown. A wasted night. Jim prepared to turn around. Headlights flashed on something in the road. A dead body. Corrigan parked. He lumbered out. He saw a dead girl. He saw photos on her body. He freaked. He ran back to the car and got on the radio.

*****​

Western Gotham City
4:05 AM

Blue lights and arc lights illuminated the crime scene. A dead woman, face down in the cold mud. Two exit wounds on the back of the head. Disheveled clothing. Harness bulls in coats smoked cigarettes and drank coffee and mulled around. Shakedown Jim smoking with them. Police scientists en route, ditto on the brass.

Slam squatted by the body. Steam poured from his mouth. Just below freezing outside. Narco dick Corrigan stumbled upon her while chasing down a lead. Slam caught the squeal. He saw the photos on the back. Snapshots of the vic. She's squinting. She has her hand up to her face. She looks scared shitless. Last moments of her life before two bullets blow her brains out. The Snapshot Killer strikes again. Slam reported it back to Gotham Central. Max fucking Eckhardt was on the way.

The dead girl on the ground made it murder number eight of the spree. Eckhardt caught the first murder back in September. Homicide's first man up rule dictated he got stuck with any subsequent murders. Whiskey Max stuck with eight unsolved stiffs made Slam smile. The brass tried to downplay the snuffs and say they weren't connected. Slam got a little payback by leaking classified material to the papers. They broke the story wide and ran with it. It caused the brass grief, but it fucked Eckhardt up. Good. Fuck him, the blackmailing prick Slam stood. His knees popped. He bummed a smoke from a uniformed cop. He lit up and stared at the dead girl.

Six months in, Homicide was the pits. His rep was that of an enforcer and not a case man. Eckhardt bypassed him when he dished out assignments. He was always secondary on cases and assisted other detectives. Lt. Boyle’s mandate was a pussy one: no hitting suspects. Slam played psycho in Mutt and Jeff interrogations. Acted like he was gonna hit and then pull back at the last second. He could handle that if they would let him actually work cases.

The Snapshot case was something interesting, but he got the shit work from it. He pined for the street. He kept in touch with Two-Gun Jack Grogan. His order was still good: Kill Max Eckhardt. Kill the fucker outright and come out of the cold and back to warming embrace of the mob squad. His hatred for Eckhardt burned as strong as Slam's. Slam did not want to kill Eckhardt outright. That was too easy. Slam wanted him to suffer. He wanted him to beg for mercy before he killed him.

*****

Max got out the car. He pulled his coat close. Fields drove and served as secondary on the case. Max lugged his crime scene equipment, still tasting the bourbon in his mouth. A few shots to steady himself before he went out in the cold. Fields lit up a stogie and blew smoke. They passed under crime scene rope. Reporters already dogged the scene. And why not? A goddamn maniac was on the loose and they needed copy.

Three uniforms stood around a body. Slam Bradley off to the side smoking. Max felt prickles on the back of his neck. They worked together for sixth months now and hadn’t said more than two words to each other. They stayed out of each other’s way and liked it like that. Any conversation would be laced with rancor. Any discussions would devolve into hostility. Bradley: A thug who outright murdered a state's witness, yet Max was the bad guy in this particular narrative. He sold his silence for rank. He bought a lieutenancy with extortion. Maybe there was something to Bradley's hatred.

Bradley wore a smirk. Max pegged it: He's getting a kick out of watching you flail. He likes seeing you with seven -- now eight -- murders on your cart. He wants you to fuck up and fail. Save for Charlie, they all want you to fail. They know you're next in line for promotion. They know when Boyle finally dies you'll be their boss. They're envious. They want what you have. They despise you because of all you have and will soon have.

Fields talked to Slam while Max examined the body. He ginglerly turned the body over and went to work. The victim matched the basic description of the previous seven. White female, somewhere in her twenties or thirties. Two bullet wounds in the head. Bullet wounds were the basic shape and hole of a .38, the killer's weapon of choice. Max glommed the pix on the body. Cheap film, washed out exposure. The victim crying, trying to resist. Her hands flailing and fighting back. Mark it as number eight on the Snapshot Killer's victim scorecard.

Charlie Fields walked over and said, "One of ours discovered the body. Corrigan out of Central Narco."

Max stood and said, "Shakedown Jim? Hopefully he's not high. The man is a disgrace."

Charlie winked. "I wouldn't be too quick to judge if I were you, Whiskey Max."

Max scowled. He pushed past Fields. The gaggle of cops gossiping like schoolgirls. They passed around a flask and snickered when they saw him approach.

One cop said, "Whiskey Max is here."

Another cop said, "He must have smelled hooch from clear across the street."

Slam shook the flask at Max and said, "I think his mouth is watering."

Max said, "Cut the crap before I have you all written up and suspended. A woman is dead over there, the eighth victim of a maniac. This is no time for jokes. Detective Corrigan, follow me to my car. I want your statement on your discovery of the body. I want everyone else canvassing the area right now to find out who saw her before her death, and if they saw anything else. If you have anything to report, find Detective Fields. Failure to comply with my orders will result in suspension and a potential trial board. Get to it."

Most of the cops high-tailed it. They amscrayed to get to work. Bradley drug his feet. He sulked and took his time. Max locked eyes with him.

"That means you too, Bradley. Do not make me repeat myself. I'll use big words like you pal, Two-Gun Jack: You will find that curlishness perturbs me."

Bradley stalked off. Corrigan and Fields traded looks that said what the hell was that all about? Max ignored them. He motioned for Corrigan to follow him. Fields headed out to canvass. They stopped at the dead body.

Max said, "Eight women are dead, Detective."

Corrigan ran a shaky hand across his poorly shaved face "The sick fuck is running roughshod over the goddamn city."

"Not for much longer."

Max said a silent prayer. A prayer for the dead girl's soul. A prayer for the previous seven dead girls. He prayed for safe passage of their soul. He prayed for divine retribution. He prayed for justice. He prayed for his own soul. His own divine intervention. He prayed for the strength to stop drinking.

He prayed to break the case wide open. Catching a killer like this would cement him in the PD, make his career, and make him nigh untouchable to demons like Bradley and Grogan. Max looked across the street. Bradley watched. He smiled. He mimed shooting a gun with his finger. He blew on his fingertip. Steam from his breath aped gunsmoke.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

<Snipped quote by Hillan>

You've got to wait 24hrs, geez.

It's like you're not even a GM.

@Lord Wraith

So is this gonna be like when Napoleon crowned himself?

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

06/23/46
The Bowery
6:31 PM

Slam hit the third floor landing and prayed it wouldn’t be bad. 3C. The apartment he grew up in. He let himself in. He caught a whiff of piss and mildew opening the door. The apartment was trashed: old newspapers stacked to the ceiling, cigarette butts scattered on the floor, cats running roughshod, jars of piss littering the room. Power and water hookups were a distant memory. He heard dutch babbling and followed the sound through the sty.

His mom talked to herself as she shifted through garbage. Hilda Janssen was lost to the world. Slam shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from throwing haymakers into the wall. Growing up Hilda had always been loopy. She had the strong accent, liked the bottle, and followed the wrath of god teachings of Sister Aimee Semple McPhersn. Slam caught grief from the neighborhood kids big time. When his old man split she swan-dived off the deep end. She had a full-blown nervous breakdown and turned full blown lush. She stopped speaking English and started sniffing model airplane glue. Slam was ten. The kids got mean with their taunts. They pushed him when he got mad. Slam learned how to use his fists. He learned that it paid to be the toughest son of a bitch around.

Slam said, “Ma.”

Hilda looked up from her sty. She looked through Slam. Her look said, “Who the hell are you?”

“Ma, it’s me.”

She mumbled something in dutch and went back to her mess. Back when he was boxing, Slam was able to afford nurses and maids to come by and check on Hilda. They came and went, and they didn’t come cheap. They always charged extra fees to put up with the old woman screaming and throwing shoes at them while they tried to clean. That money dried up the second Slam joined the PD. It allowed the apartment to devolve into… this.

But now he was flush. He had ten grand. Said ten grand was still nestled in the trunk of his car. It would do more than pay for nurses and maids. It’d give Slam’s mom a new start. Scotty Lee’s blood would mortgage Hilda’s comfort.

“Ma,” he said again. “I’ve got a placed lined up for you to stay. A nice rest home where you can be safe and have people to look after you. Doctors and nurses and orderlies.”

Slam heard more dutch. He recognized the words “no” and “fuck off.” Slam thought about his father. He wished the son of a bitch was here to see this. To see the wreckage he left behind in his wake. Part of Slam was glad he wasn’t here. He couldn’t trust himself to not blow the fucker away with his piece.

*****

Chinatown
10:19 PM

Two car convoy rolling through narrow streets. Slam drove the unmarked cop car in the lead. Two-Gun Jack Grogan rode shotgun. Burke and Harris sat in the back. Simpson drove the chase car packed with mob squad goons. They were headed to a Tong summit to act as muscle. One Tong family swore vengeance on another family. A Chinatown war loomed on the horizon. It defied Grogan's mandate for all Gotham gangs to keep the peace at all costs.

Slam's thoughts drifted during the ride. He thought back to his mom and his father. Meanwhile, his surrogate daddy had been busy. Grogan spent all day in confabs with the commissioner and other brass. SLAM was the topic of said confabs. Porter promised payback for Scotty Lees. Grogan contracted to make it copacetic. He said hard-on Whiskey Max Eckhardt had the case. The hush-hush huddles made Slam nervous. A sellout could be in store.

The convoy pulled up to a fish factory. They got out with pump-action shotguns and automatic pistols. Slam had his big .45 in his hand. Grogan stuck a plug of tobacco in his mouth and strutted into the factory with a bullhorn in his hands. The factory floor: Wall to wall to Chinese men yelling in their heathen language. Six Nation Tong on one side in red, the Yellow Dragon Tong on one side in yellow. They jabbered at each other, flashed knives and guns, and threatened to start the war right then and there.

Two-Gun Jack held the bullhorn to his mouth. His voice amplified across the din. The bullhorn made it screech weird. Grogan's voice sounded inhuman. Slam realized he was speaking Chinese. He gave the fucks the spiel in fluent Mandarin. The speech’s gestalt: Calm down right now or we will send in the riot squad and bash all your heathen brains in.

The panic subsided. Grogan grinned. He motioned the rest of the squad to flank out. They covered exits and corners with their guns. Grogan and Slam walked towards a card table in the middle of the mob. Fat Ricky Fat of the Six Nation sat on an opposite side from Hau Song and the Yellow Dragons. A third chair for Grogan sat between them. Two-Gun Jack sprawled into the chair. Slam stood behind him as muscle. Hundreds of eyes fell on Slam. He winked en masse to the crowd.

The negotiations began. The two old men spoke through Grogan. They talked to him and he talked to the other. All eyes fell on the negotiations. No noise from the crowd. You could hear a pin drop. Ricky Fat said something in his gobbledygook. He pounded the card table. A buzz filtered through the crowd. Ricky Fat made the throat slash sign.

Hau Song shook his head and rattled off gibberish. Grogan held both hands up. He talked, talked, talked in their tongue. He pointed to both men. He expounded on some theory that made both men's heads nod. He finished. They both agreed. The crowd clapped. Wolf-whistles broke out.

Grogan got up smiling. He pulled Slam close and whispered in his ear. "I give you peace. Peace for our time, son. Go find Burke. We've got some more work to do."

---

Burke drove and Slam rode shotgun. Grogan and the head of Six Nation Tong sat in the back. Fat Ricky Fat spoke in Chinese to Grogan, Grogan gave it right back. They laughed. Slam looked in the rearview mirror. He saw a pistol and hatchet in Ricky Fat's lap.

Grogan switched to English. He said, "GCPD caught a dead body two days ago. A Chinese girl stabbed to death in a Chinatown no-tell-motel room. The victim was Ricky Fat's niece. Her murderer is Yellow Dragon, some punk she was fucking. He saw her with a Six Nation boy and got jealous. He stabbed her sixteen times. A real Romeo and Juliet story. I learned all this at our summit just a few moments earlier. Knowing Homicide like I do, they will give the killing a cursory investigation and drop it. If it's not white, they don't care. This degenerate who killed Ricky Fat's niece has tarnished his family honor. Old world customs dictate that he must regain that honor with vigorous bloodletting."

Slam saw the hatchet blade glint in the sparse light. Ricky Fat held it up swung it around the backseat gracefully. Grogan laughed.

"To advert full on war, Yellow Dragon has agreed that this heinous crime must be avenged. Take a left here, Thomas."

Burke pulled up to a tenement building. They got out. Slam and Burke walked point, Grogan and Ricky Fat behind them. They hit the fourth floor. Apartment six. Slam had his .45 out, Burke gripped his snub nosed .38. Grogan pulled his six-shooters. Ricky Fat had a hatchet in one hand, his pistol in the other.

Grogan said, "Go!"

Burke kicked the door. Once, twice, three times. It snapped on the third kick. It fell to the floor. They walked over it. They ran in on five Chinese junkies geezing up on Big H. Slam and Burke aimed at the same man. They blew holes through his chest. Two-Gun Jack opened fire with both six-shooters. He turned two men into swiss cheese. Six shots a piece center mass. Ricky Fat charged the one man left alive. He screeched something in Chinese and hacked at the man with his hatchet. The man screamed and fell to the floor. Ricky Fat kept hacking. Grogan nodded, he spun his guns like a cowboy and holstered them. Burke went green. Slam holstered his piece. Grogan put a hand on his shoulder and lead him and Burke out.

"Let Ricky Fat have his fun. We need to talk since we have a moment."

Grogan spat tobacco on the floor and shook his head. He talked over Ricky Fat's screams/the killer's death groans.

"Tonight's your last night working with me for some time, boys. I did what I could, but you both gotta pay something for that mess with the boxers. Thomas, you're going to the Eastern District narco squad. Samuel, they're packing you to Homicide. It's supposed to be temporary. How long it'll last, we'll see."

More screaming inside. Choked, phlegm filled death rattle. Blood ran out the door and pooled at their shoes. Burke dry-heaved. Slam saw a severed eyeball float by.

*****

​

Gotham Central
1:33 AM

Max sucked on his flask and paced in the conference room. On the wall, the Scotty Lees case tacked to a corkboard. Form and void. Thought and theory. Implication and assumption. It was there. It was sketchy. It was enough. Crime scene pix laid out his findings. It was threadbare. The crack in the wall and the angles of height. The ME did not check Scotty's head and skull for signs of head trauma. His face got cut up by the fall. No obvious bruising on the skin. Threadbare, but enough for his purposes. They were meeting in a half hour for Bradey's interview. Grogan called and said they were on the way.

He walked through the Homicide pen towards his desk. The office was a ghost town. The rest of the squad hauled ass to Chinatown. Multiple 187's. He begged off, using his meeting with Bradley as an excuse. Fields called him from the scene. A fucking quintuple homicide. Five Chinese men were shot and hacked to death. Brutal stuff. That mass snuff and a stabbing from two days ago made it six open murders in Chinatown. He saw crime scene pix of the dead girl. She reminded him of Mary.

Mary.

He did what he had to do at the crime scene and picked her up from school. They exchanged pleasantries, talked about their day without saying really saying anything. They ate greasy fast food for dinner. She had a milkshake. He drank cut-rate bourbon. She excused herself and went to do homework. He passed out on the couch. Mary woke him up two hours before he had to be at work. He saw the sadness in her eyes. Those eyes said, what the hell are you doing? Why do you do this to yourself? Why do you do it to me? He ignored all of it and downed a pot of coffee to wake up. The babysitter showed up to stay with her through the night and Max came to work.

The door to Homicide opened. Max saw Grogan's stetson first. He killed what was left in his flask. Liquid courage steadied him. Grogan and Bradley stopped by his desk. Grogan snagged a GCPD mug off Fields's desk and spat tobacco in it.

Two-Gun Jack said, "Sergeant Eckhardt. Sorry if we're late. We were on a case and it got a little rough. Someone was eyeballing me."

A look passed between the two cops. Private joke. Max ignored it. Bradley stifled his giggles and held his hand out.

"Maxie."

Max stood. He looked at the hand. He let it linger there in front of him. "Call me Sergeant Eckhardt, please.”

Bradley prickled. He withdrew his hand. Grogan narrowed his eyes. Max motioned towards the conference room.

"Shall we?"

---

"It was getting late. We were listening to the radio and Scotty was sleeping and I started to nod off."

Slam sat at the conference room table. Eckhardt up close. Grogan halfway down from him and watching everything. Slam smoked. Eckhardt smoked. Two-Gun Jack chewed chaw. Eckhardt's eyes were distorted behind thick-framed glasses, they looked huge and all encompassing. He wrote down notes while Slam told the story. A tape recorder on the table spun and recorded the interview. Grogan spat into a coffee mug and kept watching.

Eckhardt said, "The radio was off when police arrived. Did you turn it off before or after Scotty jumped?"

No hesitation. "After. It seemed so loud and with everything going on, I turned it off."

"The sound of Scotty jumping is what woke you up?"

"Yes."

Eckhardt nodded. He held up a crime scene photo of the room. Two cheap, saggy beds. One on the left was unmade. The one on the right was immaculate.

"Sleep above the covers, sergeant?"

"I did."

Slam felt Grogan stir. He could feel Two-Gun Jack's eyes on him. He heard another loud spit into the coffee mug. Eckhardt nodded. He reached across the table and got the recorder.

"I think I have enough here."

He killed the recording. Slam felt relief. Eckhardt rummaged through a pile of files. He pulled out a photo and laid it front of Slam.

"You left an indent in the wall when you bashed Scotty Lees head into it."

Slam looked down. It was small. But sure as shit it was there. Slam’s head snapped up. Grogan's face was frozen. Eckhardt looked at Slam then at Two-Gun Jack, then back to him.

"The medical examiner's report missed any kind of exterior bruising due to all the lacerations on Scotty's head, but I bet a search underneath the skin will reveal a contusion he suffered moments before he died. I got a skin swab of that indent this afternoon. Skin flakes in the dent were a perfect match for Scotty. You smashed his head into a wall and you threw him out the window, you goddamn thug."

Slam saw red. He raised up and went over the table. He grabbed at Eckhardt. Eckhardt backed up faaast. He dodged Slam's mitts. The same mitts that beat the shit out of Scotty Lees eight years ago. The same mitts that tossed Scotty out of a window two nights ago. Grogan's big hands pulled him back to the chair. He got him back down and steady. Eckhardt looked white. His hands were shaking.

Grogan put his hands on Slam’s shoulder. He fumed at Eckhardt. He said, "What do you want, Eckhardt? You turned off the tape recorder before you went into it, so I bet you hadn't even raised this issue with Boyle or anybody else. What's your angle?"

Eckhardt straightened his glasses. His fixed his tie. He took deep breaths to calm himself. He beaded sweat. Slam fantasized about ringing his goddamn neck.

Eckhardt said, "I want a promotion to lieutenant. I consistently get passed over despite attaining the highest scores on all tests and exams. Furthermore, I want my promotion to come within the detective bureau. I want to run either Robbery or Homicide. You have juice with the commissioner, Captain. Make it happen and I will write a final summation that pushes Bradley’s narrative that Scotty Lees committed suicide. Failure to comply with my wishes and I send my findings to Porter. He's already riled at you, Captain. All he needs is proof that your men and squad are dirty and he will not hesitate to burn both you and Bradley."

Slam felt Grogan's hands tighten on his shoulders. Grogan breathed heavily. Slam couldn't see his face, but the man irradiated anger. Murderous anger. He saw Grogans's hands turning white from the grip on his shoulders.

Two-Gun Jack said, "You have a deal, you cocksucker. I'll talk to the commish and have you set up to take over for Hughes when he retires, or even Boyle when he finally kicks the bucket."

Eckhardt lit a fresh cig. He inhaled deeply and nodded. He blew out smoke when he said, "That sounds reasonable to me, Captain. I'll file my final report tonight, but I will hold on to the evidence I have. Insurance, you see? I need to protect myself."

Grogan walked out without another word. Slam stood. He stared down at Eckhardt. Eckhardt stared back. He saw sweat rolling down Eckhardt's face. Slam moved and Eckhardt flinched. Slam laughed and walked out after Grogan. He caught up to him by the elevator. Two-Gun Jack fumed. He spat his wad out in a trash can by the elevator and looked at Slam. The goofy cowboy shtick was gone. All Slam saw was raw anger and hate.

"If you want to make it out of your new Homicide assignment and come back to the mob squad, I have but one simple request: Kill Max Eckhardt."

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

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Just "catchamber" all lower case.