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3 yrs ago
Current "I'm an actor. I will say anything for money." -- Also Charlton Heston
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3 yrs ago
Starting up a preimum service of content from actors like Radcliffe, Day-Lewis, Bruhl, and Craig. Calling it OnlyDans.
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3 yrs ago
Please, guys. The status bar is for more important things... like cringe status updates.
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3 yrs ago
Gotta love people suddenly becoming apolitical when someone is doing something they approve of.
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3 yrs ago
Deleting statuses? That's a triple cringe from me, dog.
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Bio

None of your damn business.

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<Snipped quote by Byrd Man>

You have 12 hours. I challenge you to get both sillier and more serious. Give me another viable character to choose from. Go!


Here:



| Character Identity |

Theodore Roosevelt

| Age |

Too old.

| Character Differences |
It's Teddy Roosevelt, and he's alive and with superheroes.

| Brief World Background |

Earth 1776 -- The Fightin' Fathers



| Brief Character Background |

I don't think anyone has submitted less serious characters. But glad to see more secondaries all around. I expect there will be a few more changes before the day is through.


I mean if you want me to get sillier than a anthropomorphic duck bank robber, then let me know, my guy.


December 22nd, 1946
Western District Station
11:38 PM

The fat pervert spat blood. Slam sapped him across the face with a blackjack. Slam had his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up past the elbow. The interrogation room sweltered even at Christmastime. Fatty handcuffed to the bolted down chair weeped. He screamed. Two-Gun Jack Grogan sat in the far corner and peeled an orange with a switchblade.

Grogan said, "Chester York. You're a disgusting pervert."

Slam worked the fat man's ribs with the blackjack. He squealed like a pig. Grogan haw-hawed and bit into an orange slice. Slam's arms felt numb. Sweat stung his face. Going on twelve hours since they started their perv hunt. GCPD wanted the Snapshot Killer found post haste regardless of innocence. Pin it on a major creep, preferably one far enough off the deep end to not protest.

Grogan popped another orange slice and sang, "Chester, Chester, the child molester. You know, I ain't never met a boy named Chester who wasn't some kind of fiend. But you, son, you take the cake. All them women you killed, and for what exactly? Did it get you off?"

York spat teeth. "I didn't kill nobody! I like kids! Grown women it ain't my thing! Killing ain't my thing!"

Grogan touched the tip of his stetson. It meant GO HARD. Slam backhanded York with the sap. Slam worked arms and legs with the sap. York screamed loud. Bones snapped over the yells.

Fatty York gasped for air. He coughed up blood and teeth and said, "I'll... do whatever you tell me, I'll say what... whatever you want. Just stop hitting me."

SLam stepped back. Grogan spat pulp on the floor and smiled.

"Excellent. We're gonna get the DA in here and you're gonna confess. Now, let Detective Bradley coach you on exactly what to say."

*****​


Gotham Central
12:19 AM

Max swigged booze from a coffee cup and got back to work. Max, Fields, and Corrigan were a three man cold case squad. They were sequestered in Max and Field’s Homicide cubicles. Stacks and stacks of old sex crimes on the desk. Fields thumbed through it with Corrigan's help. Max had a list of perp sheets in front of him, searching for known criminals who were white men with dark hair who owned a white sedan.

Fields sucked on a cigar and blew smoke. "This sex offender shit is strictly from hunger, Max. If our guy was a rape-o or a pervert, why didn't he poke any of the girls?"

Charlie's bitching struck a nerve. Max rode a brainwave. The search for a diddler or panty-sniffer played wrong. HIS guy was a voyeur. He was passive up until the point of the killings. He was a peeper.

Fields sighed and said, "To hell with this. I know this is important, but I need a goddamn break. Anybody want some sandwiches?"

Charlie took orders and headed out to the deli across the street. Max looked at Corrigan. He kept working the case files. His shoulders sagged and his fingers twitched. Max knew the look. Corrigan was coming down hard. He'd need a fix sooner rather than later. Max turned back to the files. H rode his brainwave to the files, narrowed his search for white, dark haired men who owned white sedans AND who had some kind of peeping rap sheet.

Thirty minutes later he hit paydirt. Durfee, Chris NMI. DOB: 3/10/24. White male, black hair and brown eyes. He got popped with peeping tom beefs in '39, '41, '43, two in late '45. The last string of offenses sent him to prison for six months. His release date sent skin prickles down Max's spine: 8/21/46. Three weeks before the first Snapshot Killer victim.

Max stood up. His legs wobbled. He held on to the desk to right himself. He looked over at Corrigan. "I think I've found our guy. We need to go, right now."

Corrigan looked around. "What about Fields? What about backup?"

Max could feel the case's solving on his fingertips. Eight murders solved. His glory case drew nigh. His reputation cemented.

"Not enough time, let's go!"

---

Western Gotham City
1:10 AM

Max pulled the unmarked up to the curb. Snow fell in flurries across the street. Durfee's listed address: A flophouse that was easy driving distance to all of the murders. It coalesced into theory. It gave Max goosebumps. He popped the trunk. Corrigan got out. Max got out and opened the trunk. A pump shotgun sitting in the back. He picked it up and racked a round into the chamber.

Max said, "Cover the back while I go in the front."

Corrigan scampered towards the flop's rear entrance. Max's feet crunched on snow as he went to the front door. Christmastime in Gotham. Snow flurries flecked his hair. Red, numbing hands on cold gunmetal. His ambition coalesced with absolute justice, opportunity sprung forth. Bold dreams required bold action. Eight women were dead. Heinous crimes required swift resolution.

Max said a Hail Mary and kicked the door in. There's Durfee, on a tattered couch in soiled tighty whities. Max tried to say 'Police' and 'You're under arrest.' Nothing came out. THERE: Durfee moves for something. Max squeezes the trigger on the shotgun. It kicked back. Durfee's chest caved in. Max screamed and fired again. A second shot blew his face off. Durfee flopped backwards on the floor twitching.

He dropped the shotgun. Blood spatter on his glasses. He shuffled to Durfee. Saw he was going for a marijuana cigarette on the table. Max let out a dry sob. He stepped over Durfee's body. He stumbled into the kitchen. He upended the table. A box flopped on to its side. Pictures spilled out. Shots of all eight women killed by the Snapshot Killer. Max's ears rang. Meaty hands on his shoulder. Corrigan's. He heard the sirens. Cops on the scene. They gawked. They cheered and gave Max pats on the back.

One of them said, "It's down. The whole goddamn case is down.

One of them laughed and said, "Eckhardt, who would have thought?"

Someone said, "Shotgun Max."
Angel Eyes
Part I


Seattle

My fingers slowly glided across the ivory keys of the piano. I was playing “Skating in Central Park” by Bill Evans. The crowd in Staccato’s that night seemed to be half-paying attention to me as they had their drinks and carried on conversations. That was how I liked it. I saw myself as part of the decoration of the place, the piano player that made the piano bar legitimate. Despite the seeming lack of interest, the tip jar on the end of the piano had a nice wad in it.. The crowd broke out into a smattering of applause as I finished the Bill Evans tune. I was preparing to go into “Angel Eyes” when I saw him watching me from the bar.

Floyd Bowron, ten years and almost twenty pounds since I last saw him. The blotchy skin around his nose and cheeks let me know how his battle with sobriety was going. He had already taken out half an old-fashioned in between the time he sat down and the moment I saw him. I cleared my throat and stood.

“I’m going to take a short break, folks, but I’ll be back shortly.”

I made eye contact with Bowron as I passed his table. I heard his chair scrape and heavy footfalls behind me. We were on the far end of the bar, all alone, before I turned to look at Bowron. He flashed a smile as he took a seat at the bar.

“Hi, John. Didn’t know about your gig here until I started to ask around.”

“It pays the bills,” I said coolly. “Seattle PD never saw fit to grant me a pension, so I have to make ends meet.”

“I’m sure you’re okay, I’m sure you’re getting something from LAPD, right? If not a pension or a settlement, at least some hush money…”

I sighed. “Are you here for a reason, sergeant, or do you have nothing better to do than to harass your former partner?”

“I have a reason,” said Bowron, before pulling his ID and badge out of his jacket pocket. He flashed the gold badge. “And it’s captain now.”

“I have to get back to work soon, captain, so if you could get to it, I w--”

“I need your help.”

Bowron downed the rest of his drink before catching the bartender’s eye and pointing to his empty glass. I waited patiently as Bowron got his refill and took a slug from it before speaking.

“It's not easy, okay? The way we left things I'm swallowing a lot of pride to come in here."

"Swallowing a lot of booze too," I said. "But some things never change."

"Caleb Maddox is missing.”

I knew it. Since seeing Bowron’s ruddy face in the crowd, I knew he was here to talk about Celeste. I ordered a drink from the bar and took my own Bowronesque gulps to prepare myself for what came next.

"He's nineteen now," said Bowron.

"Nineteen," I said softly. "Hard to believe."

"Yep, and nobody gives a shit when a legal adult disappears. Just another runaway as far as missing persons is concerned."

“Last Tuesday was the tenth anniversary of her disappearance,” I said. “Were you aware of that?”

“Of course, John,” Bowron said with a cocked finger. “You act like you’re the only one who suffered. It was a fucking nightmare for all of us, me included.”

“Whatever you say… captain.

“I made a huge fucking mistake asking you for help.” Bowron finished his second old-fashioned off and pulled cash from his pocket. “I thought maybe there would be a trace of the old you still left. But I was wrong.”

“Wait.”

Bowron froze, cash still clenched in his pudgy fist. I thought back to that time. It was a little over ten years ago, but an entire lifetime had seemed to transpire. Looking back, I suppose it had. Pianoman John Jones was the current me, Detective Jones was the old me. But was it someone I could be again? Especially since the damage that the case had done to me. J’onn J’onnz was dead, as dead as the red planet he came for. But maybe I could bring the old manhunter back.

“Give me all the information you have,” I said after a long pause. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Agreed.
Oh God oh fuck it's Season Two, now I actually have to post in the game I signed up for.


Me waiting for Uni's two weeks to be up like:




December 22nd, 1946
Gotham Central
9:30 AM


Corrigan hit the head. He parked in front of a urinal and unzipped. The door swung open halfway through his piss. Someone loomed close. Jim turned. Slam Bradley towered over him. Bradley smiled. His big hands closed around Jim's shoulders. He shoved Jim into the urinal. Water and pissed splash. He struggled. Bradley's hands felt like vise grips. A knee in his lower back kept him pushed hard against porcelain.

Bradley got in close and whispered, "If you're going to keep stealing and shaking down dealers, make sure they're not Jefferson Skeevers' guys. Skeevers is an asshole, but he has enough sense not to threaten a cop. That's why I am personally delivering this message. This constitutes your first and only warning, Corrigan."

Bradley shoved him hard one more time. He banged his head against the tile wall. Slam backed away. Jim pushed away from the urinal and pressed against the wall. Bradley was already at the door. He looked back at Jim and winked. He disappeared out the door. Jim came out after him, water spritzed and reeking of piss. Whiskey Max rounded the corner. He fish-eyed Jim and took in his disheveled clothing.

"Tidy your appearance, Detective, and come with me. We may have a lead on these killings."

*****


9:46 AM

Slam found Grogan in the Sex Crimes office. Three of his goons snarfed doughnuts and rifled through sex offender files. They were looking for a prime candidate for the Snapshot Killer frame job. Grogan had his feet hiked on the squad boss's desk. His pants leg rode up, a snub-nosed .38 peeked out from an ostrich skin boot.

Two-Gun Jack spat tobacco juice in a chaw cup. "Samuel, come to help with the perp hunt?"

Slam said, "Can we talk?"

They went out to the parking garage. Slam wore a coat against the cold. Grogan went in just short sleeves. His twin holsters sagged. He slid the gunbelt up higher on his waist.

Grogan said, "I'm all ears, son."

"I saw Jeff Skeevers this morning. We had a conversation that pertained to you. It was quite troubling."

"Finish your thought, boy. I hate being led around by the snout."

"He said you're in deep to some people"

Grogan's hands twitched. "Fuck Skeevers. A coon with grand visions and a big mouth, nothing more."

"Give me details, Cap. What's going on and how can I help?"

Grogan spat juice on the pavement and took off his stetson. He ran his fingers through thinning hair and said, "I made a few bad investments. Let's leave it at that. You want to help, help me close this case as soon as possible and we'll do what we can to mend fences before it's too late."

*****


10:00 AM

Max drove through traffic. It was holidays heavy. People doing last minute Christmas shopping. He thought of Mary. He hadn't gotten her anything for Christmas yet. This Snapshot Killer business got in the way. He'd find time tonight to go shopping and get... he didn't know what she wanted.

Corrigan rode shotgun. He still looked spooked. Something happened to him. He remained mum on it and gazed out the window smoking cigarettes. Traffic hit a lull. They stalled out amidst traffic jams. Corrigan tossed his smoke out the window.

"Why me?"

Max said, "What do you mean?"

"Why bring me into all of this? I found the body, yeah, but I'm a Narco dick."

Max squared his glasses and said, "You're also very compromised. Your reputation proceeds you, Corrigan. You are a well-known narcotics abuser who routinely shakes down drug dealers. Even with that baggage, your past casework implies that you are a competent investigator. Your drug use gives me a wedge I can use against you if you do not cooperate. While others tolerate your misdeeds, I will not hesitate to report you to Internal Affairs and have you thrown out of the department."

Corrigan snarled. "You're a fucking prick, you know that?"

"So I've been told many times. If you can clean up, I think you can be quite the comer in this police department."

Max hit the lights on his unmarked. Traffic parted quicksville. He hit the gas and sped through stalled traffic as fast as possible.

Corrigan said, "That's mighty high praise coming from Whiskey Max."

"Think nothing of it, Shakedown Jim."

--

Western Gotham
11:03 AM


It was a dive bar if there ever was one. Cramped space, tiny bar, rickety chairs, moth-eaten upholstery on booths. Jim sat on a barstool and watched Eckhardt and Charlie Fields hit paydirt. An honest to god witness turned up during canvassing. The wit was tall and imposing as hell. He sent prickles down Corrigan's chest. He reminded him of Bradley's threat, whispered softly but full of malice. There was no impotence behind his words.

Eckhardt said, "You work here as a bouncer, Mr. Norman?"

Norman nodded. "Yeah, been here for a few years now. Call me Jake."

Fields said, "Jake, tell Sergeant Eckhardt what you told me."

Norman nodded again. "Okay. I was outside the bar here last night. It was dead, everyone spooked by the killings, and I stepped out to have a smoke. I saw a woman walking towards the bar. I noticed her because she was the only one on the street."

Eckhardt cleared his throat. "What time was this?"

"About two in the morning."

Jim did the math. He found the dead girl's body around three thirty. Medical Examiner's report put her time of death between one and three. It seemed to check out.

Fields pulled a photo out. Crime scene pix of the dead girl's face straight on and at side angles. "This her?"

Norman squinted. "Can't really tell. It was dark out and she didn't get close enough to see her face real good because about halfway down the block this car pulls up. A white looking Chrysler all beat up to shit. It idled there and talked to her for a minute and she got in. The car passed by the bar. It had a cracked windshield and dried mud all down the side. I saw a white man with dark hair driving the car."

Jim saw a look pass between Eckhardt and Fields. Excitement. A lead. Months without a goddamn trace, and now they had a lead on this son of a bitch.


December 22nd, 1946
Kavanaugh's Pub
8:13 AM

The cop bar was decorated with Christmas crap. Bartenders wore goofy Santa hats. Red and green tinsel strung up around the bar. A drunk patrol cop wore a red Rudolph nose and puked beer on the floor. Christmas music played on the jukebox In a corner booth, Jim Corrigan crushed bennies with the butt of his service revolver and used the barrel to line up the powder. One, two, three neat little lines on the table.

Jim got the shit from a drug dealer who peddled out of some fruit nightclub. He walked through a group of sad, middle aged queers gyrating under blacklights to the Andrews Sister. He found the dealer in a bathroom stall geezing up with Big H. Jim kicked the needle away and shoved him against the stall door. He gave the drooling shitbird the spiel: Your bennies or your life, which is it gonna be?

He snorted the lines quick-like. The shit hit his system. His eyes pinned, his pulse raced. The bennies mingled with whiskey and beer and sent him off into the stratosphere. He left earth behind and slouched in the booth. The pills were to help him forget the dead girl's face. A day since he found that body and it spooked him fierce. He saw her dead body every time he closed his eyes. It made no sense. He was twelve years a cop, he'd seen scores of DB's.

THIS was different. SHE was HIS victim. Number eight with a bullet. SHE was still just a she. Officially Jane Doe #29 at the city morgue. Canvassing around the area of the crime scene revealed no eyewitnesses. Nobody in the neighborhood recognized her. They deadpanned Jim when he showed photos. Nobody gave a fuck. Another dead girl? So the hell what? As long as it ain't me, now keep moving, cop. He was out of his zone on this one. He was a Narco dick, this was a Homicide. Max Eckhardt didn't care. He co-opted him to work canvass around the scene. He told Jim, you found the body so you're involved now. The entire PD wanted it solved bad, Whiskey Max wanted it solved even worse. He salivated for a silver LT bar. He coveted rank almost as much as he coveted hooch.

Jim jumped from the booth. He ran out the bar and to his car. The bennies did not kill his thoughts on Jane Doe #29. He hauled ass down side streets. He sweat through his clothing. The bennies made his thoughts race. They raced around in a circle and came back to Jane Doe #29. He hauled Code 3 down the parkway. He tried to outrace his thoughts. He failed.

The radio in his car squawked. Dispatch asking to patch a call through.

"Corrigan."

"It's Max Eckhardt. The PD brass is holding a meeting in an hour to discuss these Snapshot Killer murders. I want you there."

Jim said, "I'm Narcotics, Sarge. I discovered the body, but what--."

"I have my reasons. Let's leave it at that. Be there in an hour."

*****​


O'Neil Heights
8:13 AM

Slam rolled ghettoside towards a rendezvous. Winos and junkies were up and at it even this early in the AM. They spat at Slam's car as he passed. They flipped him off and waggled their dicks at Slam as he passed. Slam ignored it and kept on driving. The natives acted like natives, Slam acted like a good white man and ignored native behavior.

The Finger Housing Project loomed ahead. The Finger: a New Deal funded slum. They were six twelve story firetraps filled with felonious activities. A mini Sodom and Gomorrah rolled up into a half dozen rickety buildings. Pushers pushed product outside the entrances, dealers dealt drugs from stairwells on every floor. If you were ghettoside, this was THE place to be. It was très slum chic.

Slam got hard looks from the boys outside the Finger's A building. They smelled cop from a mile away. They saw the shape of his .45 underneath his jacket and got scarce. He rode a rickety elevator up to the top floor. He lit a cigarette on the ride up. A big brouhaha at Gotham Central loomed in an hour. Boyle gave him the details. The gist: This spree killer shit is from hunger. Close the goddamn case by new year's or else. All of Homicide and some additional muscle would be there.

Elevator doors slid open. Slam walked down a shadowy corridor. Concrete walls, graffiti on the walls and apartment doors. 12F near the end of hallway. Slam rapped hard and fast. That cop knock.

The door yanked open. Two black men pulled Slam inside. A small living room and two more armed men. A goon plucked the cigarette from Slam's hand and stubbed it out. Slam took in the digs. Fading paint on the walls, crappy furniture. A radio set worth about a thousand bucks, an actual television set. Those were rare as a motherfucker. On a couch: Dope peddler Jefferson Skeevers. He was dressed in all purple, his hair in a slicked back conk. Jeff works for Carlo Giacomo. He runs drug crews and dealers all through the city. His shit was mob-approved and GCPD blessed. His shit was the best around. If you got it in Gotham and it got you fucked up, then you got it from Skeevers. Skeevers Coke and Dope: Accept no substitute.

Skeevers held out a mirror with lines of coke and said, "Mr. Bradley. Thank you for coming, want a bump?"

"It's Detective Bradley. Tell me what you want, and why you called me instead of Grogan."

One of Skeevers' bodyguards popped a switchblade and scratched his neck with it. He got hard stares from the rest while Skeevers snorted lines. He came up from the mirror, rubbing his nose and snorting.

"I say gotdamn..."

Slam cracked his knuckles. "Today, Skeevers. I got somewhere else I need to be."

Skeevers rubbed his nose and nodded. "Alright, alright. A cop is fucking with my business. This motherfucker is shaking down dealers and taking their shit. He took pills from one of my guys last night and he is becoming a righteous pain in my ass. His name is Corrigan."

Shakedown Jim. Who the fuck else? He saw Corrigan earlier at the latest Snapshot Killer snuff scene. He thought Corrigan looked fucked up. Now he knew whose supply he was getting high on.

Skeevers blew snot from his nose and said, "I call you up because I know you will take care of the matter without getting out of hand. Your boy, Two-Gun Jack, the same can't be said about him. Ofay motherfucker is playing fast and loose lately. I asked him to just scare a crew of independents operating out of the west side and he killed half of them! The word is he owes somebody out there a lot of fucking money. I think that peckerwood is chafing under the pressure."

Slam deadpanned him. "I'm on it. Is that all?"

"Yeah, amscray."

The goons tittered. Skeevers grinned. Slam took it and walked out. He hit the elevator and back down to his car. He blew through O'Neil Heights and beelined towards Gotham Central.

Skeevers' reading hit true. Slam noticed something off about Grogan the last few times they talked. He talked too much about philosophical bullshit. The nature of man, the nature of murder, greed, darkness. Way out there. he talked up Max Eckhardt just as much. He hated Whiskey Max. He wanted him crushed post fucking haste. It unnerved Slam. Killing a fellow cop could not be rushed. Two-Gun Jack's impatience rankled. It made him worry he was getting sloppy.

There was no room for sloppiness in what they did. These animals they dealt with could smell weakness. One misstep destroyed perceptions of strength. One mistake would create chaos. Slam needed time to think and confirm what Skeevers said for sure. But right now it appeared Grogan's blood was in the water, and the sharks were circling.

*****​


Gotham Central
9:15 AM

Max sipped coffee laced with booze. Too much profile on him to outright chug from the bottle so he opted for the subtle route. At his desk, the particulars of the Snapshot Killer case strung up on a corkboard to his right. Eight young women all murdered on the city's west side. They all had the basic appearance. White, dark-haired and thin. All of them were late night habituates of the west side bar/drug scene. Hookers, cocktail waitresses, barflies, and bartenders all. Outside of the looks and jobs, no common links. The killer patrolled until he found a potential victim that fit the description. Premeditated, the victims chosen by chance. Max looked at the photos of the eight girls. The killer took pix of them in their last moments. Some of them cried, some of them fought, some of them accepted it. He zeroed in on victim number eight. She did a bit of all three.

Shakedown Jim found her. No ID found on her body to identify her with. A Jane Doe for now. Fields and a bunch of uniforms were on the streets canvassing in the area around where the body was found. All the previous canvasses turned up jack and shit. Nobody wanted to talk to cops about the dead girls. Max polished the rest of the Irish coffee and stood. He walked and worked out leg cramps. The phone on his desk rang. Charlie calling from a payphone. They hadn't turned up anything in the immediate area around the crime scene so they were expanding the search. He put the phone back in the cradle and saw a scribbled message beside the phone. His lawyer. The custody fight over Mary stalled. He paid the lawyer to stall it out until after the first of the year so he could have a chance to solve this case. Daddy Max, LT Eckhardt the crimebuster, would look golden compared to abandoning Alice Eckhardt.

The Homicide conference room packed. All of Homicide, save Fields, crowded in the room and mingled. Twenty detectives along with GCPD high brass and other detectives Max recognized. There's Corrigan, there's Bradley looking at Corrigan. There's Two-Gun Jack Grogan and his goon squad near the corner. Grogan talked with Inspector Merkel. Lieutenant Boyle pulled drags off a cigar. He looked like he was circling the drain. Super-thin and sunken eyes. Yellowed skin. Less cop and more holocaust victim. Commissioner Akins polished off a paper cup of coffee and walked to the head of the conference table. Murmurs stalled as he held his hand up.

Akins said, "Settle down now. For the eighth time in the last few months, some sick fuck killed a woman on the west side. The same monster taunts our police department with pictures of his victims. The press are calling him the Snapshot Killer. I don't care what the hell they call him, I want him caught. I've let you run the thread out on this one, but now the heat is on. The FBI has informed me that they're bootjacking the case after New Year's. I am here to tell you it won't come to that. It won't come to that because we are solving this goddamn case before the first of the year."

Merkel stepped up and said, "Homicide will continue to investigate the case normally. To help supplement their investigation, Captain Grogan's squad will comb through sex offender records and interview any potential offenders who could be culpable for the crime. Those that do not have alibis for the dates of the murders will be brought in for interrogation."

Max felt his stomach go cold. Couched in bureaucratic speak was the truth written in bright neon. FRAME JOB. GCPD's specialty. Grogan and his thugs would find a pervert or depraved mind that would fit the bill. They would then beat a confession out the man and pin the murders on him. They would have him declared mentally incompetent to stand trial. The case would be solved, but the killer would not be caught.

A desk sergeant elbowed his way to Max. He passed him a note.

CALL FIELDS ASAP. EXPANDED CANVASS TURNED UP POTENTIAL LEAD.
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:




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:

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:

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.


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



"Angel Eyes"
I.
II.
III.
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