Supercop: 7/?
by Nan Smith
Previously:
"You know who it is?" his mother asked, as she poured coffee.
Clark sounded slightly resigned, even to himself. "Let's say I can make a pretty good guess," he said.
"I guess you're not going to tell us, either," Jonathan said.
"Not unless he says its okay," Lois said. "It wouldn't be right. Oh brother! Of all the people for this to happen to. Do you suppose he figured out how he got your powers?"
"Well, as you've pointed out quite a few times," Clark said, "he's pretty smart. At least we know we can trust him. I imagine he'd like to have a few words with Superman, though. There are probably some things he'd like some help with."
"I can think of a few," Lois said. "I wonder if he intends to go on wearing that ski mask."
"I would," Clark said. "He's pretty recognizable. And I just can't see convincing him to wear spandex."
The thought was apparently too much for Lois. She broke into giggles that had a slightly hysterical edge. "Ski mask man?" she spluttered. "Man in Black?"
"This isn't a movie," Clark informed her with mock-severity. "No ray guns or aliens that look like dogs, or man-eating cockroaches, either. If I were him, I'd keep a low profile. At least he won't be the only super hero in town. I'd love to see what the Whisper will be saying about him, though."
Martha Kent laughed. "It sounds like life in Metropolis is going to be more interesting than ever," she said. "How about some breakfast?"
"I wouldn't mind that at all," Clark said. "Would it be all right if I took a quick ten second shower while you're getting it ready? I could use one after the last fifteen hours."
"So could I," Lois said. "Save me some hot water."
"Go right ahead, honey," his mother said. "Would you like waffles or eggs and bacon this morning? Or both?"
**********
And now, Part 7:
"I'm still working on it, Mr. Henderson," Jimmy Olsen's voice said, over the phone. "I've traced it back to a server in England. I think that was the first one he routed it through after Metropolis. This second one might help me pinpoint it a little better; you never know. If I figure anything out, I'll call you right away."
"You do that, kid. Whoever this guy is, he means business."
"Yeah, I heard what happened." Olsen's voice sounded subdued. "Lois was all right, wasn't she? I haven't heard from her or CK all day."
"Lane said something about taking the weekend off," Henderson said, mendaciously. "Maybe they went out of town for a couple of days."
"Yeah, maybe." The young newsman seemed to accept the explanation. "Anyway, I'll keep working. Y'know, I wonder if whoever this is has some kind of a personal stake in it or something -- besides just money, I mean."
"You never know," Henderson said. "Um -- Olsen, I wonder if you could do me a favor, if you have the time."
"Sure."
"Kent tells me you're the best researcher he knows. Can you dig me up some more information on Quigley's associates? We can do it from here, but it will probably take a lot longer than it would you. We're dealing with more than one criminal case, you know."
"Sure." Henderson was sure he heard a laugh in the young man's voice. "I'll do a standard in-depth background on them for you. Maybe it will turn up something you can use."
"Thanks, kid; I appreciate it."
"You're welcome, Mr. Henderson. Bye."
Henderson hung up, but remained staring at the phone for several seconds. Olsen might be young, but Kent seemed to think he was a pretty bright kid and, although he would never have said so, he had always had a good deal of respect for Kent's opinion, even before he had guessed the truth about him. Maybe Olsen would be able to find some kind of connection other than just a business one.
He glanced at his watch. He'd planned on visiting Mrs. Broadbent this morning to see how she was feeling after the mugging in the park yesterday evening, and she should be up by now. Then he had to call the guy who was handling the arrangements for the Law Enforcement Tribute to Superman. Maybe, he thought, today would be reasonably quiet. Usually when he thought something like that, things went crazy within an hour, but hope sprang eternal. He left his office and headed for his car.
Later, he would remember his prophesy.
**********
Mrs. Broadbent was gratifyingly happy to see him and insisted that he come in and sit down while she served him a cup of coffee and home-made coffee cakes in her little apartment. Two of her neighbors showed up during the visit and joined the impromptu coffee klatch. Henderson left half an hour later, with a foil-wrapped piece of Mrs. Broadbent's cake, sent specifically by the old lady for his wife, and the heartfelt thanks of all three senior citizens. He climbed back into his car, feeling surprisingly good. He was beginning to understand what drove Superman. Kent had an extraordinary power to help that hadn't been granted to other people. It was the same reason that Henderson had become a cop in the first place. The simple gratitude of Mrs. Broadbent somehow brought it all into focus.
He pulled onto the Seaside Expressway and headed back toward the Precinct. A glance at his watch told him that it was nearly nine. He still had to make that call to Levitt and then he needed to check on the progress of the investigation of the shooting yesterday.
A black and green Ford sedan cut sharply in front of him, making him brake quickly. The car pressed forward, tailgating a bus lumbering along in the lane twenty feet ahead, cut right in front of a minivan, and then dodged around the SUV in the lane to his left. Free of the obstructions to its passage, the vehicle accelerated away at a good eighty-five miles per hour, or he was no judge. And it was gaining speed every second.
In his rearview mirror, he saw flashing blue lights. Two cop cars tore past in pursuit of the fleeing sedan. As he watched, the radio erupted in the voice of a police officer. Henderson stared after the car for a split second and then reacted.
He signaled and moved into the right lane. An exit was coming up and he took it as fast as he could manage. If he moved quickly, the driver of that car wouldn't have the chance to get far, and hit and run drivers were a particular peeve of his. This car fit the description of a car that had hit a toddler at an intersection fifteen minutes before. The child was apparently on the way to the hospital, but the driver had taken off like a jackrabbit.
Henderson left the off ramp and turned right onto Orchard. A block down was a vacant lot and he pulled into it, cutting the engine as he braked to a stop beside a broken-down storage shed. An instant later, he was in the air.
He left a sonic boom shaking windows behind him as he made his way back to the expressway. Listening for them, he found that he could hear the reports being made by the pursuing police cars, which had now increased to seven, plus three motorcycle cops. The driver was still fleeing, apparently cutting back and forth through traffic, to the imminent peril of other drivers. Somewhere, someone was ordering all the nearby patrol cars to the vicinity to try to head off the panicked quarry.
This had all the potential for a disaster, he thought. A driver who had lost his head and fled the scene of a hit and run, now trying desperately to escape the pursuing police ... It was time for him to intervene.
Flying faster than the cars could possibly hope to move, he saw the chase in the distance and a moment later was overhead. A quick check with his x-ray vision showed him a young man behind the wheel and when he concentrated, he could hear the frantic thumping of his heart. The driver was in a blind panic, which was a recipe for a major accident.
He angled downward. With a single grab, he planted his hands on the front bumper and pushed.
The car began to slow. He heard the screeching tires as the driver's foot continued to shove the accelerator to the floorboard, but to no avail. Bringing the car to a halt, he could smell the stench of burning rubber. The tires continued to spin, but he was holding the vehicle in place without much effort at all.
Police cars screeched to a halt around them. The driver's door popped open and the suspect started to flee, but a motorcycle officer had leaped from his cycle and pursued him on foot. The young driver got perhaps twenty feet before being tackled.
Henderson released the car, walked around to the driver's side and turned off the engine. As he straightened up, one of the men who had arrived by car approached. He stopped several feet away and cleared his throat. "Uh ..."
"Can I help you, Officer?" Henderson made his voice as mild as possible.
"Um ... I just wanted to say thanks. That kid was gonna kill somebody, the way he was driving."
"Not to mention himself," Henderson said, unable to keep the dryness out of his voice. "You're welcome."
Moments later, he was stepping back into his parked car. As he started the engine, he listened to the radio, to the comments flying back and forth, and smiled at some of the names his coworkers were dubbing on him. He guessed he'd have to come up with some kind of official name if his powers stuck around for very long. How long had that Jessie kid had his powers? About a year? He'd have to check on that with Superman, the next time he saw him, as well. He pulled out of the vacant lot and turned onto a surface street that would lead him eventually back to the Precinct. Trying to work his way past the traffic jam that he had seen on the expressway would take hours and he didn't have the time to waste this morning.
Little did he know. He had just finished his call to Levitt regarding the tribute to Superman when his own police scanner burst into speech, reporting a hostage situation on the fifth floor of the building that had been LexTower. Still a center for business and trade after its founder's fall from grace, it was now known as the Metropolitan Commerce Center. The report said that a disgruntled employee was holding the President of Granholm and North Investments, as well as several of his staff, hostage in the man's office. Police negotiators were on their way.
Henderson got to his feet. He *really* had to talk to Kent and ask how he got any work done with his Superman duties interfering with his work schedule this way. As an afterthought, he took the report that he had intended to read with him to his car. Maybe he would have a few seconds after he dealt with this latest crisis to actually read the progress report before a plane decided to crash or something and his presence was required again.
**********
He emerged from the office of Granholm and North with the gunman tucked firmly under one arm. Police converged on him and relieved him of his prisoner, then went on to the former hostages. Henderson took off in a burst of speed, intending to return inconspicuously to his car. Instead, he found himself suddenly accompanied by Superman, who was keeping pace with him without effort through the air. A glance to the other side showed him the pink-clad form of Ultra Woman.
"Hi," she said, brightly.
"It's about time you got back!" Henderson growled.
"Oh?" Ultra Woman said, innocently. "From the news reports, you seem to have handled things pretty well while we were gone."
Up this close, with what he had already guessed, he could see the resemblance of Ultra Woman to Lois Lane, and her voice was unmistakable, especially with the note of unholy amusement that lurked in it. He turned to Superman. "How the devil do you shave?"
"Is that the reason for the ski mask?" Lois asked.
"You're wearing a mask, too," he pointed out, a little irritably. "I've got a wife, and a kid on the way. The last thing I need is a bunch of media pests sticking cameras in my bedroom window."
"Congratulations," Superman said. "I didn't know."
"Thanks," Henderson said. "So, you got any pointers for me?"
"Actually," Superman said, and Henderson saw a faint grin twitch the corners of his mouth, "I do. Do you have time right now, or should I make an appointment for this afternoon?
Henderson pushed up the sleeve of his black shirt to check his watch. "I'm off at four. Where should I meet you?"
"How about by the Century Tree in the Metropolis National Forest?" Superman said. "We need to find a place without anyone around if you want to practice."
"I'll be there at four-fifteen," Henderson said.
"Oh yes," Superman said. "Bring a mirror."
"Whatever you say. Now, I have a report to read," he said. "Don't be late."
It was at that instant that the sound of multiple sirens assaulted his ears. "*Now* what?"
"Chain reaction accident on the Bayview Parkway," Superman said. "We'll take care of it. You're still on duty."
"I'd better come along," Henderson said. "It doesn't sound good."
**********
It was some two hours later when they finally finished helping the paramedics and the police rescue victims of the accident. Henderson alternated with the super-couple, ripping open crushed vehicles and flying victims to the emergency room. Sometime during the confusion, he managed to find the time to call in to the Precinct and inform them that he was trapped in heavy traffic at the site of the accident and would be returning when he could.
Half an hour into the relief operations, the representatives of the media showed up, although how they had made it through the bumper to bumper traffic jam he had no idea, and he was aware that the cameras were trained on him and Ultra Woman as they worked. He was only grateful to the motorcycle cops that restrained the eager news hawks from rushing into the accident scene itself.
It was past noon when they finished. Superman jerked a thumb at the journalists and their cameras now converging on the three of them. "You want to deal with them yet?"
"I'd rather wait until after I've had a chance to talk to you about this."
"I figured that. Go on. We'll handle them."
"Thanks." Henderson took off, aware of wails of anguish issuing from the mob of media. A glance down as he shot away through the air showed him Superman and Ultra Woman engulfed in the swarm of journalists, and he found himself grateful to the Man of Steel and his wife for their willingness to take the heat in his place, at least for now. Eventually, he was going to have to face the music, but he would rather do that when he had all the facts at his fingertips.
Finally able to get back to his car, Henderson picked up the long-delayed report on the events at the courthouse the day before that was still sitting on the front seat and read the contents at super-speed: a distinct convenience, he reflected as he studied the summary. That was probably one way Clark Kent managed to have the time to fulfill his duties as a reporter and still handle his second job. Flipping through the pages, he came at last to the report on the stolen car used in the murder attempt. The car belonged to a woman named Linda Jackson, living at 212 Chestnut Circle in Metropolis. Her husband, George Minton, was listed as the second driver on the registration.
There was something familiar about that name. On a hunch, he took out his cellular phone and dialed the number of James Olsen.
The phone rang several times, and he was just about to hang up when someone picked up the receiver.
"Olsen." The young journalist's voice sounded slightly breathless.
"This is Henderson," he said. "Olsen, do you have a list of Quigley's associates handy?"
"Sure," Olsen said. "Just a second." Henderson heard several clicks in the background and something chirped like a bird, then the young man's voice was back. "Here it is. What did you need?"
"The car that was used by whoever tried to kill Lane yesterday was owned by a Linda Jackson Minton. It's probably only a coincidence, but wasn't one of Quigley's backers named Jackson?"
"Yes sir," Olsen said. "Charles Jackson. I've got everything on him right here. His wife's name is Wilma. He's one of Quigley's private backers. When Quigley was arrested he was interviewed and denied any knowledge of Quigley's illegal experiments."
"Only to be expected," Henderson said, making a mental note to check on Linda Jackson anyway. "Thanks kid. How's the trace coming?"
"Not a lot of luck yet, sir. I'm still working on it."
"Call me if you manage to find anything."
"I will, sir."
On his long-delayed return to the Precinct, Henderson busied himself with several administrative duties, then, finished with the routine housekeeping chores, went to the file room to dig up what information he could on the Quigley case. A short time later, he returned to his office with a copy of the file and sat down to study it at his leisure.
The file of Quigley's backers was of particular interest to him. Charles Jackson was only one of several and not all the sources of funding had been tracked down; there remained two large deposits that Quigley had made just before his capture that no one had yet been able to trace.
A short time later, he left the Precinct again to handle the results of a drive-by shooting at 4th and Terrace. He returned to the Precinct a few minutes before quitting time, and as he was tidying his desk, preparatory to leaving, his cellular phone rang. He answered it.
"Henderson."
"Mr. Henderson, it's Jimmy Olsen. I found some information I thought you might want to know about."
"I don't suppose it's about the email?" Henderson said.
"No, sir. After you called, I did a little research. You said the owner of the stolen car is a Linda Jackson. That's probably in the report, right?"
"Yes."
"Did anybody look her up, because I don't want to bother you if you already know this."
Henderson glanced at the report still lying on his desk. "Just basic background. Age, profession, where she works and so forth. Why?"
"Charles and Wilma Jackson are her parents. I did some calling around, but they've been out of town for three days. They won't be back until Sunday night."
Kent had been right when he'd told Henderson that this kid should work for the FBI. "Now that's interesting. I can't see them stealing their daughter's car to pull off an assassination, but there could be some other connection."
"That's what I thought," Olsen said. "It seemed like I should tell you, anyway."
"I appreciate the effort," Henderson said. "At least you saved me some time."
"I'll keep working on the email," Olsen said. "At least now I have two to work with."
He had barely hung up when the instrument rang again. Henderson flipped it open. "Henderson."
"This is Darcy," a familiar female voice informed him. "You asked to be informed if the car in the drive-by yesterday was found."
"The one at the Courthouse?" Henderson asked.
"Yes, sir. It was just brought in. It had been sunk in the swamp near the Half Moon Basin in the harbor. Ultra Woman spotted it and notified us. Forensics is just about to start going over it."
The Half Moon Basin in the Metropolis Harbor was an isolated area that had been set aside as an ecological reserve for waterfowl. "Call my cell phone if they find anything useful."
"We will, sir. Good night." Darcy hung up.
**********
