Clark stuck his head in Perry’s office. “Chief, I know it’s just three o’clock, but—”
“I know, son,” Perry answered gently. “You have an appointment you have to keep. Go keep it.”
Clark nodded and withdrew without speaking again. Perry sighed and picked up the phone.
“Metro Police, Ninth Precinct, Sergeant Bale speaking. How may I direct your call?”
“Inspector William Henderson, please.”
“May I say who’s calling, sir?”
“This is Perry White of the Daily Planet.”
“Ah, yes, sir, Mr. White. If the Inspector is available, I’ll connect you at once.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“One moment, please.”
Perry leaned back in his chair, then pulled the handset away and stared at it. The hold music was Kenny G’s soprano clarinet playing his pretty but seriously over-exposed big pop hit “Songbird.” They ought to use Elvis’ stuff, Perry grumbled silently.
The line went silent for a brief moment, then he heard, “Bill Henderson. What can I do for you, Perry?”
Perry sighed. “I have a problem you may be able to help me with.”
“A legal problem?”
“No, a people problem.”
“Huh. I’ve never thought of myself as much of a people person.”
“Maybe not, but I think you can help me with this situation.”
“Okay, shoot. What’s the problem?”
“Clark Kent.”
Bill went silent for a long moment, then said, “Yeah, Perry, that is a problem. But I don’t know what I can do about it.”
“He’s headed to the cemetery to visit Lois.”
“That’s not a surprise. You told me he goes at least once a week.”
“He does, but rarely on Friday afternoon. And it’s been right at a year.”
“Oh.” Bill paused. “I see what you mean.” He paused again, then said, “I sympathize, Perry, but I still don’t know how I can help.”
“I have an idea that might work. I want someone to go out there and make sure he doesn’t do anything – permanent to himself.”
“Okay. You’ve got lots of people there. Why call me?”
“Because Clark already knows most of the folks in this building, and none of them have any legal authority to prevent him from being really stupid today. Or any day, for that matter.”
“Ah, I understand now. Let me think – yes, I believe I have the ideal person to send on this little errand. Is he headed for the cemetery now?”
“Yes. He’s probably on foot, so whoever you’re thinking about has some time to get there.”
“No promises, but I’ll see what I can do. Thanks for calling, Perry. Kent’s one of the good ones.”
“No, thank you, Bill. I want to keep that young man around for a long time if I can. He’s going to be a great reporter again if he can pull out of this funk he’s in. Bye.”
Perry put the handset back in the cradle before that sappy soprano clarinet, or something even sappier, filled his ear once more. Maybe he’d suggest to Bill that the department put their radio calls on the hold sound instead of boring music. He could get some good leads that way – but no, it’d just scare the daylights out of the public if they heard what cops go through on a daily basis.
He picked up the story he was editing. Drat. If Clark were actually present and not just going through the motions, he’d get him to teach a quick course on how to structure a newspaper story. Some of these kids either had never learned how to do it or thought it really didn’t matter.
*****
Bill punched a button on his desk phone and dialed the front desk. “Bale? See if you can find Detective Tracey. I need a minute of her time. No, send her to me, and if you can’t find her call me back. Right.”
He hung up the phone and went back to the monthly overtime summary. Nuts. They were already pushing the monthly allotment, and it was just the twelfth of the month. His detectives wouldn’t like it – for that matter, he didn’t like it – but they’d have to do more in less time for a few weeks.
Someone knocked on his door. “Come in,” he called.
Detective Tracey stepped in. “You wanted to see me, Inspector?”
He gestured to the chair in front of his desk and thought about his approach to this interview. After a moment, he decided to be blunt and direct.
“Detective, I have a special assignment for you. There’s a man headed for the Metro Memorial Cemetery to visit a grave and maybe do something stupid and permanent to himself. I want you to make sure he doesn’t.”
The detective squinted at Bill and said, “Why? Maybe he’s got the right idea. For himself, anyway.”
“Doesn’t matter. Your job is to keep him from knocking himself off. Do your best.”
“Then what?”
“Use your own judgement.”
The detective sighed deeply. “Do I get any background on this guy or do I just accost every man I see beside a grave?”
“Don’t run your mouth at me, Detective. The subject’s name is Clark Kent. He’s a shade over six feet tall, dark hair and wears glasses, weighs about two hundred pounds, mid-to-late twenties. He’s a reporter for the Daily Planet. He was half of the Lane and Kent team up until a year ago when his partner died. He’s been ineffective since then, and everyone from his coworkers to his friends to his parents is worried about him. He’s barely keeping his head above water at work. You’ll probably find him at Lois Lane’s grave. Keep him alive.”
The detective’s mouth fell open, then she leaned forward and glared at him. “That’s the assignment? That’s all of it? Don’t let some idiot reporter kill himself? Boss, you’ve got to be kidding! I don’t think this is a legit use of my time!”
Bill’s voice sharpened. “That’s the job, Detective! You don’t want to do it, you can go back to uniformed foot patrol any time!”
“But—”
“Uniforms, patrol cars, lots of standing around doing crowd control. You’d love it.”
The detective bit her lower lip, then licked both lips and swallowed. “Fine. I just hope this doofus appreciates the misallocation of the city’s finances and the department’s manpower.”
Bill glared back at her and pointed to the door. She huffed, then stood and marched out. The door didn’t quite slam when she yanked it shut.
Bill sighed. Sending a woman whose partner had been killed in front of her to rescue a man whose partner had all but died in his arms might have been his most brilliant idea ever.
And he might have just set up a double suicide. It was definitely a risk, one he wasn’t sure he’d take for anyone besides Perry White. Meddling in the lives of others was a lot like watching a Time Lord regenerate.
You never really knew just what you were going to get.
