“Oh my God! Martin, what’s happened to you?”
Philip Mannion stared in disbelief at the heap of a man at his doorstep. Contrasted to the picture of domestication that was Philip, attired in an old bathrobe, dull blond hair askew from recent sleep, waist expanding and cheeks drooping as middle-age stalked him, Martin Obermyer was a disaster. He hunched into the tattered brown coat, the blue jeans nearly as brown from relentless applications of dirt and grime. Black hair streaked with gray and thin wiry beard of similar color surrounded a face splotched with broken capillaries and a wild look in the brown eyes, as the odor of hundreds of heated days and sleepless nights filled the air around the two men.
“My wife is supposed to have killed my family! That’s what happened to me!” Martin Obermyer shouted at his best friend. “You have to help me! You have to know something! I know you’ve said nothing before, but you have to know something!” The desperation screeched across Philip’s ears as he blocked Martin’s hands from clutching his bathrobe.
“I told the cops everything I know, Martin,” Philip said sadly. “I know you couldn’t have killed them, but I saw nothing, I heard nothing.”
“It’s okay, Philip, it’s alright, you can just say you remembered something, and tell them! Before it’s too late for my Anna!” He looked up into Philip’s face, pleading, tears forming in the rheumy eyes.
“They’d figure it out, Martin, don’t you understand?” Philip winced at the suggestion of Anna’s fate. He stepped back and moved the door so that it partly blocked his body. “I can give you some money. You can go to a hotel, clean up. Good God man, you have to get yourself back together.”
“Honey, who is it?” came a sweet feminine voice within the house.
“Karen! It’s Martin! I need help, did you…” Martin was cut off by Philip who pushed out of the door and onto the porch, shoving Martin back a few steps.
“Just a salesman, sweetheart, don’t worry!” he called back and shut the door behind him. “Martin, Karen’s a very fragile woman, and it’s taken her months to get over what happened to you and Anna and the kids. I’m not letting you upset her any further.”
“You…you’re in on it!” Philip stared in shock at his best friend, and stumbled backwards even more. “You do know something, you bastard! It’s a small community, someone will know the truth!” His eyes lit up as he thought of something, and Philip grew nervous.
“You’re sick, Martin, let me call you some help, get you to a hospital.”
“No, no, no, I know now. The community. The Church, the Grace of Our Lord Church, the Reverend will know who to point me to, and I’ll figure out what you did to my poor Anna, you bastard!” Stumbling over himself, Martin turned and darted down the street in a ragged line, crying out all the time as Philip shook, his face paling.
{-B-}
Victor Farley and Carl Doherty stood before the large table with the contents of several evidence boxes spread out before them. Numerous knickknacks, books, envelopes, letters and more that made up all that was left of the Obermyer home faced the two detectives as the night grew darker and they grew more desperate.
“I’m lost, Vic,” Carl said as he gulped the last of the now-cold coffee. “There’s nothing here that wasn’t here before. You think the killer is going to strike again tonight, but there’s no other killer. Maybe this freak just is into police trivia and playing a prank on you.”
Victor shook his head and pawed through the pile of bills, letters and postcards they’d seized early on in the investigation. They were yellowed, and bent, and showed signs of constant manhandling as he again abused them. “No. The trace on the line showed it was a pay phone. No one uses a pay phone to play a prank in this day and age. Not without a good reason. There’s gotta be something here! Or something in his message we’re over-looking.”
“Well, I got nothing, partner. I didn’t even figure out that the message was a message, so I give up. Man, I miss the old beat days, when you saw someone running from a mugging and knew he was the crook.” He chuckled as he walked over to pour himself another coffee.
“Hey Carl, he mentioned something about the time of our lord, right?” Victor asked for confirmation, as he stopped at one particular letter. He took it from the pile and pulled out the contents, a charitable request.
“Yeah, ‘ten on two shall be the time of our lord’,” Carl repeated as he flipped out his notebook and read the line. “Why?”
Victor passed him the envelope and contents and let Carl read the letterhead from the Grace of Our Lord church. “You think?” Carl answered as he watched Victor grab at a small address book and flipped through it quickly.
“It’s listed in here, a Reverend Jeffrey Caffrey,” Victor answered.
“So they’re close to this guy?”
“More than that,” Victor said as he started to flip through the book. “What if there’s a cover-up? I mean, we know they were in this social circle through the Church. That’s the crosses next to some of the names. But that guy, this ‘Murder Prophet’, he sounds kind of like a religious nut. What if we’ve been looking at this all wrong?”
“Vic, now I think you’re getting kind of freaky about this,” Carl replied. “Still, we should go check on the Rev, and see if he’s okay, and then see if he’s okay, if you catch my meaning.”
“I think I do, pal.”
{-B-}
Bulletman was in the office of the District Attorney, Susan Kent. James Barr felt a steady sense of nervous anxiety and near-nausea as he crept around the office, a small penlight in his hand. The bright red shirt and heavy white denim pants didn’t lend themselves for sneaking, but he was careful, and so far, had not been noticed by the police on watch. Of course, flying in through the window and jimmying the lock was child’s play for him now, he discovered.
“Okay, let’s see,” Bulletman James Barr mumbled as he sat at Susan’s chair and looked at the desk. “Nine years of marriage, I should be able to figure out where my wife keeps her stuff.” He swiveled on the chair and rolled to the file cabinet, and slipped out the bottom draw. He shuffled through the stacks of files and found his target.
“Obermyer, Anna,” He murmured as he turned back to the desk and flipped through the papers. Faster and faster he raced over the reports and pictures and diagrams and lists. He had raised his red-lensed goggles for better viewing in the semi-dark, and somewhere at the back of his mind, he was in awe of his new reading speed. He barely spent even a minute on even the densest page of information, before comprehending and moving to the next. In short order, he finished the file and slipped it back into the draw. He moved back to the window and quietly floated up into the night’s sky while musing on what he’d read.
I can’t get over how screwed up that defense was, Bulletman mused.
I love my wife, and I have to admit, she can be overconfident. But even she can’t think her prosecution was just that much better. Must talk to Farley and see what he thinks, then maybe check on this defense lawyer Wilson Cassel. He paused and hovered in the air, and then zipped off over the skyline. Within moments, he was dropping back to the street as he saw two men exiting the police station.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’m looking for Detective Victor Farley,” Bulletman said as he landed in front of Carl and Victor.
Both detectives gave a long look at James in his costume, and at the tall helmet. The goggles just added to what seemed like an utterly foolish helmet and costume, and Carl started to snicker.
“And who are you supposed to be? ‘Captain Marvel Lite’?” Victor asked with an impatient tone.
“Bulletman, gentlemen, and I’m here to help you with the Obermyer case,” James replied, arms folded over his chest and trying to look impressive.
“Bulletman, huh? Well, you can help by letting us get to our jobs, and taking your Halloween costume off,” Carl shot back.
“But I’ve been looking through the files at Su—DA Barr’s office, and I think I’ve stumbled over some information that points towards her lawyer being involved,” James interrupted. “I want to help with this. That woman’s innocent, I’m sure, and I want to help rescue her.”
The two men stopped and looked at each other. Carl continued to smirk as he said, “Don’t let the DA hear you call her Barr, fella. You may not know this, but she hates being called by her married name. Not that it will matter, she pretty much hates costumed guys getting involved like you anyway.”
“We have other suspicions, but the lawyer…that might be an angle to check out depending on how tonight goes,” Victor admitted. “Right now, we have to get to the Grace of Our Lord Church before something bad happens.”
“The church? I’ll zip over there right now,” Bulletman offered. “I’ll meet you gentlemen there.” He dashed into the sky and disappeared back into the skyline.
“Well, he’s a complete goofball,” Carl muttered as the two detectives headed into their car. “I hope he’s on the level though, because there’s nothing I want to do less than try to nab some guy who can fly.”
Victor nodded as he started the car and then sped off down the street. “I’ve got a feeling he’s on the level, if only because he never waited long enough to find out what the trouble is. So we’d better get to him before he gets his costumed ass killed.”
“Something interesting though,” Carl muttered as he leaned back into his seat and sipped his coffee. “You might both have a point. Wasn’t the lawyer funded by this church group of theirs?”
Victor’s eyes widened and he discovered his foot pressing harder on the gas pedal as they sped into the night.
{-B-}
The skinny, short black man knelt before the altar of God, Bible in hand. His eyes were closed as he murmured silently to his Lord and Savior, for he felt his heart was as dark as the clothes he wore. He had a bald head and wrinkled face, and a stoop that he was sure was a sign from above for the burdens of sin that he continued to carry.
The door to the chapel slammed open as Philip Mannion stormed in, eyes blazing with fear. “Reverend, we’re in trouble, big trouble!” he cried out.
Reverend Jeffrey Caffrey stood up slowly, and turned to face the quickly approaching man. He sighed as he saw the manic appearance on Philip’s face and shook his head, Bible locked in his gnarled fingers.
“What’s wrong, my son?” he asked in a voice barely kept calm.
“You know damn well what’s wrong, preacher, and it’s gonna get worse!” Philip reached Jeffrey and put a hand on the front of the black silk shirt.
“Control yourself. This is a troubling time, but there is nothing more to be done,” Jeffrey replied, his own voice slowly breaking up.
“Martin’s on his way here. He’s lost it, and I’m sure he’s coming here to get answers out of you,” Philip explained in a rush of words. “And if he asks you if I could have helped to kill Anna, what are you going to say, old man?”
“Don’t you think you should tell him the truth?”
“The truth? What truth? That I killed her kids? I didn’t, it was some crook who broke into their house. There’s no truth to tell him!”
“That’s the point, Mannion,” Jeffrey’s voice took a harder edge now. “She’s going to be executed tomorrow night. Say something!”
“Martin thinks I did it now. He wants to know what you know! And I’m not letting anyone tell him where his wife was the night of the murder before she walked…into that…her house! I will not destroy the memory of his family!”
“That what you’re really afraid of, you coward?”
“Don’t coward me, you old fool! I’ve got a comfortable life with Karen, and I’m not screwing that up either. And if you even try to squeal, I’m opening up my computer to any old cop who wants to see what your accountant discovered a long time ago about the church finances! Do I make myself clear?”
“This is a church of God, don’t make threats here,” Jeffrey growled back, shaking as he leaned against the altar for support.
“Just so long as we’re clear on this. I feel bad for Anna, but Martin’s ruined himself, and her family is dead, and this is probably the best thing she could hope for. I’m not destroying my life, and Karen’s, but I’ll take you down if you so much as breathe about this.”
“Pardons to the Shepherd of His Flock and the Keeper of Numbers,” came a voice steeped in menace. From the shadowy corner of the chapel stepped a figure dressed in a cassock colored like brick and blood, cinched at his waist by rusted red chains. Similar circle of rusted links clutched tight to his wrists, leaving scars, scabs and traces of blood as he moved towards the pair. The ends of his clothing fluttered in a non-existent breeze as eyes glared out from underneath a hood of pitch black. His clothing was covered in innumerable rips and tears as he continued his pace.
“Wh-who are you? What are you doing here?” demanded Caffrey as he took a step forward protectively, the Bible clutched up in front of his chest.
“I bid thee greetings, Old God,” The bizarre figure said as he stepped closer, his hands at his sides, fingers outspread.
“My name is Reverend Caffrey, and I asked who you were!” the preacher demanded.
“I was not talking to you, O Shepherd, but to the resident of this domicile. I have nothing to say either to the Keeper or to the Shepherd, for your role is set in blood, and time grows short. Be honored, for you are now to become the Altar that sanctifies the Sacrifice and makes her Labors fruitful!”With a sudden flick of his wrist and utterance of a word that bounced nonsensically off the ears of both frightened men, the intruder made the series of overhead lights crackle and explode as dozens of shards of glass plummeted down. With terrible speed and force, they sliced into Philip Mannion and Jeffrey Caffrey, each receiving five razors of filament and glass into their bodies and sending them crashing to the ground in torn, bloody heaps.
“NO!” Bulletman cried out as he streaked into the building. He had arrived too late and landed next to the two victims.
“Ah, so this is he who dealt himself into this cosmology,” the strange killer said as he stepped backwards.
“I bid you welcome to our table.”Bulletman spun around and took an immediate step towards the stranger, face contorted in rage. “You maniac! What the Hell are talking about? Who are you, why did you do this?” He stared at the rust-garbed killer, at the numberless rents in his clothing, and his enhanced mind began to see patterns to the tears and holes, distinctive meanings and signs in the material missing and the material remaining. “You! You’re who I felt the other night?”
“No, you have felt another, for I am but the Murder Prophet, sent to deliver my god’s words and works to an unknowing humanity. Fare thee well, Self-Made Man.” Bulletman darted at him, super-strong hands prepared to wring the truth from the frustrating lips, but a sudden gust of wind whirled around the Murder Prophet. It swirled the torn and tattered costume as if wash on the line, now spun into an urban cyclone and when at last the rags floated to the floor, Bulletman was alone.
“What have I gotten myself into?” he asked. His amplified intellect raced to figure out the answer, but all he felt was alone and scared despite his newfound power.
