Category: Fiction Factor

Neighbors were already gathering on the sidewalk as the two homicide detectives – Danny Spiro and Maisie Petra – arrived at the split-level ranch-style house on Summerville Avenue.

The pair had only worked together a short time, and Petra, a sinewy former college decathlete, provided quite the contrast to Spiro with his five o’clock shadow and beer gut.

Officer Ben Clampett had been called to do a wellness check on the occupant, Charlie Chandler, after neighbors reported that they hadn’t seen him in the past three days and he didn’t answer his cellphone or door.

Clampett found an unlocked window near the back of the house and crawled through, where he spotted Chandler slumped over in his chair.

He was dead, and had apparently been dead for several hours.

“What do we have here, Ben?” asked Spiro, as he and Petra approached. “Hey, Danny. And Officer Petra, is it? Welcome to the precinct. Yeah, it might be nothing, but I’m not sure Mr. Chandler’s death is just a case of an old man dying of old age. Come inside.”

The trio approached the body as it lay in the hallway. There was no sign of blood or bruises, or anything to indicate a struggle, for that matter. But clutched in Chandler’s right hand was a crumpled piece of notebook paper.

There was a crude drawing of what appeared to be a blueprint of some sort and below that the words, “Havoc Club at large. Activate Violet Femme.”

“I saw that,” Clampett said, “and it just seemed, I dunno … ominous.”

Spiro looked at the corpse and then glanced at Petra, who seemed visibly shaken.

“You OK, partner?”

“Yeah … just never easy to find someone like this.”

Spiro was familiar with Chandler, and assumed since Petra had just transferred in from out of state, she probably wasn’t.

“Charlie was no stranger to the precinct,” he explained. “In fact, he was pretty much a regular. He was quite a character. He was always dressed in yellow and black and claimed to be a crimefighter named Yellowhammer – although he made us promise not to reveal his identity to anyone. Otherwise, the Havoc Club might find him.”

“That’s why I called you guys,” Clampett said. “I know he had an active imagination and all that, but the fact that he had that note makes me wonder if something might have happened to him.”

Petra put on rubber gloves and carefully examined the note.

“So, why did he say he was – what did you call it – the Yellowhammer?”

“Yellowhammer, yeah,” Spiro said. “He started coming to us years ago, saying he had intel about criminal activity and could help us stop it. And the weird thing is, sometimes he did. I mean, he got a lot of information off the police scanner and I guess did some amateur detecting on his own, but he had some really good tips a lot of the time. Not sure how he knew as much as he did. We even looked into him as a suspect from time to time, but he was always clean. Anyway, he said he was Yellowhammer, who was kinda like a dispatcher for people he called ‘better superheroes.’ He liked to say he saved the big stuff for the big guns, but wanted to help us out, too.”

“What do we know about Havoc Club and Violet Femme?”

Spiro chuckled.

“Havoc Club? We don’t know anything about ‘em because they don’t exist,” he said. “They might as well be the League of Shadows or the Sinister Six. And Violet Femme? Maybe he was just a fan of folk punk and didn’t know how to spell Violent Femmes. Look, I don’t mean to joke at a time like this. Charlie was a good guy and whatever happened is worth looking into, for sure. But I don’t think we need to follow comic book leads. Let’s just examine the body and go from there.”

“Still,” Petra asked. “Is it OK if I go over this note a little closer? You know, check for fingerprints, try and see if this blueprint means anything, stuff like that?”

“Knock yourself out, partner,” Spiro said. “Tell you what, we’ll get this place dusted and I’ll wait on the medical examiner, so you can knock off for the night. I know it’s been a tough day. Let’s regroup and get back at it first thing in the morning. I’ll ride back with Ben … you can take the car.”

“Nah,” she said. “I need to walk and clear my head. Besides, it’s just a few blocks from the subway. See you tomorrow, Danny. And thanks.”

Petra swiftly walked away from the crime scene and turned right at the end of the street. Finding Yellowhammer dead was shocking, to say the least, but she had no choice but to keep her grief in check.

She reached into her pocket, pulled out a small, black, cylindrical device, and punched the red button in the center.

“Yellowhammer is gone, I just confirmed it,” she said. “He was murdered, and it’s got Havoc Club’s fingerprints all over it. He did leave us a blueprint, though. Sending a picture of it now … get it to Clue Monger and have him figure out if this is their base. If it is, I need to suit up and get there as soon as possible. “Violet Femme signing off … I’ll report back when I know more.”

While puttering down the Industrial Highway in his vintage 2030 Continental Roadster, it suddenly occurred to Clint that he had gotten Ranger, his mutt, exactly eight years ago on this very day. It was June 11, 2058, when he spotted the trembling animal on the side of the road, yet another innocent victim of the AmeriTech War.

The dog was wheezing, it appeared to be suffering from conjunctivitis, and its hair was matted and dirty.

Clint could relate.

He tended to wheeze and his eyes were constantly itchy, too. Plus, what hair he had left was wiry and unruly, and at 72 his old man aches and pains were, well, extremely achy and quite painful. But the dog needed a home, Clint had one to share, and the two bonded quickly.

Some TLC – and a special ointment courtesy of a  veterinarian friend – took care of the doggo’s eye issues, and a warm bath in an oversized tub (along with slow, careful combing) revealed a relatively healthy, brown coat.

While drying off the furball, Clint came up with the name “Ranger,” mainly because it reminded him of an ice hockey team he cheered for during the bygone era of professional sports. And besides, “Ranger” is just a damn good dog name.

Man and beast became inseparable, and Clint wanted to make sure Ranger was happy. Over the first few years, there was nothing the critter enjoyed more than a furious, flared-nostril run through a grassy field, followed by a half can of wet food. More recently, though, it was a leisurely ride in  a wheeled transport that made him the happiest.

It was especially enjoyable these days because the war was over, the Mammonicans had been driven from power, and Clint no longer had to worry about being stopped by renegade patrols demanding passage tax.

And there was no one to make him present his Animal Ownership License and submit Ranger to a painful distemper shot.

Many of the old houses and office buildings had been destroyed in the decades-long conflict, but the skies were again clear and the countryside greener – and showing signs of new growth. Better yet, while much had changed throughout the years, a dog hanging its head out of the window and smiling into the wind was not one of them.

It was good for the dog’s health and good for the old man’s soul.

But Clint was now 80, and he had no idea how old Ranger was. The dog had turned white around the eyes and mouth, and Clint liked to think he and his best friend were roughly the same age, body-wise.

Clint had noticed over the past year that both his and Ranger’s naps were longer, and each day it seemed more difficult to rise from the comfort of a well-worn bed. He just wasn’t sure how much longer he could take care of his buddy.

Sadly, he realized their time together was coming to a close.

It never seemed fair, ending a friendship with an IV injection. Sometimes it seemed like the right thing to do, and the humane choice. But then moments later he’d find himself throwing a ragged old toy at Ranger, who’d grab it, shake it vigorously, and sometimes even bring it back to Clint in hopes of another throw-and-catch.

Earlier that morning, however, Clint packed the toys away in a wicker storage bin and loaded them into the Continental Roadster.

The ride would be their last together, and as Clint pulled into the parking spot, he leaned over, gave Ranger a big kiss on the head and said, “I love you, buddy.”

He lifted the bin out of the back seat and placed it on the sidewalk next to the car. Moments later, a vehicle pulled up next to him.

“You must be Clint,” said the slightly built woman. “I’m Sarah … you called about Ranger.”

“Oh, yes,” Clint said, forcing a weak smile. “I have all his papers and toys in this box. He’s a good dog … a real good dog.”

Sarah opened the door, put a leash around Ranger’s neck, and gently rubbed his head.

“Hey there, buddy,” she said. “We’re gonna go to your new home now.”

Clint was caught off guard as the woman – now teary-eyed – gave him a hug.

“You gave him a great life,” she said. “And I’ll give him one, too. I want you know that.”

Clint nodded.

“I know you will,” he said. “And he deserves it, because he made my life great, too. Anyway, goodbye Sarah … and take care of my boy.”

Clint gave his dog one last look, and then headed toward the entrance of the Kevorkian/Quill Clinic.

Like many sports fans, Buzz Chance has his game day superstitions.

Any time the Baltimore Express hits the basketball court – and Buzz isn’t at Mobtown Arena to cheer them on live – his den served as his own personal luxury suite.

The well-worn yellow Camelback sofa is situated six feet away from the wall-mounted television, and above the TV is a faded red, black and silver Express pennant.

The square side table to the right of the couch features a big bowl full of chips and a smaller one overflowing with mixed nuts. And ice cold beer is just an arms-length away, thanks to the old, battered blue cooler parked on the floor.

But the good luck charm is his dad, who occupies the threadbare easy chair nestled in the corner of the room.

Watching the Express together is a longstanding tradition, one that began when Buzz was just a child. He still remembers snuggling next to his father in the Buick Riviera and taking their 15-mile journey to Mobtown Arena back in 1972. Although their seats were of the “nosebleed” variety, that was just a minor detail.

For the first time, Buzz was getting to see his beloved basketball team up close and in person.

He could still remember wolfing down two hot dogs and what seemed like a washtub-sized vat of popcorn as the Express made quick work of the Austin Jammers.

Buzz recalled the final score being Baltimore 113, Austin 104, but his dad never could seem to settle on the final.

“That first game was a fun one, wasn’t it?” his father would say when reminiscing about the outing. “I think Baltimore won 115 to 100, or something like that.”

“It was 113-104, dad,” Buzz would reply. “Like they say, you never forget your first time. I remember you buying me that pennant and me having a stomach ache from all that popcorn I ate. And I’ll always remember that score.

“Are you sure? Because I really thought it was 120-112, or something like that.”

The subject would come up several different times over the years, and Buzz’s dad always remembered the final tally differently. Only during the dawn of the internet age did Buzz finally convince his father – sort of.

“Look here,” Buzz said, clacking away at the clunky home computer after the noisy dual-up connection was complete. “This has all the Express information dating back to the first year of the franchise in 1968. See … Express 113, Jammers 104, November 17, 1972.”

His dad ambled over to the “computer machine,” raised his eyeglasses and leaned in.

“Hmmm,” he said. “Well, I guess you’re right. But I coulda sworn it was 118-110 … or something like that.”

More than 50 years later, the Express and Jammers were back at it, this time in Game 4 of the Continental Division playoffs.

Growing up, Buzz always perched on the couch and his dad plopped in his easy chair when the two watched games together. The tradition took a break when Buzz went to college and in the early days of his marriage, but ultimately it continued when his father moved in with Buzz and his wife back in 2020.

His dad was too feeble to actually go to games by then, but he still enjoyed following the Express on television.

And on this night, Buzz guzzled beer, shoveled in snacks, cussed a little and cheered a lot as the Express hung on for a 107-99 road win, evening the series at two games apiece.

Once the game ended, he turned off the TV, walked over to the easy chair and carefully lifted up the urn with his father’s remains. Once placed back in its usual spot on the mantle of the fireplace, Buzz smiled.

“Thanks for helping pull ‘em through against the Jammers again, Pop,” he said. “Still wasn’t as good as that time you took me to my first game, though. Remember? Baltimore 113, Austin 104 … or something like that.”