Owlman Chapter I

[Foley]

From the Journal of Roy Raymond Jr.

Journal Entry #36---
The Flash of Keystone and Central Cities is definately the hero. The bright shining light the whizzes by and saves the day in a clash of thunder and blur of crimson. There's even been more then one Flash that has saved the day. A total of four by my reckoning, from the golden days of the forties and that stupid helmet to modern timeswhere two sidekicks went from Kid Flash to the main game (and back in the current Kid Flash's case). They're all fairly well known and most people consider them the only heros in either town. That's all fine with me, keeping a low profile makes my job easier. Ever since AP gave me...my other identity...using the shadow to serve justice and truth simple. Sadly my most recent case brought me out of the shadows and into the light, and ironicly enough it all started with my day job....

[Foley]

A small stack of paperclipped papers landed on the desk beside the computer with an audible smack. Roy Raymond Jr. barely had enough time to register the paper's existance when it was followed by a loud, "What in the name of Guttenberg do you call that, Raymond?!"

Roy looked at the paper the back to the source of the voice, "It would appear to be a hardcopy of the Newhouse murder I wrote and filed this morning." He answered, a tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Well I call it crap!" cried Jasper Jones, city editor of The Keystone Crouier, "A police scanner covers information better then this!"

"Then get a police dispatcher to write it!" Roy snapped back, "The story, not mention the whole case, was simple and lifeless."

"Well the case got new life," Jones snapped back.

"How so"

"Seems that there has been another murdered wife in almost the exact same manner as Mrs. Newhouse. Now get back out there and find out what is going on!"

[Foley]

Journal Entry #37---
I hate when Jones was right, especially when it's about me missing what was starting to look like a big story. Mrs. Newhouse had been found in her home stabbed more times then could be accurately counted, and at first everything appeared to point to Mr. Newhouse. At least it did until his mutalated body showed up hanging from the FBI branch headquarters downtown with "Mr. A for Mr. A" craved so deep in his forehead that the odd message had been inscribed in the skull. The Washington suits to over from the Keystone cops (never could say that phrase without cracking a smile) and went all hush-hush with the press, leaving me to clear Mr. Newhouse's name and go with what I had. It was in the realm of possibilty that the hubby had a strange notion on how to comment suicide, but I figured that was none of my or my reader's business.

Now another All-American housewife had been discovered having been killed in the same sickening manner. A trip to the home-slash-crimescene as the infamous and somewhat liked Roy Raymond Jr earned me a compliment about how great a manhunting, crusading reporter my dad had been and a quick no press allowed near a FBI investigation and I need to leave right then and there. A look at the goons assigned to guard the scene told me all a visit in my Owlman gear would earn is a number of bullet holes in the cape and some busted bones on my conscience. So I thought I'd pay a visit to someone who was sure to say more to me then "Tell yer pop we still got that slot open for him if he wants to come out of retirement!"

There are times I wish I had been an orphan.

[Foley]

As much as he hated the place, Raymond walked in the morg and even managed to have a geniune looking smile on his face as he did. "Jack Russel, best medical exminer's assisstant in all of Keystone City."

"Roy Rammond Jr., cities biggest pile of bullshit ever walk around," came the reply as a round-faced man looked from his paperwork entombed desk. Jack's high cheek bones and curly blond hair that looked more like spoiled wire the human hair gave him a cherub appearence. His oversized lab coat was wrapped around his large frame just barely. "How can I make somr money for my self this time.”

"Tell me why the FBI is so hot and bothered about the Newhouse murder?"

"Now you know I can't tell you that, I'll get my butt canned," Jack said sadly. A fifty dollar bill appeared out of nowhere under his nose and disappeared into his hand just as quickly, "Appearently the Newhouse killings followed a patterned that has corped up in several major cities across the nation. Metropolis, Gotham, New York, and so on. Only things that are alike is that the wife is killed first then the husband appears days later tortured to death and all curved with the funny little message."

"Mr A for Mr A?"

"Yup."

"Anything else?" Raymond asked impatiently. When all he got from Jack was a blank expression, he made another fifty appear under the morg attendent's nose.

"It seems that they believe they are racing a clock in finding this nutjob?"

"Why's that?" Raymond asked again then held up his hands, "And before your selective memory kicks in again, you're not getting anymore of my hard earned money without giving me something more then I could have figured out on my own."

Jack Russel sighen then said, "It seems that he does three sets of victems, each the same way with killing the wife first then waiting exactly seventy-six hours before dumping the hubby somewhere government related."

"Then what?"

Jack shrugged, "They're not sure. All they know is that after the third one the pattern repeats itself else where. No messages, no notes, no rhyme or reason." He held out his hand expectently.

"Anything else?" asked Raymond.

"Yeah for some reason each of the hubbies sometime in his past had been in a 'Mr. America' contest of some type somewhere no matter how old the victem was at the time of death. And before you ask there was no pattern there either."

"Mr. America contests?" Raymond said puzzled then his face brightened some, "Mr America for Mr A....he is sending a message just no one is seeing it." He tossed Jack a hundred, "Thanks kid, tell yer old man I said hey." he said over his shoulder as he walked out.

Walking to the street corner to catch a cab, Raymond could not help but wonder just who was the Mr. A the murderer was trying to get a message to and why.

And why was the mysterious "Mr A" not answering

[Foley]

Journal Entry #38---

My visit to Jack answered as many questions as he brought. Our killer must be beyond smart and did his homework months in advance because it took me hours of background digging just to verify that both hubbies had done a contest of sorts. Mr Newhouse a all-american muscle contest way back in 1947 and the latest an ad contest for the "All-American Baby" twenty-odd years ago. But why three kills and then go bye-bye? Obvious answer was that whoever is supposed to get the message isn't answering. The answer to the question about how long does the killer wait before moving on came from Jack cause he felt he owed me one. He faxed me dates and bare bones reports of privious killings in the other cities, sure enough the times between victems and cites was uniform and constint. If what I've read is true I could set my watch by this character. I had a feeling that I was looking someone in the cape-and-cowl community rather then a serial killing nutcase that it seemed the FBI were praying it be. So maybe the messages are for a superhero? Thankfully I had a source of info that the Feds didn't

"I've run a check through just about every police database in the country," the disembodied voice that had been most likely put through a higher number of filters and covers then Raymond was prepared to believe said through the speakers of his "night job office" computer, "Most of the know serial murders aren't organized enough to be as far ahead of the Feds and his victem list as your evidence is suggesting."

"So your thinking I'm dealing with a meta-criminal?"

"You're as smart as AP says you are," was the reply.

"Ah, Oracle, you falter me," Raymond smirked, "Any idea if this whole Mr. A thing is the motive in itself or do I have a Joker-wannabe on my hands?"

"The Joker is one of a kind, believe it." Raymond could swear that the artificial voice, or at least the person on the other side of the shielded connection, went ice-cold. "Near as I can tell there is a method to this madness."

"That is...?"

"Your prep is looking for Mr. America."

"Fraid you lost me there," Raymond said sitting up in his seat.
"Cause I am pretty sure you aren't talking about the C-list mystery man that ran around back in the 40s."

"You are sharp. No, a few years back FBI agent Trey Thompson was revealed to be have been working the D.C. area as a modern day Mr. America."

"There is a but coming,"

"Another gold star for you. Thompson was murdered in a JSA related case. So why your boy is trying to get a hold of Mr America, he or she may not know that Thompson is dead and will..."

"Keeping killing until they're caught." Raymond said with a low whistle, "And this case just had to land in my lap. Any chance you got the info on the last victem here in Keystone?"

"Sending now."

"Any chance you'll marry me?"

"Nice one Roy, but AP warned me about your love'em-and-leave'em ways."

"Of course he did." Raymond smirked again, "That rat. Owlman out."

[Foley]

The night was cool for mid-summer. A light breeze played across the river between the Mirror Cities and wofted up over the rooftops buildings lining it. Using the breeze allowed Owlman to glide down from one of the bank skyscrapers to the buliding that had the loft apartment he wanted effortlessly and as quiet as his namesake bird. Thomas Ryder was once crowned All-American MVP for his college basketball team all four years he played as starting forward, and later the All-American Couch for six years when he came back to be the schools head couch. If all of that did not make Mr. Ryder a "Mr. A", then the fact his son was named the winner in last years Mr. America contest clenched it.

Owlman moved across the roof to the skylight avoiding alarms as he did. Peering through the heavy lead crystal panes he saw Ryder snoring peacefully beside his wife, the other key clue that made the hero eliminated the son as the target. Ryder Jr. was still a firm bachlor.

The plan was pretty basic. Sit tight and keep watch for the nutso when he or she tried to pull the citie's hattrick and kill the wife and make off with Ryder. Once the perp showed Owlman would swoop in, subdue the villian and string him up for the police to pick up after his annoyimous tip. After a few hours went by, Owlman started to second guess his logical deductions. The math on the timeline was sound, the schedule this criminal had set before made it that tonight was the night to start with the third victem. So where was the killer?

A slight sound caught the attention of his cowl's audio enhancers, a sound that would normally go unnoticed by anyone else. Someone was trying to move in on him quietly. Owlman grinned as he slipped a throwing disk from the pouch on his utilty belt and readied it to fly out from under his cape with the snap of his wrist, whoever was back there was in for a surpise.

At least that was before a leather bullwhip suddenly wrap around his middle, pinning his arms to his side. A second later he he was whirled around to face his attacker, a stranger dressed in a white top, red pants and a long flowing blue cape. The man's face was hidden behind a domino mask and his lips were curled in an angry sneer. A snap of the stranger's wrist yanked Owlman away from the skylight and to him.

"I understand you have a message for me?" The masked mystery man snarled.

to be continued...