him?"
Doc shook his head. "Unfortunately, a lot of the police don't want him caught. A lot of the citizenry feels the same. They see him as being on their side - cutting through the red tape, even. You know he shot a rabbi last night?"
Maya gasped. "That's monstrous."
"They found pictures of naked children in his home. A lot of the police are saying the Blood-Spider should get a medal." He rubbed his temples. "That's the problem, Maya. The people whose job it is to arrest him don't want to arrest him. The only reason Easton wants him off the streets is because... well, you know his foster father was a vigilante?"
Maya nodded. "The Blue Ghost. You worked with him occasionally. I remember you telling me."
"He never took a life. He was shot up more times than I can remember because he refused to. The man had an almost inhuman capacity for taking punishment, but eventually he had to retire." Doc looked into the microscope, double-checking the scratches on the shell cases. "He was murdered three years ago, just before Lars Lomax died. Someone strangled him and dropped him off a pier. By the time the body was found, it had been underwater for weeks. They only identified it as Danny Coltrane with dental records. Any clues had been wiped out." Doc shook his head. "Not pretty. The Blood-Spider popped up soon after that, and, well, I think Easton feels as if he lost his father only to have him replaced by someone who defiled his father's memory." He shook his head again, sadly. "I can't really disagree with him. I don't see killing as ever being necessary."
Maya raised an eyebrow. "Even for a child molester?"
"The man deserved a day in court." He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache. "You didn't get up this early to debate moral philosophy, though, did you?"
"No." Maya sighed, then looked Doc in the eye. "I had a dream. I can't remember all of it, but... I dreamt about a man in a red mask, standing over someone I loved. Ready to kill. Perhaps having killed already." She paused. "You know I wouldn't tell you if I didn't think..."
"It's coming true. Say no more." Doc frowned. "A red mask."
Maya handed over the paper. "And I think this might be involved somehow."
"Let me see that." Doc took hold of the paper, scanning the article.
Almost immediately, he went white.
"Donner. Heinrich Donner. My God." His voice shook. A bead of cold sweat trickled from his forehead down his cheek. Then he looked up at her, and his eyes burned with a cold, limitless fury.
"Get Monk in here. Now ."
He scowled.
"I've got a job for him."
Chapter Three
The Case of The Man Who Died Twice
Even in the United Socialist States of America, the old-fashioned Gentlemen's Club was still an indicator of social status among the idle rich.
There was the Union Club, the oldest but no longer the grandest; the Cornell Club; the Down Town Association, although it increasingly attracted beatniks, pop artists and generally quite the wrong sort of people; and The Leash, which allowed female as well as male applicants, although the stringent rules of membership put off many.
The Jameson Club was perhaps the most exclusive of them all. A new member, upon applying to the club, would be asked for references from no less than five senior members. Having produced these, he would be allowed one visit to one of the lesser smoking rooms, where he would be jovially, but thoroughly, interrogated by the Club President or one of the deputies to determine whether he was of the calibre required for membership. Should a prospective member meet the high standards required, there would then be a probationary period of one year, during which time the new recruit could be dismissed from the club without warning and for the smallest social infraction.
These iron laws kept the Jameson Club satisfyingly free of the riff-raff and nouveau riche who infested other, lesser, gentlemen's establishments like a plague of cockroaches. It also meant
Doc shook his head. "Unfortunately, a lot of the police don't want him caught. A lot of the citizenry feels the same. They see him as being on their side - cutting through the red tape, even. You know he shot a rabbi last night?"
Maya gasped. "That's monstrous."
"They found pictures of naked children in his home. A lot of the police are saying the Blood-Spider should get a medal." He rubbed his temples. "That's the problem, Maya. The people whose job it is to arrest him don't want to arrest him. The only reason Easton wants him off the streets is because... well, you know his foster father was a vigilante?"
Maya nodded. "The Blue Ghost. You worked with him occasionally. I remember you telling me."
"He never took a life. He was shot up more times than I can remember because he refused to. The man had an almost inhuman capacity for taking punishment, but eventually he had to retire." Doc looked into the microscope, double-checking the scratches on the shell cases. "He was murdered three years ago, just before Lars Lomax died. Someone strangled him and dropped him off a pier. By the time the body was found, it had been underwater for weeks. They only identified it as Danny Coltrane with dental records. Any clues had been wiped out." Doc shook his head. "Not pretty. The Blood-Spider popped up soon after that, and, well, I think Easton feels as if he lost his father only to have him replaced by someone who defiled his father's memory." He shook his head again, sadly. "I can't really disagree with him. I don't see killing as ever being necessary."
Maya raised an eyebrow. "Even for a child molester?"
"The man deserved a day in court." He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache. "You didn't get up this early to debate moral philosophy, though, did you?"
"No." Maya sighed, then looked Doc in the eye. "I had a dream. I can't remember all of it, but... I dreamt about a man in a red mask, standing over someone I loved. Ready to kill. Perhaps having killed already." She paused. "You know I wouldn't tell you if I didn't think..."
"It's coming true. Say no more." Doc frowned. "A red mask."
Maya handed over the paper. "And I think this might be involved somehow."
"Let me see that." Doc took hold of the paper, scanning the article.
Almost immediately, he went white.
"Donner. Heinrich Donner. My God." His voice shook. A bead of cold sweat trickled from his forehead down his cheek. Then he looked up at her, and his eyes burned with a cold, limitless fury.
"Get Monk in here. Now ."
He scowled.
"I've got a job for him."
Chapter Three
The Case of The Man Who Died Twice
Even in the United Socialist States of America, the old-fashioned Gentlemen's Club was still an indicator of social status among the idle rich.
There was the Union Club, the oldest but no longer the grandest; the Cornell Club; the Down Town Association, although it increasingly attracted beatniks, pop artists and generally quite the wrong sort of people; and The Leash, which allowed female as well as male applicants, although the stringent rules of membership put off many.
The Jameson Club was perhaps the most exclusive of them all. A new member, upon applying to the club, would be asked for references from no less than five senior members. Having produced these, he would be allowed one visit to one of the lesser smoking rooms, where he would be jovially, but thoroughly, interrogated by the Club President or one of the deputies to determine whether he was of the calibre required for membership. Should a prospective member meet the high standards required, there would then be a probationary period of one year, during which time the new recruit could be dismissed from the club without warning and for the smallest social infraction.
These iron laws kept the Jameson Club satisfyingly free of the riff-raff and nouveau riche who infested other, lesser, gentlemen's establishments like a plague of cockroaches. It also meant
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