dochermes

"The Astronomy Murders"

10/23-10/25/1992

I.

When the front doorbell rang, Bane glanced up in surprise at the wall clock. Six minutes after eight o'clock. He had only taken his seat behind the massive oaken desk in his office a few seconds earlier. Dr Burnley was calling early indeed.

Striding quickly out into the front hall, the Dire Wolf moved with his normal urgency. He was a tall gaunt man in his mid-thirties, dressed as always all in black.. slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket. Beneath heavy black brows were a pair of pale grey eyes that were never at rest. His excess nervous energy kept him always restless even when he needed to be still.

Standing by the front door, he slid open a wooden panel to reveal a monitor screen which was already lighting up. Bane pressed a button which opened the outer street door and said, "Please come right in. I'll be with you in a moment."

The monitor screen showed the interior of waiting room, barely large enough for three people at a time. Dr Peter Burnley of NYU was a heavyset man of average height, well-dressed in a brown business suit. No ID came up for him on the screen, which meant he had no criminal record either with the FBI or the NYPD. Advanced Trom sensors buzzed and hummed, taking readings more detailed than any hospital equipment could.

Everything matched what Bane had been able to find out about Burnley. The age and height and coloring of hair and eyes were right. The face passed the recognition process compared to a picture Bane had scanned in from an old issue of DISCOVER magazine. No sign of a gun or knife, no chemical signature of poisons or explosives.

For the moment, he was prepared to accept that this was the same man who had called him the night before to make an appointment.

Closing the panel back over the monitor, Bane moved over and swung the inner door open to usher his visitor inside. "Good morning. Dr Burnley? I'm Jeremy Bane."

The man held out a hand and Bane shook it agreebly enough. "Oh, I'm glad you're here. I must apologize for calling on you so early in the morning...."

"That's all right." Bane led the astronomer across the hall to his office. This was a long narrow room with minimal furnishings. His oak desk sat against one wall beneath a gorgeous handpainted map of the world as it had been in 1937.

The Dire Wolf touched a chair to indicate Burnley should sit in front of the desk, then walked around to his own seat facing the man.
"You sounded agitated last night. You still seem worked up. What's the problem?"

Looking quickly around the room, Burnley took a few deep calming breaths before beginning. "I happen to have known about you already, Mr Bane. You're listed in the phone book under this Dire Wolf Agency as a Private Investigator but until a year or two ago, you were known better for your work in the Midnight War... you lead a team of Tel Shai knights known as the Kenneth Dred Foundation."

"Really," said Bane. "That's not exactly knowledge the general public has heard about."

"I know a little about the Midnight War. I'm an atheist and very skeptical by nature but I've always had an interest in the occult. Call it a hobby. I've read quite a bit about you, Mr Bane."

"Naturally, I did some basic research myself about you since your call," Bane replied. "You're known as the leading expert on Uranus. Not the most exciting planet, if you ask me. No rings like Saturn, no evil monsters like Mars..."

Burnley laughed politely at that. "Uranus has its points of interest, sir. I believe its real story has yet to be told. In two years, the Tycho probe will circle it and I will have more information to work with."

"Anyway, you seem to be free of any scandals or connection with crime of any sort," Bane said. "So what is it that brings you to me?"

"It's fear! Awful fear like I never knew before." Burnley leaned forward and searched Bane's face with obvious distress. "I'm afraid of being murdered because two of my colleagues have been. Perhaps I should go back a bit."

"Sure," said Bane. "Take your time. Give me all the details."

"Very well. In August, a man named Paul Fouchet died in Montreal. He was known for his correction of suspected perturbations in the orbit of Mercury. He was found in his car after having been missing for two days. The autopsy showed he had been murdered in particularly horrible way. He had been held down while mercury was poured into his ear!"

"That IS nasty."

"Then came the second death," continued Burnley. "On September 12th. A man in Northern California was killed and his body left in the woods near his house. Vincent Andruzzi, quite young but a promising researcher. He had done some fine work on the Martian symposium the year before. His area of knowledge was about possible life forms on Mars millions of years ago. Poor Andruzzi was found lying on his back. Next to him had been left a round Roman-style gladiator shield. Stuck right in his chest was a short spear."

Bane's eyes lit with a feral gleam as his interest sparked. "Oh. I see. Mars, the Roman god of war, right? His symbol was a shield with a spear point at the upper corner. Someone killed two astronomers in symbolic ways. Yeah, I can see why you'd be apprehensive."

"Apprehensive..?!" yelped the man. "Terrified is more like it. The planetary sciences have many researchers and scholars but, not to be modest, only a dozen or so of us are in the top rank. I'm one of them. All my adult life, I have dedicated my energies to increasing knowledge. If top planetary experts are being targeted, then I am very likely on the list."

"I assume you've already gone to the police?" asked Bane.

"And I got nowehere! They were polite but didn't seem interested. From what I overhead outside the room where I was sitting, the police don't think the two deaths are connected. All they wanted to talk about was some sort territory dispute between drug gangs..."

"Sounds like the NYPD," the Dire Wolf said. "Not much imagination. What's your home life like?"

"Oh, I live alone since Nora-- my wife-- died a few years ago. A cleaning service comes in on Wednesdays. Mr Bane, I don't own a gun. I've never been in a real fight. I'm sixty-three and out of shape. If I was attacked by a determined young man, I have to admit I'd be an easy victim."

Bane raised a hand reassuringly. "Coming to me was a good step to take, doctor. Tell me, do you have enemies in the field of astronomy? Is there maybe a jealous rival? A disgraced scientist who wanted revenge against you?"

"Lord, no. We're a community of meek, scholarly bookworms. The firecest we ever get is firing off a strongly worded letter to an editor. There aren't many face to face meetings between us, just reading each others' published papers and maybe a few going to the same lecture once a year."

Despite the situation, Bane could not hide a faint smile at Burnley's dismay. "People are full of surprises. Stamp collectors and glass blowers have commited gruesome murders of each other. Librarians have been killed over chewing gum. You can't point me toward any likely suspect in your field, then?"

"No. The idea never even occured to me."

"Any romantic tangles between these men and their wives or girlfriends? Anyone competing for a job or lose a promotion they wanted?"

"No, no, nothing like that. Mr Bane, these men worked in specialized areas and had nothing in common, really. It would be like a heart surgeon feuding with an architect. I doubt if any of these fellows ever actually met."

The Dire Wolf dropped that line of thought. "It was a month between the deaths, and about a month has passed since the last one."

"Oh, that has been preying on my mind, too." Burnley leaned forward and his voice became pleading. "Will you take me as a client, Mr Bane? I have heard so much about you. I'm comfortably well off, perhaps a fee of ten thousand dollars would be appropriate?"

"Yes. I will undertake to protect you from this unknown killer and to bring him in."

"What a relief. Of course I want to live. In another two years, the NASA probe will reach Jupiter and I will finally have enough information to work on. Here, let me get my checkbook out.

Watching him fumble with the pen, Bane said, "I have your address at a house in Forrest Hills over in Queens. 1219 Fluegel Street. Is that right?"

"Yes, I'll give you my phone number, too. I should make this out to you by name?"

"Or to Dire Wolf Agency, either is fine. But hold off a second." Bane fixed those pale eyes on the man as if searching for falsehood. "Dr Burnley, two detectives I know will go out there to watch the area while I search for the perp. They are both solid, veteran investigators that I've worked with for years. Sam Simek and Artie Rosen."

"But I hoped you would be directly involved?"

"Absolutely," Bane said. "I will be on this case full time. But I want two men to protect you. When I nail the killer, you'll be the first to know. Make out my retainer for one thousand dollars even."

"Really?" asked Burnley, pen raised. "I have to say that seems reasonable."

"It's a formality," Bane told the man. "With you as an official client, I have certain rights when dealing with the police and their questions." He took a wide red leather ledger from the middle drawer of his desk and wrote out a receipt, then tucked Burnley's check away. "There. Hold on to that for your tax records. What's your schedule for the next few days?"

Dr Burnley examined the receipt with interest before folding it into his checkbook. "Ah. Well, I have a meeting with my literary agent at Fifth Avenue. I expect that will take all day, with a long lunch and a few drinks. Most likely, I will be getting home around five or five-thirty."

"Fine. My men will be waiting. You're in good hands, Dr Burnley."

Standing up, the astronomer allowed Bane to escort him to the front door. "You know, I feel like I made the right choice coming to you. You seem so confident."

"You're under my protection now," the Dire Wolf said. "I promise, everything will be all right." But behind the reassuring words, Bane felt an unsettling alarm over his suspicions. He thought he knew who was behind these killings.

( the rest of the story )

"The Revenge of Dos Manos"

4/17/1992

I.


"Let's see how this works," Bane muttered out loud. He was in the gym on the seventh floor of the old KDF building, with its array of Nautilus machines and treadmill. By his left side was a metal rack holding ten throwing knives. These had been made for him to be as nearly identical as possible to the matched pair of silver-bladed daggers he always wore in sheaths under his sleeves.

Sixty feet away, part of the wall had been covered with cork panels. On the floor was a small electric motor with a steel rod extending up to face level. The rod was hinged and ended with a round wooden disc as big as a man's head. Jeremy Bane studied the apparatus critically. He had a fortune to spend on these experimental devices as he saw fit, but he wondered if the results would be worth the expense. The Dire Wolf reached over and threw a toggle switch on the rack holding the knives. Instantly, the steel rod swung back and forth, up and down, moving in erratic circles. Bane smiled faintly and suddenly he was throwing the daggers. Faster than a normal Human, he snatched up one knife after another and hurled them at the moving target. Sometimes he threw with his right hand (he was left-handed), a few times he threw underhanded or turned and flung one over his shoulder. In twenty seconds, he had gone through all ten daggers and he switched the motor off.

Five daggers were stuck in the wooden disc, so close together that their hilts touched. One had touched a dagger already in the target and glanced off, another had stuck in too close to the edge and fallen off. Three that he had thrown right-handed had simply missed. The Dire Wolf folded his arms and studied the set-up, decided he liked it. A moving target set for random manuevers was much better than a piece of cardboard tacked to the wall. He detached the rack from its stand and walked over to begin replacing the daggers into their slots.

( the rest of the story )

"Fugitives From a Funeral Parlor"

1/24-1/25/1992

I.

The optimistic sign on two posts, COMING SOON - A NEW MONDOMART FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE had been there for two years with no apparent progress having been made. The vacant lot on 146th Street had been littered by debris, loose stacks of half-burnt lumber and broken rubble for at least a year before the sign had gone up. The building had been demolished after a fire had ruined the sweatshop staffed by Chinese immigrant women, a blaze in which three of them had died because of a jammed exit door. At just before midnight, the Dire Wolf parked his dark green Mustang in a dead-end alley just off the street and sat for a few minutes remembering the tragedy.

The buildings on either side were dark and deserted, one had its windows boarded up or broken, and he could see some structural damage even from sitting in his car. Bane imagined that at some point the whole block would likely just be plowed over for a fresh start with this proposed giant concrete and mortar superstore. It was as good a place as any to meet an informer.

No cars had gone by for a few minutes on this viciously cold January night. Getting out, almost invisible in his black outfit of slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket, Jeremy Bane was a tall gaunt figure who moved with a restless energy as if he wanted to break into a full run every second. In the gloom, his pale grey eyes moved over the area with an intense scrutiny. Even when in a secure setting like his office he was on guard, so out in this area he acted as if in an active war zone. At thirty-four, he had survived so much.

In the shadow of a heap of scrap wood, plasterboard and broken stone, a beat-up metal barrel stood with burnt garbage sticking up from it. The inevitable marker of the homeless and the addicts. As Bane approached, he could tell someone was crouching behind the pile and he said quietly, "Here I am, ready to listen."

Standing up suspiciously, looking around in all directions, Bobby Bassett relaxed only slightly when he recognized Bane. Bassett was a small middle-aged black man not more than five feet six and wiry in a warm-up jacket and baggy pants. His hair was short-cropped with a noticeable bald circle on top, and he wore a thick bushy mustache to compensate. Although he wore knit wool gloves and a scarf, he did not have a hat on. "Thank God you got here," he said with a visible puff of condensation every time he exhaled. "I don't know how much time we have."

The Dire Wolf was still surveying their surroundings. "Then you should start talking fast, Bobby."

"Anybody but you, I would be doin' my award-winning impression of a clam--"

In the new half-second, Bane had seized the older man in a bear hug and swung him around away from the street. The Dire Wolf bent his head forward over Bassett's shoulder just as the black Lexus SC400 slowed going past and an AR-15 Armalite jutting out of the rear window blasted a clip right at them. Bullets punched across Bane's shoulders and upper back like a flurry of murderous hail. The big V8 engine roared as the Lexus sped off with lightning acceleration.

The sudden silence after that thunder seemed eerie. Bobby Bassett was hyperventilating and trembling at the shock of the incident. Releasing him, the Dire Wolf sagged and almost fell as his knees went weak but he immediately caught himself and straightened up again. The ferocious grey eyes glared at the corner which the black car had rounded and raced away.

"Friends of yours?" he asked in a voice remarkable for its calm tones under the circumstances.

"You ain't dead? I ain't dead? What the hayll, man? How come we alive?"

Bane did not explain he was wearing the silk-thin Trom armor under his clothes which dispersed impact over its entire surface. It had felt like he was being pummeled by hammers but the barrage of 55 grain slugs had done nothing worse than bruise him. "Bulletproof vest," he said simply. He twisted to show the material of his jacket had been ripped open to reveal a grey sheen underneath.

"Man, I gotta get me one of them. You ain't even hurt?" Bassett demanded.

Grabbing the shorter man by one arm, the Dire Wolf yanked him along as he rushed toward where his car was parking. He flung open the passenger door and swung around toward the driver's side. When Bassett hesitated, Bane snapped, "Do you want to die when they come back? Get in!"

In another second, the Mustang was out on Ninth Avenue and swinging through side streets. Bane drove just above the speed limit, slowing for stop lights and signs, scanning in all directions for any sign of that Lexus. As they put some distance behind them heading south, he relaxed almost imperceptibly.

"You can let me out any time...." Bassett ventured uncertainly.

"Forget it, Bobby," the Dire Wolf said. "Your friends intended to kill you just now. If I had not heard the car turning the corner, you'd be dead. They knew you were going to meet me."

"Some fink ratted me out. Goddam. There goes my job," Bassett moaned.

"You've lost more than that," Bane said with no trace of sympathy as he headed past 110th Street and they saw the edge of Central Park, never quite deserted even on a bitter winter night. "You can't go back to your rooms. Intercrime might have someone watching them. You're going to stick with me until this is resolved."

"Wait, what? What was that word?"

"You heard me fine." Bane swung his head around to fix those pale eyes like a weapon. "Your bosses in the organization you worked for. Intercrime."

( the rest of the story )