Well, here we go, ladies and gentlemen. Part 5 of my story.
Part 6 should be ready to go to Happy in a day or two, so I'm hoping it won't be *too* long before you get the sequel to this chapter. But, there are few certainties in life.
I hope you'll enjoy.
***
“Twelfth precinct, Jones speaking, how can I help you?”
“Good evening, sir. This is Superman. I’m calling about…”
“Come again, please? *Who* is this? Hey Sanders, scoot over and come have a listen, this could be interesting.”
“You’re talking to Superman, Mister Jones. I’m calling about Doctor Harold Leit and Mister Thaddeus Munch. I need to speak to whoever is in charge of the investigation into their murders.”
“Superman. Right. Anything else you’d like us to know about you while we’re at it? I’m a real fan, you see. Oh, and by the way, that’s Officer Jones to you, buddy. Officer Stanley Jones. I’d have thought Superman would know these things.”
“I apologize, Officer. If we’ve met before I don’t recall it, but I assure you, I *am* Superman, and right now I’m calling because I believe I have important information concerning an ongoing murder investigation. It would be really helpful if you could…”
“Yeah, yeah. Excuse me for being the one to burst your bubble, pal, but if you were really Superman, I hardly think we’d be having this conversation over the phone. Now, I understand that some types of medication can make one’s memory a little hazy, so I’ll forgive you the mistake, but eh… Superman’s that guy in tights and a cape who can be anywhere in the world within seconds, remember? Maybe next time, you should stick to someone a little easier to impersonate, like the President of the United States.”
“Believe me, Officer, I know everything there is to know about Superman — and I am not now, nor have I ever been, on any type of medication. But more importantly, I really *do* need to talk to one of the people working on that murder case as soon as possible. I’m prepared to come to the station for it if there’s no other option, but right now, I would really appreciate it if you could just patch me through to the right person.”
“Hold on there, *Superman*. Am I to assume from this that you were personally involved in the deaths of Mr. Munch and that Doctor what’s-his-name?”
“If that’s your way of asking me if I killed them, or helped someone else do it, then the answer is most definitely no.”
“Huh. There’s a shocker. What’s the ‘but’?”
“But, I do know with absolute certainty that Lois Lane, the person who is currently being held on suspicion of those murders, is not only innocent, but completely blameless in the matter.”
“Oh you do, do you? And with absolute certainty, no less. Tell me something, sir: how exactly is it that you are so certain of this supposed knowledge of yours? Were you there? Did you see these murders happen?”
“Well, I… I can’t really say that I *saw* them happen, but yes, I was there, and I do…”
“And you do what, pal? You do have a leprechaun sitting on your shoulder and he specifically *told* you that the nice reporter lady had nothing to do with it? Or does the whole ‘protector of Lois Lane’ thing come in a package deal with this Superman delusion of yours? … Yeah, yeah, Sanders, I know, don’t feed the animals, but can you blame me? This guy is just too much fun!”
“I assure you, Officer, I am well aware of exactly who and what I am, and I’m also in complete control of my thought processes. But more importantly, I have something of value to say concerning the actual involvement in the crime of your chief suspect in a double murder case, and I would really appreciate it if you’d let me talk to someone who will listen to what I have to say, and who can actually do something about it afterwards.”
“Yeah? Well you know what, flyboy? How about first, you explain to me how exactly you came to know whatever it is that you supposedly know about this case, and then I’ll see if I can find someone to talk to you about it?”
“I’m very sorry Officer, but I can’t really go into the specifics of it right now. Not unless you’ll let me talk to someone who’s directly involved in the investigation.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m afraid it is exactly so, Officer Jones.”
“Well in that case, let me tell you how things work around here, pal. Inspector Ferreira and his partner are smack dab in the middle of something right now, and they’ve both already worked more than three hours of overtime today. Which means I can promise you that they’re not going to stick around any longer than they absolutely have to, just because a certified nutcase felt the sudden need to call the station at the oddest time of night and tell them a sweet little tale about the supposed innocence of the esteemed Lois Lane. If you really want to talk to either of them, you’re going to have to come here tomorrow morning between eight and nine AM. That’s when you’ll have the best chance of finding them at their desks, although I can’t promise you anything there. Criminals don’t usually stick to office hours. Of course, if you were really Superman, that wouldn’t actually be a problem for you, right? You’d just take off whenever it suited you, x-ray the city until you found one of them, and probably save the day a couple times before you touched down to have this conversation you think you so desperately need to have. Am I right?”
“I don’t think you are, Officer. Thank you for your time, though. I will try to get a hold of the Inspector and his partner tomorrow morning between eight and nine AM at the station, as you suggest. Have a nice evening.”
“Yeah, yeah… What? Oh, it’s just some guy calling to say that he’s Superman, boss. Bye, *Superman*.”
***
When they come and get me out of my cell again, I’m relieved beyond measure to be rid of the smell and the suffocating emptiness for a while. It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly how much time has gone by. I know it isn’t Tuesday yet, though. I know this not because they let me keep my wristwatch, or because anything resembling natural light could possibly enter my cell anywhere, but because the same guard who locked me in here is also the one to come and get me out, and she still has the same ridiculously big coffee stain on her uniform blouse that she did when I saw her last.
“Come on out, Lane,” she tells me none too jovially. “Police are here to see you.”
“They are?”
They must be really desperate to crack this case, if they haven’t yet called it a night and gone home by now. Or is something else going on here? Did they realize the mistake they made? Are they going to let me out of here, apology included?
Any hope I’d held out for that is quickly squashed when the guard lets me into a small room behind the cell block that reminds me a lot of the interrogation room at the station, only without the two-way mirror. Ferreira and Lars are both there. They look like a pair of canary-filled cats.
“Miss Lane, please have a seat,” Ferreira tells me with an overly broad hand gesture, as the guard leaves the room and closes the door behind her. Oh God, this is going to be even worse than I fear, isn’t it?
For one glorious second, I consider stubbornly refusing to sit. Wouldn’t that be grand? To see Ferreira turn progressively more unsettled as he reaches for a way to get me to heed such a simple request?
Actually, no, I quickly realize. All it would do is painfully emphasize my complete and utter lack of control over this situation. It would be like a child throwing a temper tantrum because Mom and Dad want to go home when she doesn’t. So I sit.
Ferreira gives a little satisfied nod to no one in particular, and then he bends over towards me, both hands planted firmly on the table between us.
“One of my colleagues received a rather interesting phone call about an hour ago, Miss Lane.”
I keep my face carefully blank. If he wants to get a reaction from me — any reaction — he’s going to have to work a little harder for it than this.
“Superman called. It seems that his need to protect you extends even into your criminal career.”
That one is a little harder to ignore. I can feel my throat constrict, but I fight against the urge to swallow. You may have just turned my world pretty much upside down, but you’re still my best friend. Just this once, maybe I should be the one doing the protecting — and if I let these guys know just how deep my connection to you really goes, I’d be giving them way too much leverage.
Therefore, I don’t say or do anything.
In response to my rigid silence, Ferreira bends over even deeper, his face now so close that I can almost feel his breath on my cheek. Does this man really believe that his ability to intimidate is inversely proportional to the distance between him and his suspect? On some level, it’s laughable, but I’m not in much of a mood to be the one doing the laughing right now.
“You are a lucky woman, Lois Lane. To have an ally like Superman by your side at a time like this…”
I maintain my blank-faced rigidity, but it’s getting more difficult to pull off by the minute. As if it isn’t enough that they wrongfully arrested *me* for a crime I didn’t have anything to do with, now they’re going to try to tarnish the reputation of a man who has done nothing but prove to us that he is everything he stands for?
Well, no. That’s not exactly true, is it? If Clark Kent and Superman truly are one and the same, then that probably means I should be equally mad at both of them for lying to me all this time. But really, where does *Ferreira* get off calling Superman a liar? The least I can say for you is that you’ve never told a lie in public while wearing the Suit.
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Ferreira: Superman didn’t have anything to do with the deaths of those men. Neither did I. How do you even know this supposed caller was really Superman? I’ve never known him to use a phone before.”
“Funny you should mention that, Miss Lane. Our colleague had some trouble believing the caller was who he said he was, as well. So we traced the number of the incoming call. It was listed under ‘Clark Jerome Kent’. Ring a bell?”
I shrug. I hope against hope that my bland facemask is still going strong. “Clark and Superman have been friends for a very long time. It seems entirely plausible to me that if Superman were to call the police from anywhere, it would be from Clark’s place. So why are we even talking about this?”
“You’re the one who asked how we knew it was the real Superman, Miss Lane. Now you’ve just confirmed why we should believe that it was indeed him. Because either someone pretending to be Superman just called us from the apartment of your partner and friend, or it *was* really Superman who called us. You don’t really think Mister Kent would have allowed an impostor to use his phone in order to tell the police an obvious lie, do you?”
“No, I don’t. But obviously you do.”
“Oh, we have no trouble believing the fact that Superman called us, Miss Lane.”
“Then what? You think he *lied* to you?”
Lars and Ferreira exchange a look, widely smiling at each other. “You say that as if it’s the most outrageous thing ever suggested, Miss Lane,” Lars tells me sweetly, the smile still on his face, as if he’s actually laughing at me.
“Well, has it occurred to you that, maybe, that’s because it is?”
Ferreira’s face is instantly back to within inches of mine. I can see the hairs in his nose — does the guy not realize that he’s openly inviting me not to take him seriously here?
“Do you truly believe that Superman is above lying, Miss Lane?” he asks.
I’m about to give him a confident, defiant, even smug yes for an answer.
Then I think about the other you, and all the lies you’ve told me when you had your glasses on.
But that was different. Wasn’t it? Those lies were about protecting a secret that could have greatly endangered you and those you love, had the world known. Or, at the very least, it would have made your life as Clark Kent damn near impossible. That’s why you did it. Right?
“Have you ever known Superman to tell a lie?”
I wish I could make that a statement instead of a question, but under the circumstances, this is the best I can do.
“Isn’t it true that the man has a track record of doing some pretty incredible things in the name of protecting you, Miss Lane?”
I don’t know if Ferreira realizes how close to home he’s hitting with that. After all, I’m willing to bet that if I asked you, you’d tell me that your keeping your secret from me for this long has had to do with the fact that you wanted to protect me from all the nut jobs in this world who might want to abuse my closeness to you. Anyone who knows me has to realize that it has always irritated the hell out of me, no matter which version of you did the protecting. Now, however, it appears that Metropolis at large sees me as a woman whose antics require frequent and *extraordinary* intervention by Superman and, well, that irritates me a whole lot more. But can I plausibly deny that I probably did have a little more than my fair share of run-ins with Superman over the past year and a half?
I decide to aim for middle ground.
“I won’t deny that he’s indeed gotten me out of a few tight spots since he first showed up. But there’s nothing inherently incredible about that. He’s done the same for thousands, if not millions of other people.”
Ferreira straightens up and snorts. “Oh come on, Lane. Don’t sit there and tell me you’re just another face in the crowd to the muscle man. I thought you were smarter than that.”
Am I? Just another face in the crowd?
God knows I’ve feared as much more times than I care to count. A face in the crowd to Superman, and an unscrupulous reporter who can’t be trusted with real secrets to Clark Kent. Where does that leave me, now that Superman is no longer just the celebrity, and circumstances have forced Clark Kent to trust me with his biggest secret?
Can’t let Ferreira see I’m in doubt here, though. He seems like the type who would cling to that like a wasp to a jar of honey on a hot summer day.
“So what if I’m not? I still don’t see what any of this has to do with this alleged phone call you got from Superman. You say he’s trying to protect me, I say he’s telling you the truth — and I don’t think you’d still be here at this time of night, trying every tactic in the book to get a confession out of me, if you didn’t need me to actually admit I did it in order to close this case.”
There’s a momentary silence. I think I’ve just driven Ferreira into a corner, but I realize that he can’t, and won’t, let me see that.
“What we need is irrelevant, Miss Lane. What’s important to us is that this phone call proves that you’ve lied to us about at least one thing: Superman’s presence at the Planet building last night. Who knows what else you might have lied about?”
“I never said he wasn’t there, Ferreira.”
“True. But when we suggested that he *was* there, you didn’t feel the need to confirm it, either.”
“And if I had, what would you have done with that information? Put Superman on the chopping block right alongside me? Whether he actually did anything to lead those two men into their deaths or not?”
“It is not your concern how we do our jobs, Miss Lane.”
“When you put me in jail while innocent, and threaten to do the same to a man who is universally acknowledged to be the biggest Boy Scout on Earth? You bet it’s my concern!”
“I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere with this lady tonight, sir. Maybe she’ll loosen up after a few more hours in our full-service hotel.”
I think he actually means ‘I’m sick of this, boss. Let’s go home.’ But he does a fair job of hiding it.
It works, though. Ferreira looks me over one more time, and then he nods, turns, knocks on the door and leaves, Lars in tow.
The guard-with-coffee-stain takes me back to my cell, and as the smell comes wafting at me, I wish for one second that I had been just a tad less stubborn in there with the Inspector. Maybe that would have kept me out of here longer.
***
“Superman has been in contact, sir. For now, it doesn’t look like that’s going to be much of a problem, but really it’s only a matter of time before…”
“Yes, sir. Indeed.”
“I will see to that, sir. Count on it.”
***
“Get up, Lane! Someone’s here to see you.”
Not bothering to sit up or even turn to where the voice is coming from, I groan and pull the grubby blanket even further over my head. As if spending the night in here caught between the nauseating odor of my mattress and the intermittent noises of a fat guy patrolling past my cell wasn’t enough, now I have to wake up to *that* nails-on-a-blackboard excuse for a voice.
On the bright side, it’s not exactly like she’s actually interrupting something worthwhile here. Far from it — I’d be surprised if I’ve slept more than fifteen minutes total since the bull-dog named Ferreira finally saw fit to let go of my pant leg last night. Nevertheless, this doesn’t really fall into the category of things I’m eager to be confronted with first thing in the morning. I imagine the voice belonging to a slightly overweight, shabbily coiffed, fifty-something has-been with a permanent scowl affixed to her face, who is proudly wearing the unmistakable traces of a spectacularly bad dye job; and sure enough, when I open my eyes and look at my unwelcome messenger, there she stands. The only thing missing is the inappropriately tight, too brightly colored clothing — probably stuffed in a locker somewhere until shift’s end.
I sit up on the mattress, threadbare blanket still loosely draped across my legs. “Who is it?”
“Some fellah in a thousand-dollar suit. If it weren’t for that, I’d say the damned rascal’s way too cute to be a lawyer.”
A lawyer? For me?
“I didn’t hire a lawyer!”
The woman holds up her hands. “Ain’t my problem, lady. All I know is, there’s this hunk sittin’ out back that says he’s your lawyer, and that he’s come to talk to ya. You don’t wanna talk to him, that’s fine by me. I gotta tell you, though, spendin’ eight hours a day in this hole is bad enough already, so I don’t guess the next thirty years are lookin’ to be too upliftin’ for ya. I’d grab onto this one for dear life if I was you, dear. With a suit like that, I don’t think the man even knows what loosin’ a case is like. Who knows, you might actually get lucky.”
I stare at the woman. I don’t know if I should be outraged or agree with her. The idea that even prison inmates are innocent until proven guilty is clearly beyond her. She’s right about one thing, though: if I have to spend all day in here, I’ll go stir crazy. So in the end, I acquiesce.
She cuffs my hands in front of me and leads me into a hallway that has barred gates every two hundred feet or so. I have no choice but to wait for her to open and then lock each of the gates, as if I’m an unruly toddler who’s been told to stay behind her mom. Every fiber of my being wants to protest. Loudly. But the rational part of me knows that there’s nothing I can do.
“Here ya go,” she announces finally, when she opens the first regular door I’ve seen since I got here, and then steps aside to let me through. “Lois Lane for you, sir.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Nolan,” he tells her while bent over some papers on the table, putting a name to the face at last. I think Nolan sounds way too decent for a woman like her. She looks like she could be raising the next generation of Metropolitan petty criminals all by herself after hours.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me, sir,” she tells him sweetly, and for the life of me, I want to scratch her in the face for that one. As if I’m some kind of… conscience-less, viciously violent specimen who’s going to attack the man as soon as a sliver of a chance presents itself. I think not!
Besides, even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t stand a chance against this one. Broad shoulders in a charcoal suit jacket, standing at least two feet taller than me, hands busily shuffling legal documents, but always ready, I know, to defend himself at moment’s notice.
It’s only after Mrs. Nolan has left the room and closed the door behind her that he straightens from his bent position and looks at me. His twinkling brown eyes remind me of yours.
“Miss Lane,” he says, as he holds out a hand in my direction. His tone manages to strike the perfect balance between authority and mildness, and I realize that the Nolan woman was ridiculously right about how cute he is. I like him instantly. “My name is Benjamin Leibowitz. Please, call me Ben.”
The handshake is awkward, my left hand bobbing up and down with my right because of the shackles; but despite the fact that I’m standing here tied up in those in front a complete stranger who I never asked to come, while wearing the ugliest outfit ever made and with a double murder conviction hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles, I smile.
“Lois Lane,” I tell him, “But apparently, you already know that. Call me Lois.”
He sits, and I take the chair on the opposite side of the table. Several pieces are missing from the filling on the chair’s frame, but at least it’s better than that awful plastic contraption they had me sit on at the police station.
“Lois,” says Benjamin, and the smile that comes with that is enough to make my head spin. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here.”
What do you know, the man is cute *and* sensible. Actually, he reminds me a *lot* of you.
I shrug. “Well, you’re a lawyer. I sincerely hope you’re here because someone asked you to provide me with some decent legal counsel in this matter. If that’s not it, I’m not sure I want to know.”
“In that case,” he says, reaching under the table for something, “I’m terribly sorry to have to disappoint you, Lois.”
I gasp.
He’s pointing a gun at me, smiling his dazzling smile again.
***
“Well, Clark, I can understand your frustration, but really, what would *you* do if some guy called you at the paper claiming to be Superman?”
“I don’t… I don’t know, Dad! I *am* Superman!”
He has a point, of course. To anyone but me and the few people close to me, it’s going to sound rather strange when someone calls them and tells them he’s Superman, instead of just showing up in front of them — and I can only imagine the number of prank calls the city services must get involving Superman. But still.
“For someone who doesn’t know… At the very least, he shouldn’t have brushed me off like that, right? I mean that guy was up there with some of the rudest people I’ve ever had a conversation with!”
“That may well be true, son, but is complaining about this one individual’s behavior really going to help you solve the problem at hand?”
My mother; always the practical one.
I stop in mid-pace — that trench in my floor must be really something by now — and out of habit, I turn in her direction to look at her. Under the circumstances, it’s a kind of useless thing to do, but that only dawns on me when I’m already facing her, and my field of vision turns out to still be just as empty as before.
“No, it’s not,” I admit, feeling myself deflate just a little as all the nervous energy settles down. I realize that I’m not going to help anyone if I can’t think about this rationally.
“I’m going to have to go there myself,” I say to no one in particular.
“Are you sure it’s…”
Dad again. He stops himself in mid-sentence, probably realizing that it’s not leading anywhere useful, but I can still imagine what it is he was going to say. ‘Are you sure it’s safe to let a building full of police officers see you like this?’
In truth, I am indeed not sure. But what else can I do to clear this up?
“I could call Henderson and make an appointment to see him. I’m pretty sure he can be trusted, and that he knows who else on the force can be trusted.”
“Maybe you better ask him to come here, Clark. I mean, the fewer people see you like this, the better, right?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s bad enough that Doctor Bannergee saw you guys in here with me while he was looking at my eyes. I don’t need anyone else tying you too closely to Superman — but even if you’re not here, he may start wondering what Superman is doing all by himself in Clark Kent’s apartment. Either way, I risk giving myself away. Henderson isn’t stupid.”
“Then what are you going to do?” my Mom asks.
“Meet him somewhere out of the public eye. In the alley behind the Daily Planet building, perhaps. It’s out of the way, and in the early morning hours, there shouldn’t be too many people out and about in that neighborhood, anyway. I’ll keep the conversation short, just tell him what I heard and why I only *heard* it, and then I think I can trust him to take it from there.”
“What if they need you to publicly testify in the case eventually?”
I shrug. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Right now, I need to get Lois out of prison before she tries something reckless.”
I can hear my dad chuckle. “Knowing Lois, don’t you think it might be a little late for that, son?”
“I sincerely hope not,” I tell him, “But if it is, I guess getting her out of there before she gets herself into even more trouble than she’s already in will have to do.” I’ve made my decision, and I know that my father wouldn’t be joking about the situation unless he knew that.
I catch Henderson at the precinct just as he’s about to head home, and we arrange for a meeting behind the Planet at five-thirty tomorrow morning. I can tell that he has questions, and no small amount of doubts, but I cut him off quickly. “It will all become clear once we meet, Inspector. See you tomorrow.”
It’s a simple matter after that to call a cab.
***
“Where to, sir?” asks the cabbie, and I can tell he’s not looking at me by the somewhat muffled sound of his voice. So much the better.
“Daily Planet.”
I keep it short and sweet, trying not to sound too much like Superman, despite the Suit.
I find it’s easy to get agitated as the streets outside slip invisibly by me. I’m not used to not being in control — I usually provide my own means of transportation, and even when I don’t, at least I can still *see* where I’m going. Now I’m sitting in the back of someone else’s car staring at nothing, and it leaves me unsettled.
Luckily, it’s over rather quickly.
“We’re here, sir,” the cabbie informs me as he pulls over. “That’ll be twelve dollars and forty cents.”
I hand the man the twenty dollar bill I’ve had clutched in my fist all along. “Keep the change.”
It’s a rather generous tip, but I don’t want to have to deal with money right now.
When I get out, I immediately start regretting my generosity, however. There is too much wind here — wind that would have been blocked by a wall of skyscrapers, had the driver really taken me downtown as I had asked him to. I want to turn around and tell him as much, but the taxi is already pulling away, and I realize it’s useless to try to chase him.
Then there are two hands on my arms — one left, one right — and a hoarse voice in my left ear.
“We have Lois Lane. She’s being brought here as we speak. If you stay quiet and do as you’re told, nothing is going to happen to her – otherwise, we have no particular use for her. Get the picture, flyboy?”
My heart skips a beat. They’re using you as bait. Again.
“Understood,” I tell the man beside me, mouth dry.
Someone gives me a shove from behind, and I find myself walking in the direction he’s pushing me. My mind is racing, frantically looking for a way out, but I keep coming back to the first thing my captor — whoever he is — said to me. ‘We have Lois Lane.’
I realize that I won’t do anything until I’m sure it won’t affect you.
