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#1

" The Body In The Closet"

Written by Joshua David Krenz

 

"By the time they found the body rigor mortis had already set in. Rigor mortis, of course is an earth term, for dead earth-creatures. The rope gently creaked as the hulking body swayed back in forth in the ambient wind. The body already stood at a towering 6-foot-four, making hanging a difficult task in this cramped apartment. Thermal readings can only be conducted externally due to the thus far indestructible nature of the subject's skin. Currently thermal readings confirm body heat at room temperature-sixty-seven degrees below the subject's "average" body temperature."

-From the notes of Walter Cratchet

A small man looks up into a closet at the once heroic form dangling there.

"Damn."

He continues to take notes on the scene-details ranging from the grade of the rope to the pattern of dust on the closet floor. His name is Walter Cratchet-a name which he has never really cared for, but got him a strong supporting role in a childhood production. Walter knows that he is not the first person to view the subject, swaying like a broken pendulum, nor is he the smartest. In fact-Walter knows that this room has been visited multiple times within the past few hours-even before the 911 call was even made. Most likely a guy in spandex with raven wings plastered to the side of his head will suddenly appear on the station's rooftop wrapped tightly like a Christmas package. This "holiday surprise" will include a note that is both vague and cliché-while still condemning.

"I didn't even know he could die."

Walter spends another moment in silence with the subject, taking in the surroundings and offering up his respect. Once, when Walter was a child he saw this very same man soaring from rooftop to rooftop. They said he was an alien-the last one of his race. Somehow, as a child he was sent away-before the destruction at home began.

The room changed. Instead of two bodies-one living, one suspended by a rope-there were now three. Of course, Walter heard the door open, smelled the doughnuts, and felt the vibration of mediocre size 8 shoes walking across the hardwood floor. It was Walter's partner-Job Randall. Job liked doughnuts. He liked them so much that his pockets contained an endless supply of frosted, glazed, or sprinkled pastries. Walter, did not like doughnuts. The sugar would stick in his moustache-or the fat would coat the top of his mouth. In the end, Walter figured, it was probably better not to put all that crap into his body. Job, however, seemed to have no negative side-effects from his continual consumption of confectionary desserts. Job towered over Walter-and weighed twenty pounds less. Job was so skinny, in fact, that Walter witnessed him teeter in the wind on more than one occasion. This, Walter reasoned, could also be due to Job's excessively small feet.

"Heh. Looks like a super-hero piñata." Job jested. "I didn't even know these guys could die."

Walter was finished with the scene. All the information he could gather had already been entered into a small tattered blue notebook he had purchased from a local drug store. The pages were slightly stained with coffee and curled with time, but the book contained everything Walter observed. When the pages to this book run out, Walter would replace the book with another-same color, purchased from the same local drug store.

It took five full-grown men to hoist the subject down from his noose. Walter noted the type of knot used-a standard slipknot, the kind you would see in a movie. Later, an autopsy would be attempted. After the destruction of multiple expensive cutlery devices the local mortician would call for a high-powered laser used for cutting underground pipes. Eventually, after the mortician's table had melted away into a tinny smelling liquid the cause of death would be ruled "Suffocation brought on by self strangulation-SUICIDE."

End Chapter One.

 

The Christmas present on the rooftop never came-at least not for Walter's case. A couple purse-snatchers, someone attempting to poison the city's water supply, and a guy with permanent face paint-but nothing about Walter's case.

Naturally the captain told Walter to stop investigating the case.

"It was ruled a suicide," the captain said, "what else do you need?"

Naturally this didn't sit right for Walter. Walter kept digging through the facts.

"Hey, bucko-" said Job through a shower of doughnut sprinkles, "there's a little drug ring I'm about to crack down on-want to come along?"

Walter could just shake his head-he was reading about the heat intensity created by the laser on its highest settings.

"Come on! We'll bust a few heads-scare a few kids, maybe get a little Chinese afterwards."

Walter turned the page. "Saturn Guy"-that was his name. And he was an alien, but not from Saturn-that was just for publicity. He could fly, lift buses, and bounce bullets off of his skin like rubber balls. He had no known relatives-and his adoptive family died in a flood several years ago. His marital status was "unknown", and he was never seen in public with anyone, ever. Job was looking over Walter's shoulder.

"What was this guy? Some kind of homo?"

Walter turned the page. Essentially this page looked like all other pieces of paper-a white sheet with beveled grain flowing throughout. However, on this page only three words were printed. Walter understood now what no one else in the building did-that this case was far from over.

NO KNOWN WEAKNESSES.

End Chapter Two.

 

The wind was especially cold tonight. Walter bundled himself in his London Fog trench coat-a gift from his mother before she passed away. The straps to the coat flapped in the wind, there soft pattering actually irritated Walter, but he was too cold and uncomfortable to do anything about it. For the passed two-weeks Walter had been standing atop a small Lutheran church in the center of town. The pastor had been gracious in admitting Walter, however he did not understand what the officer wanted to do with a pigeon infested rooftop. What the pastor did not know were the numerous "super-sightings" at this location. It had nearly been a month since Saturn Guy was found dead, and Walter still had no answers. Unfortunately, his traditional means of investigation ran out two-weeks ago, so Walter was forced into non-convention.

Four hours passed. Walter was nodding off. Thus far in his two-week venture atop the church he had managed never to fall asleep-and intended to maintain that record. However, he found tonight to be exceedingly difficult to keep that goal. He walked around the complex for a few minutes-stretching his bones and letting the cold air kiss his face, whipping life back into his body and hopefully resurging it with energy. He sat back down, and yawned.

"You never really get used to the hours."

Walter jumped up with a startle. The voice-a sound that grated on Walter's spine like coffins falling down stairwells-seemed to come from nowhere. Walter looked around, but could see nothing. He blinked rapidly-maybe he could force his eyes to adjust to the light, at least to make out a shape.

"That doesn't really work either-I've tried it."

There it was-a shape, huddled in an archway. Or was it simply the light playing more tricks on him? Walter ventured it must be something-at least humanoid.

"For the passed two-weeks I have waited here, in search of answers," Walter went on, "all of my sources are tapped-people have stopped returning my phone calls. They are whispering 'obsessed' behind my back. Please-you have to tell me, who killed Saturn Guy?"

There was no answer. Walter could not believe it. Two-weeks! Two-weeks of his time spent sitting on pigeon waste and cracked plaster only to get no answer. Then, before Walter could protest his discontent, the voice answered.

"You already know the answer to this question-you are wasting your time."

"No. No, I don't buy it. No one could kill Saturn Guy-not even Saturn Guy-and yet, somehow it was done-made to look like a suicide."

"So who do you suspect would do this?"

"I-I don't know. Some-some super? Someone with the ability to find out his weakness? A mad genius? Another alien? A government sponsored program?"

"Saturn had no weaknesses. Nothing physical."

"Then how? How could it have been done? Magic? Telepathy?"

"I believe-all it took was a rope."

Walter was shocked. Such cynicism-such darkness. Was this really a hero he was speaking to?

"Who-who are you?"

There was nothing.

"If-if you really did know him, why aren't you searching for his killer?"

Again-nothing. The shape did not move, so Walter walked closer. As his angle changed, so did the light on the shape-which revealed the archway to be completely empty. Was this really happening? Walter went home and went to bed, feeling defeated by even his non-conventional sources.

End Chapter Three.

 

Walter had been in the bathtub for an hour-and-a-half before the phone rang. His fingers had long gone white and wrinkled-as though he were but an old man, waiting for death. Walter had been diligently searching his body for scars-or remnants there of. Walter did this sometimes-just to look back on old memories, and how they faded much like the scars-given enough time. Most of the scars were from overall clumsiness-slipping down wet stairs, cutting himself with a bagel knife, bashing into a closed sliding-glass door, etc., etc., etc.

Surprisingly, the largest remaining scar was from a childhood accident. Walter had been climbing on his father's old wooden boat. They lived far away from any major body of water, so it always perplexed Walter as to why there was a boat in the first place. The planks had long been splintered and warped by the sun, and local youths had long since made-off with pieces of it. So, naturally, it was a great spot for Walter to play-and like all other great play sites, Walter's parents had forbidden it to him.

One day-probably in the summer-Walter was playing captain on the little dinghy. Walter jumped from side to side yelling out orders and demanding the surrender of Princess Katie. As Walter called for his men to board the enemy's ship, his foot trapped itself between a bench and the side of the boat. But the enemy ship was too close for Walter to notice the held-fast limb. So, as Walter leapt from the boat to rush the enemy vessel, his foot stayed securely fastened between the bench and the boat.

Walter's body twisted in agony-his body fell in an unnatural way along the inside of the boat. He landed with more force than he had ever felt before, slamming face first into a splintered piece of flooring. However, that pain came secondary to the searing fire taking place between his ankle and knee. As Walter fell, he failed to notice the sixteen-penny nail greeting his fall. The nail ripped through his Lee Dungarees, passed his flesh, and bore straight into his kneecap. Walter screamed.

It took only five-minutes for the paramedics to remove Walter from the boat. Later Walter's father drove the old boat to a junkyard, and left it there for the rodents and abandoned felines. The surgery on young Walter's leg only lasted a few hours, but the scar was massive. The doctors had to insert screws and metal plates to support Walter's broken leg-which had twisted itself apart in the fall. Additionally, the kneecap on his left leg had to be removed and replaced by some artificial piece. The doctors said that the nail along with the force of the fall had shattered the cap into six pieces-possibly due to an unseen weakness in Walter's bone structure.

For two-years after the accident Walter was forced to bi-annual X-Rays, scans, and other medical tests. Twice a week he was sent to physical training-to help regain strength in the leg. Walter secretly hoped that the extensive tests, training, and rays would one day lead to super-powers. Those powers never arrived.

The phone rang.

Walter crawled out of the bath, wrapped himself in a towel and answered the phone. It was Job, his partner.

"Some lady dropped by to see you about the Saturn Guy case. I guess he wasn't a homo after all."

End Chapter Four.

 

She was a reporter. Her eyes cut through you like a microscope and a scalpel-removing the fats, the fables, and the little untruths to get to the real meat. She had dyed black hair which was fading at the roots to reveal the natural chocolate brown color she was born with. She wore a suit. She was beautiful, and she knew it-the way she carried herself demanded attention and respect. She carried a little notebook-much like Walter's, all though far less tattered-clearly she took care with it. She was sitting at a park bench, writing something down-or possibly sketching a scene.

She did not look up when Walter arrived. For a second Walter just stood there-not knowing what to do. He was certain this was the girl, Jaine Green, who had contacted him about the Saturn Guy case. From time to time Walter would read articles written by her in the local paper. It was always the "hard hitting" stuff-revealing corruption in business, government, and society. Usually it was too intense for Walter-after all, in your face style reporting kind of scared him.

"Are you just going to stand there all day, or are you going to sit down?"

Jaine's voice had a bite to it. She was thorough-never wasting a word, precise in everything. It intimidated the hell out of Walter.

As Walter sat on the bench, Jaine's notebook snapped shut. Walter never got to see what she was writing before he arrived, but he hoped it was something nice. She turned in her seat, and looked at him. Walter started to speak-

"Hello Mrs. Gree-"

"Miss. I am not married, nor am I elderly-please call me by the proper title."

"I apologize. Mrs. Green-you came to my office to contact me about the case of Saturn Guy, who died two-months ago-"

"I know when he died, and yes-I came to talk to you, because I hear you are the only one investigating the case."

"You and Saturn Guy were . . .on. . . romantic terms?"

"From time to time."

"Did he ever tell you about anything-out of the ordinary?"

Jaine Green started to laugh, it cut through Walter's heart like a rusted nail on a boat. She stopped herself, regained her composure, and went on.

"From time to time. He was a 'super' after all."

"In any of these stories did he ever tell you about any enemies he might have had?"

"Countless."

"Anyone who would be looking for revenge on him?"

"Innumerable."

"Did he ever express any fears that someone might try to kill him?"

Jaine started to answer, then hesitated. She looked down into her lap, and for a second looked like a weeping child. She continued, but with a hollow-emptiness in her voice.

"Mr. Cratchet-Saturn was an alien. The entire world saw him as a virus in one form or another. Everyone was trying to kill him. The little girl who gets caught on the runaway train, a bank robber and his getaway driver-even," she paused, "even a reporter falling from the top story of the city's largest building."

Jaine looked up, sharpened her look, and was once again a reporter.

"Mr. Cratchet-everyone was trying to kill him-they just didn't know it."

Walter did not know what to do. He sat there, holding a pen in his hand preparing to write down the conversation. Yet, his hand was paralyzed with cold-like meat left in the freezer for too long. Walter thought back to a month and a half ago, when he first got the call about a corpse found in a cheap hotel closet. The body dangled lifeless before his eyes-like so many other dead bodies, and yet-so different. Walter forced himself to continue.

"Can you tell me a little about him?"

Jaine smirked-the happiest Walter had seen her in the passed five-minutes.

"What's to say? He was just a small-town boy with a small-town mind-from a place far, far away. At the same time, he was completely and utterly unique-not the same type of unique mothers label their children-a different kind of unique. There really only are couple 'one of a kind' things in this galaxy-and he was one of them. Everyone that was ever close to him-or would have been close to him-ended up dying or in constant danger. He carried the guilt of a billion dead aliens, and thousands of unsaved earthlings. He was so unique, that he was completely alone."

Walter had but one more question:

"Ms. Green-they say he was invulnerable. Witnesses have reported seeing him shirk off city buses as though it were a sheet of paper. No one ever heard of him getting sick-nor did he seem to age. We don't even know if he needs air to breathe, food to eat, or water to drink. What-if you don't mind me asking, Ms. Green-could kill someone who as far as science can determine-cannot die?"

Walter had assumed that the question would throw Jaine Green back into a reclusive state-bringing back the crumpled child he had seen moments before. Once again, Walter Cratchet was wrong about women. She simply continued her concrete stare, and without emotion said:

"A rope, Mr. Cratchet-a rope."

And with that, Walter knew who had killed Saturn Guy.

"Thank you for your time, Ms. Green."

"Thank you, Mr. Cratchet."

End Chapter Five.

 

"NO KNOWN WEAKNESSES."

-From the notes of Walter Cratchett.

Walter sat at an old Chinese restaurant. His chicken lo-mein had long since gotten cold, and now a small troupe of insects was making a meal of the leftovers. In front of Walter sits a manila folder. A month and a half ago someone in file maintenance stamped "CASE CLOSED" across the face of the folder-however, a small well placed bribe found the folder back on Walter's desk. Now, as Walter stared at the simple off-white case folder, a weight of alien measure is removed from his back.

The door to the restaurant chimed as another body entered the room. The traditional herald of doughnuts reached Walter long before Job was even at the table. Job sat down, pulled the cold plate of lo-mein and started swatting away the flies. After a minute of eating, Job noticed the case folder.

"So you finally figured it out?"

Walter nodded. He picked up the folder, and rapped it against the table-setting all the pages straight. Then, with simple patience, he methodically studied the first page-probably for the eight hundred and forty-third time.

"So in the end, who was it that got him? That other alien? You know the one-the super computer?"

Walter just shakes his head "no".

"That millionaire? The one with all the fancy toys? Maybe it was someone with a space rock."

"Nope. None of the above."

"So who did it?"

Walter paused, set down the folder-and with deep reflection answered the question.

"He did-Saturn Guy. With a rope. In a cheap motel room."

Job's fork fell to the floor with a tingled-crash. Job sat, with an open maw-overflowing with soft-cooked noodles and bits of chicken meat. Job swallowed the massive bite-then went on-

"A rope? I could've told you that!"

Job starts to pantomime walking up steps-opening a door and finding a dead body.

"Hey! Look at this-a dead super-corpse! Wow, looks like a suicide to me! The rope, the knot, everything!"

Walter shuts the case file, sets it down gently on the not-so-clean tabletop.

"Yes, but the rope didn't kill him."

Job stares expectantly.

"Saturn Guy came to earth as an infant. He was raised in a loving environment not knowing who he ever really was. When his powers started to develop-and it became clear to his parents that he would not be 'like other boys'. He would always be stronger, faster, and simply more powerful. His parents taught him restraint-and responsibility. They taught him that what you can do isn't necessarily what you should do. So Saturn Guy took this lesson with him into the real world. At first he just tried to fit in-to be a normal man living amongst humans. However, he could not deny this other part of him-the gifts given to him by his biological parents. So he took up a cape and started leaping from building top to building top wearing tight spandex and pansy red booties. As time went on, he found that he became more and more popular-that people held a genuine interest in who he was, and what he could do. But this added attention brought him more danger-more people looking to prove they could be 'super' as well. Robbers would go out of their way to make a scene-to prove that they were not afraid of this 'Man from Saturn', that they could beat him. The crimes became more and more elaborate-the criminals became more and more violent and trigger-happy. Soon, normal innocent people started dying-caught in the wake of the criminal's war against Saturn. Then the flood came. A flash flood-nothing out of the ordinary for a Mid-West state, but unnoticed by meteorologists until it was too late. The flood washed away the farm Saturn grew up on-killing both his adoptive parents and everyone he knew from childhood. Saturn could not get there in time-even though he could fly faster than the speed of sound, something else kept him from getting there."

"What? What could stop Saturn Guy from flying back and rescuing his parents?"

"I don't know. Something-something big within the city. Maybe it was a girl on a runaway train-or some bank robbers shooting up hostages-or maybe, maybe it was a reporter, falling from the tallest building in the city after getting into a fight with her small-town boyfriend. Something, something kept him here instead of letting him get back. So now, the man who is haunted by the ghosts of a fallen planet-a man capable of hearing his own parents dying in a flash flood seven-hundred miles away-carries the weight of every dead human on earth. Every person he couldn't get to in time-every cry he had to ignore. Every injustice or disaster that was de-prioritized in favor of his own life. Saturn Guy was alone. Totally and completely alone."

Job had pushed the plate-which still contained a surprisingly large amount of food on it-to the edge of the table. Job sat, with an empty look on his face as the story unfolded. He was starting to understand why his partner-Walter Cratchet-had spent so much time on this superhero case.

"So you see, Job, Saturn decided to go on living-but at the cost of his own identity. Soon, he was forced to give up his own private life and resolve to be a full-time superhero. He tried to be everywhere, to stop every crime and accident before it could even happen. But that's impossible, Job. It's a loser's battle. You cannot be everywhere at once, you cannot always be there to make things right-the world is just too big. I wonder, Job, what would life be like if you could hear every husband in the world beating their wife? Every child selling herself for that next hit of smack? Every person who happened to be at the wrong ally, at the wrong time of day, on the wrong day of the week? What would it be like knowing that you can only save some of them? I think it would be pretty hard."

All Job could do is nod. With a dry voice he answered "Yeah."

"So I figured it out, Job. The reason why Saturn Guy died is because it became too much. It was too much responsibility-too much guilt. He never really was a part of our society-always an alien. So, naturally, he went to the only place he could think of to give him peace-to separate him from society. A cheap, sleazy, prostitute infested, $16.00 dollar a night hotel room. That's right-he went to the worst place imaginable, where no one would think to find him or stop him, and he hanged himself. Before we even got the phone call numerous other members of the super-community came to visit him-to pay their respects. I think they have a special understanding between each other-event the bad ones-that they are different, but different in a similar kind of way. They knew him better than we did-that's why they didn't have to investigate it. They knew why he did it long before we even got there."

The waiter finally arrived with the check. She had a bright smile on her face as she arrived with the little black tray holding a fortune cookie for Walter. As she set the tray down she noticed the expressions on both Walter and Job's faces. With a nervous giggle she bowed and quickly scuttled away before their mood spread to her. Walter cracked open the cookie with one hand, removed the fortune and read it to himself: "You have a passion for horse racing and other sports."

"Hmph," Walter grumbled, "never do seem to get it right."

Job looked down for a second, then spoke.

"So-so the reason why he did it was because-because it all became too much? He just wrapped a rope around his neck, tied it to a crossbeam in a shoddy-hotel room, and ended it there?"

"Kind of."

"Kind of?"

"He can't die of suffocation, Job. His body never needed oxygen to survive-at least through common means like lungs."

"Then-then how did he die?"

"He did it, Job. He gave up. The rope was just there as a message-to tell people what he had done, maybe-just maybe, so that someone would ask why the world's most 'super' man would kill himself."

"He just gave up?"

"He just gave up."

End Chapter Six.

End The Body In The Closet.