George had seen plenty of rogue lawyers like this—scumbags looking to climb the social ladder by stepping on the NYPD. He wasn't the least bit impressed. He ignored the lawyer's smug, "let's settle this privately" expression and stared directly at Barry Weiss on the hospital bed.
But the junkie was smart. He didn't say a word, keeping his eyes closed and lying back as if he didn't have a care in the world. He was betting on the fact that with a lawyer present, the cops wouldn't dare use violence. More importantly, he was certain they had no direct evidence linking him to the murders.
An hour later, George and Kate stepped out of the room.
"What's the word from Forensics?"
"Captain, the Lab Director said they're working overti, but they don't have a definitive match for the latest scene yet."
"And the drifter? Did we find him?"
"Not yet."
"Find him. Fast," George said grimly. He checked his watch. It was 5:00 PM. Three hours until the "deadline."
He was certain Peerless would show up on ti, just as he was certain the man in that bed was the copycat killer. But while he had plenty of evidence against the forr, he couldn't catch him; and while he had the latter in custody, he didn't have enough evidence to make the charges stick.
...
The Stacy Residence.
Helen was ho. She had returned just after Locke and Gwen had finished "opening fire" upstairs. If she had been a few minutes earlier, she would have walked into a very awkward situation.
As it was, Helen looked at her daughter's damp hair, her gaze drifting toward the sofa where Locke sat. Her expression seed to speak volus without a single word.
Gwen turned beet-red, grabbed a stuffed animal from the chair, and chucked it at Locke before shooting him a mock-reproachful glare. Locke caught the plushie and blinked innocently.
'What? I'm just sitting here.'
anwhile, the "real" Locke—having slipped out of the Stacy house after the "open fire", via the ergency fire escape to avoid the patrol cars—sat in a nearly-new Audi R8 he'd "borrowed" from a street lot. He felt the feedback from his avatar at the dinner table and chuckled to himself.
He checked the ti, pulled out his satellite phone, and dialed. It was answered on the first ring.
"Hello?" The voice was low and gravelly. It was Jason Braut.
Locke started the car and pulled out of the lot. "Good afternoon, Detective Braut. Do you know who this is?"
"Peerless."
"Correct. Detective, have you seen the news teaser on Channel 1?"
Earlier that afternoon, NY Channel 1 had dropped a bombshell: at 9:00 PM, Peerless would be returning to the station with a "special guest." The teaser had been live for less than thirty minutes before it beca the #1 trending topic in the city. People were already locking their TVs to that channel to ensure they didn't miss a second.
"George kicked off the detail," Jason said flatly.
Locke smiled. "Captain Stacy is a man of principle. He trusts the law. To put it bluntly, I think George hasn't been properly 'educated' by the harsh realities of the world yet."
Jason let out a short, cynical laugh. "What do you want?"
"George believes every criminal deserves a trial. But you and I, Jason... I think we're cut from the sa cloth. We both know so scum fall through the cracks of the law. And so scum simply don't deserve the 'grace' of a legal trial. Wouldn't you agree?"
"...I agree."
"Excellent." Locke parked the R8 a block away from New Amsterdam Hospital. "I need two favors."
Jason was currently standing outside the hospital building. "What can I do for you?"
"Two things. First: that junkie didn't just provoke the NYPD, he provoked . The NYPD is hindered by bureaucracy, but I am not. I promise that if you give him to , you'll see exactly what happens to people like him."
"You're going to kill him on live TV?"
"Of course not," Locke laughed. "That's too bloody. What if there are kids watching? No, Jason. I promise you he'll be handed back to you alive. After that, what you do with him is up to you... unless the Animal Protection Society cos after you."
"Animal Protection?"
"You'll see." Locke didn't elaborate. "At 7:30 PM, I'm entering the hospital. I'll be using tranquilizer rounds. I hope your officers won't fire on . After all, we share a common enemy tonight."
Jason went silent.
"It's 7:00 now. You have thirty minutes to spread the word. And tell them—if there are any 'Georges' who try to play hero, I won't kill them. That is my word."
"...I'll handle it."
"Good. Second: I need you to draw George and that beautiful lead detective away from the floor. I trust you can manage that?"
"And then?"
"And then, nothing. Find a TV and watch the show. Or co down to the station for the live taping. I don't mind."
Jason looked up at the hospital windows. "When do I pull them down?"
"7:29 PM."
...
7:29 PM. New Amsterdam Hospital.
In a secluded storage room near the back entrance, Jason Braut took a deep breath. He pulled out his service weapon and racked the slide.
*Bang!*
The gunshot echoed through the basent levels. Jason grunted and aid at his own leg, the bullet grazing the at of his thigh. He collapsed, clutching the wound.
"Officer down! Officer down!" a nearby patrolman shouted into his radio.
On the eighth floor, George and Kate froze.
"George... George..." Jason's voice ca over the radio, panting and weak. "He's here... heading for the power room..."
Jason then "fainted."
"Jason!" George roared. He grabbed five officers from the hallway and sprinted for the elevators.
As the elevator doors closed, the ergency stairwell door opened. Locke stepped out onto the eighth floor. He walked into the hallway and found himself face-to-face with the twelve remaining officers.
The officers drew their weapons, but no one fired. They didn't even use the standard "NYPD Mag Dump."
The officer closest to Locke gave a crooked grin. "Don't hit the neck, okay?"
*Thwip!*
"Oof."
"Sorry," Locke muttered as the officer's eyes rolled back and he slumped to the floor.
*Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!*
Within seconds, the hallway was a carpet of "sleeping" officers. At the nurses' station, two nurses had already lay down on the floor before Locke even reached them.
One nurse peeked an eye open as Locke approached. She held up a whiteboard. "Mr. Peerless, the first cop you hit was my husband. Can I get an autograph?"
Locke blinked. "Of course."
He knelt down and signed his na next to a small Q-version doodle of Peerless on her board. "To my friend, Chris," he added.
Chris the nurse took the board back, satisfied, and went back to "fainting."
"Oh, George," Locke shook his head as he walked toward the VIP room. "You've been away from the 'common folk' too long. You've forgotten how they think."
These officers didn't care about the procedure. They cared about an attitude. Whoever helped them get justice for their fallen brother was their friend. Peerless was a friend. George was just the boss.
Locke reached the door. Inside, the lawyer was still talking about civil suits and damages.
Locke checked his wrist. 7:58 PM.
'Right on ti.'
He kicked the door open and smiled at the startled lawyer and the terrified junkie. "Ti's up. Ready for the show?"
Barry Weiss: "..."
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