Issue #3: Devil Day
Hell’s Kitchen, New York City
The Offices of Nelson and Murdock
Foggy Nelson hates Wednesdays. No matter how much he loved his job (which he did immensely), Wednesdays always found a way to dampen his mood. Maybe it was the fact that even though it could be said that half the week was over, there was still half the week to go. Or maybe it was how work always seems to pile up on Wednesdays. It was uncanny, and Foggy hates it.
From his desk, Foggy could hear the growing sound of the unmistakable clacking of stick against tiled floor. Matt Murdock was late, and from the sound of it, he wasn’t in any hurry to get to the office.
“Rough night?” Foggy asks, even though Matt wasn’t even in the office yet.
Two minutes later, Matt opens the door and takes a tired seat across from his partner. “Rough night, rough morning. Going to be a rough day and evening too…don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Foggy asks, peering up from the newspaper.
“Just because I can hear you from the hallway doesn’t mean you should take advantage,” Matt scolds, although Foggy can detect a sense of humor underneath. “Any new cases come in this morning?”
“No, but I’m sure there’ll be a line by lunch.” Foggy nonchalantly turns the page to the obituaries, “I almost forgot. How was the funeral? I know you don’t like those things very much.”
“It was good, and I don’t.”
Now Foggy can detect an underlining tone of anger. “Does uh…Daredevil have any leads?”
Matt chuckles. “Why do you think I’m so late?”
Last Night…
Daredevil, for all of his anger, still had a sense of pity left in him.
The cowering thing that used to be a man is named Turk Barrett. A would-be supervillain that makes trouble now and again. Mainly in Hell’s Kitchen. Which is why he’s cowering.
“Look at me, Turk.”
Turk doesn’t look up but keeps his head down. “You beat me up weeks ago, man. What’cha want now?”
“Look. At. Me.”
Begrudgingly, Turk gets up from the bar floor, dusts himself off, and prepares to get smacked by a red gloved fist. It doesn’t come.
“There’ve been a string of murders recently,” Daredevil says, staring Turk down with his red eyes. “Stabbings. A priest was killed. Know anything about it?”
A sense of relief floods Turk. Normally, stuff like this didn’t sit right with him, giving out information to costumes. But this stuff…this stuff he was glad to talk about.
“Guys I know don’t know nothing about that, man-“
Turk hears the tightening of fists and realizes he’s miss-stepped.
“-But,” he recovers, “I do know that your guy did these couple dudes by the docks a couple days ago and left em in this old warehouse with these crates.”
“What was in them?”
“They were full of meds, man.” Turk explains, knowing he’s got what the vigilante’s looking for. “Your guy scrammed after he killed the dudes. Turns out they had backup outside and they came in shooting when they heard screams.”
“What kind of medicine was it?”
Turk shrugs. “Pain meds. Morphine. High quality too. Heard they sold for a pretty penny.”
Daredevil can tell that’s the end of the conversation and looks at the cowering bartender with a smirk. “Next round’s on him.”
Today…
“Morphine?” Foggy looks at his friend blankly. “That’s your big break?”
Matt paces the office like he’s in court, explaining a piece of evidence. “I spent all night tracking down the dealers that got their hands on the stuff. I got my hands on a shipment and took a vial before the police arrived.”
Matt fishes out a small glass bottle from his pocket and tosses it to Foggy. “I could feel the letters. It’s high quality, like Turk said.”
“You know it’s illegal for us to have this right?” Foggy asks, holding the bottle cautiously between his fingers.
Matt ignores the question. “This killer is more than just an addict, Foggy. He paid for an entire case of drugs. I don’t think he was going to use them for recreational use.”
“Why would he need them though?”
Matt looks in Foggy’s direction, “Because he’s in pain.”
Three Hours Ago…
He watches as Daredevil swings away with the ironic grace of an angel. The sound of sirens fill his ears as if the police cars are right in front of him. With a snarl, he presses his hands to his ears to try to silence the world but knows that it’s helpless.
He needs his medicine.
Out of the shadows, he runs across the street and into the apartment building, the sirens growing closer with every step he takes. He steps over the bodies of the unconscious drug dealers and digs his hands into the box of morphine with complete abandonment. He can swear he already feel the dullness coming over his body.
He breathes deeply, “Finally.”
“FREEZE! HANDS IN THE AIR!”
The command shocks him out of his bliss and he turns around to see the guns of two police officers trained on his chest.
“I SAID HANDS IN THE AIR!”
Out of pure muscle memory, two knives slide into his hands from his coat pockets. He can feel his temples throbbing from the loud noises around him.
“PUT THE WEAPONS DOWN! NOW!”
“Please…be quiet.”
To Be Continued
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