Here Know Evil

By t connor michael

MEET CHARLES WILKERSON CARTER III, a not so mild mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper. Charlie doesn't wear a cap and doesn't change clothes in a phone booth. He does, however, wage his own neverending battle for truth, justice, and the American Way. Born in Mainland China, Charlie gravitated to martial arts as a means of self-preservation; being a "big nose" in the PRC wasn't easy. Having traveled the world with this report father he found he had a preternatural flair for languages and the genes for reporting. Being bullied as a child narrowed his reporting to uncovering greed, corruption and crime. But given the assignment by his overbearing editor to unmask a vigilante he balked; exposing someone who was fighting street crime went hard against his grain. So this is the story of Charlie's investigation, what he found, and the incredible journey of one brace person, a survivor, who had vowed vengeance to all Evil that came within reach.

• Language: English
• Publisher: t connor michael
• Release date: Jun 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9780998384924

Book preview

Chapter 1

FRIDAY MORNING

My name is Charles Wilkerson Carter the 3rd. The only time that anyone ever called me by that name was when I was receiving a diploma for something. Usually I go by Charlie in the real world and sometimes friends call me Trip, as in triple. I’m the third generation of the name and though proud to be my father’s son I always felt that I was part of an assembly line, the 3rd in a limited edition. I’ve never wanted kids (I like them, just never felt worthy of raising them). I made sure that could never happen in my twenties so if anyone said I fathered their child I would be very, very suspicious.

with luck I’ll be finished with this writing in one page and satisfy my therapist and my boss

My therapist’s name is Dr. Trudy Wilson. Being a bleeding-heart liberal she donates time to the storefront outreach center off the 600 block of Paterson Avenue. It was suggested to me by my employer that I seek some dialogue with a person qualified to address certain apathy and anger management issues prevalent in my workplace personae. Or something like that. I can’t really remember because I got mad and at the same time didn’t care what was being said in that particular interview. But a job is a job is a job in this particular economy and the rent and utilities don’t get scaled down when the GNP does a free-fall. So here I am writing this journal to save my salary, not my soul. So here goes:

and need I mention that I really don’t want to do this?

I was called up to the city manager’s desk while I was just putting to bed an article I had been assigned concerning the furor by citizens over the town’s decision to shorten the time the yellow caution lights were on in-between the green and red lights on the city’s traffic signals. Give me five hundred words on this Charlie; I need filler on the Op/Ed page. I kid you not. I guess I was the man for the job because I didn’t know whether to be mad or apathetic towards this particular issue of the masses. But it was the end of the month and the bills just keep on coming so I wrote the damn thing. And true to form it was a good, well-written article. My writing was never attacked by management—I’m a damn good writer. It’s my attitude that needs to be adjusted.

according to them

I trudged through the cubicle farm on the 4th floor to the corner office housing the city editor. The office was completely glassed-in, but with smoked glass; she could see out but you couldn’t see in, sort of like the glasses most state cops seem to fancy. It was eerie in a Lord of the Rings kind of way—old Shelob the spider sitting in the dark waiting for an unsuspecting hobbit or orc to stumble by. This particular spider was further guarded by an orc of her own. Its name was Sarina Bascombe and she was as pretty as she was personable. In other words, she was a dried-up hag that spit dust when she talked. While I had never gotten a look at her personnel file it was rumored by others that she had attended Wellesley back when the mortar was still drying on the admin building and she had come to work here during the war and never left. I’m not sure which war that was but I wouldn’t be surprised if she had listed Stonewall Jackson as a reference.

Sarina and I had a hate-hate relationship that I really enjoyed. There was no artifice to her; if she didn’t like you she let you know up front. She would never stab you in the back—only in the front. Definitely my kind of people. Her name is the biggest misnomer in the business; she is anything but serene. I reached her desk and waited to be acknowledged by way of Sarina giving me the evil-eye above her reading glasses.

Good morning, Sarina. I was told the boss wants to see me, I said in my most ingratiating voice. I knew it irritated the hell out of her.

I sincerely doubt that the editor wants to see you, Mister Carter. I do believe however that she needs to see you. Surely as a paid journalist and college graduate you can ascertain the difference? she said. I just smiled. She hated that too.

Please wait while I see if the editor is ready to deal with you. And please try not to hover over my desk like a hunchbacked zombie. Something horrid might fall off of you. Sarina returned her eyes to the contents of her desktop and left me to plop down on the only seat provided. I waited. I always waited. Even if World War III were imminent I would have been made to wait. I used to be mad as hell to be summoned and then made to cool the proverbial heels outside the throne of power. Later I just didn’t care. But now I found it relaxing. It was quieter at this end of the work floor. No one wanted Sarina to send them a memo on decibel levels appropriate to the workplace. She was, after all, the right-hand man of God. Me, I just started carrying a paperback in my jacket. While I waited I enjoyed the writings of John D. MacDonald and the exploits of Travis McGee. In my visits to her boss I never got through more than a page or two before Sarina told me it was time for my audience with the lord of the manor. You see, Sarina could never stand to see me enjoying myself on company time. Me? I didn’t get mad and I didn’t care; I was on salary.

I thanked Sarina most properly when she informed me that my audience with the boss was at hand. I put Travis McGee away, stood up and opened the door and entered the inner sanctum. Now stop right here if you have any preconceived notions about how a city editor was supposed to look. Forget Jamison from the Spiderman comics or Perry White from the old TV Superman series, or even Lou Grant. My city editor was a woman. Her name was Debrah Marsh, and may your god help you if you called her Debbie, or worse yet, left that very special H off her name in a memo. She was somewhere on the dark side of forty, short-cut dirty blonde hair, dumpy of form, and always wore sensible shoes. Need I say more? She was the literal opposite of Sarina: she could talk sweetness and light to your face and then cut you to ribbons behind your back when you weren’t looking. She was the perfect boss if you enjoyed a job where sucking up and licking boots was your first priority. Since that was nowhere in the job description when I took this job Debrah and I didn’t exactly party together during or after work.

Please take a seat Charlie. I’ll be with you in a moment, said Debrah. I thoroughly enjoyed this power play. I had left Travis in a very precarious position so I pulled out my paperback and started reading again. I made Debrah call me twice before I took my nose out of my book.

Oh, sorry. This is a really good book, I said. I highly recommend it. We each had our roles to play. But she started it. Debrah looked at me thinking she had lost a battle but without knowing what the war was about. I loved to see her shake her head in frustration, trying to clear her thoughts.

Charlie, I have a story I need covered. It is not your usual beat but I think your talents will blend nicely with the content. You’re my best writer and I think this piece has your name written all over it.

Over the years I have become quite adept at smelling bovine manure, especially when it is shoveled a yard deep at my feet. First off, I was the paper’s unofficial number three writer when it came to generalities, not the best. Investigative pieces were my forte and in that genre I really was at the top of the heap. Oh, I guess with a little extra effort I could have been the all-around number one but I work on incentive, and Debrah couldn’t even spell the word let alone encourage it. So I knew something was up. I also knew that Writer Number One was doing a piece out of town and Writer Number Two was out sick with a cold. My writing skills had nothing to do with this particular article; rather I was the only writer available for the job. I love it when people underestimate simple powers of deduction.

Charlie, I have received information from one of my sources that there is a vigilante working within the city. There have been a number of instances where street crimes have been foiled by the interdiction of a tertiary party. No data has been formulated on the incidents but reliable individuals point to an alleged white knight patrolling the inner city. I want you to submerge yourself in this and identify the perpetrator of these random acts.

I just loved the way she talked when she wanted to impress someone. And since she never left her office we all knew she had no contacts or sources. Someone told someone else and they told her, or she read it in a rival paper. The manure was now just below my chin and threatening to enter my mouth if I talked. So I kept it short: So, there’s a do-gooder out there and you want me to find him, right?

Sarina hesitated before speaking, once more losing a battle she was unaware of. In simplified form I guess you could say that. Go out into the streets and see if you can identify this individual and persuade him to give us an exclusive.

If I find the person, do you guarantee anonymity if they desire it? And is there any cash incentive to the person for an exclusive with us? I had to get this stuff verified up front because I had been back-doored too many times to rely on the good and ethical nature of my city editor.

Debrah took too long to answer. Yes, of course. I would prefer to have the citizen’s identity for truth’s sake alone. As to putting a monetary value on the story I am loathe to do that as it creates an atmosphere of banker/customer. If there is no other way to achieve the outcome we desire then I am open to a discussion about compensation.

Was she a piece of work or what? She wouldn’t know truth if it bit her in the ass and said hello. But her hesitation before speaking told me everything so I did what needed doing.

Good, then I’ll type up a little memo about what we have decided and I’ll email it to you in a couple of minutes. Anything else? I said.

Debrah just sighed and gave me a look. Okay, Charlie. As soon as all your previous assignments are completed please start on this story. Take these three incident notes with you. I will expect periodic updates. That is all.

I guess I was dismissed since Debrah was reaching for the phone. As I rose I got in the last word: Don’t forget to memo accounting that this is a street job and to honor my expenses. You know how picky they can be without authorization. I smiled and left, knowing by the look on Debrah’s face that she had hoped I would forget about reimbursement. And we both knew that accounting didn’t care one way or the other; expenses came out of Debrah’s budget. I may be her number three staff writer but I was Number One in covering my ass.

stiff me once—shame on you. stiff me twice—I deserve it.

After giving Miss Sarina a fructose smile I ambled on back to my work station, chatting up the innumerable prairie dogs in their cubicles. I was in no serious hurry since all my assignments were up to date and already filed or in the queue. There were maybe fifty to sixty people employed on this floor alone and I knew every one of them and what they did on the paper. There used to be more but the Internet cut into the paper business something fierce. Pretty soon I expected anyone still with a job could have his or her pick of the empty corner offices. I seriously doubted that I would be one of them.

Chapter 2

Back at my desk I returned a call or two, cleared up or clarified everything else that might be hanging fire and called Dr. Wilson’s office and canceled my standing appointment, telling her secretary Rita that my boss made me do it. Then I got into my thinking position. Usually I do my best thinking in the shower but even though my cubicle was the same size as my shower stall it didn’t come with running water. Instead I cranked back my five-wheel swivel chair and put my poker dealer’s eyeshade on and dropped my chin to my chest, crossed my arms and read the information Debrah had given me. This was my thinking pose. Rodin’s model did it better but the AC in here was cranked and I wasn’t about to take my clothes off for this assignment. For Watergate, maybe, but not for a job chasing a Bernard Goetz wannabee. Oh, about the chair: I used to have a four-legged model that I really liked. It took me two good years to break it to the size of my butt but someone, somewhere, with nothing better to do did a survey (or a thesis for all I know) and found out that you could lean a four-legged swivel chair back on two wheels. Since you couldn’t do this with a five-legged model our esteemed management collected all the possibly unsafe swivel chairs and replaced them. We didn’t get a Christmas bonus that year but the Herald did spend $50,000 to replace the chairs. See what I mean about incentive? And since the old chairs were potentially dangerous the boys in legal made the moving company throw them all away. They couldn’t be given to charities because of the possible liability. Now I ask you: How many of you have seen or even heard of anyone tilting back a swivel chair and crashing to the floor and suing their employer for unsafe seating arrangements?

So without the slightest danger of over-tilting I leaned back, pulled the eyeshade down to my nose, closed my eyes and started thinking about how I would approach my newest assignment. It didn’t take long to work out a number of approaches. Unlike my esteemed editor I actually did have contacts in the city. Over the years I had probably talked to half the city’s population and nearly every cop above and below the rank of corporal. I knew aldermen, city staffers, fixers and ward healers. I played cards with firemen, stood on strike lines with the garbage collectors and tipped more doormen and cabbies than I care to remember. There were three restaurants I could eat at where you had to be either made, known or connected to get past the door. Mob bosses bought me dinner. Why, you ask? Easy. My old man was a reporter back in the day. In the summer and during school holidays when I was a younger man Dad used to take me with him on his rounds of the city. I didn’t think to ask him why everyone was nice to us until I was maybe seventeen. I was sort of confused that we would eat lunch with a beat cop and six hours later we were having dinner at Rosario’s (which I knew from the age of 15 was mobbed up). My old man never really answered my question but one evening he got a call about a hotel fire and asked Donnie Tutuccio if I could stay at the restaurant until he came back and got me. While the old man was gone I asked Donnie Toots (that was his street name) how come my dad was welcomed everywhere. I still remember what he said:

Charlie, you gotta understand that there are many ways ta live your life and make a buck. Me, I do what I gotta do. So does Eddie the cop what walks his beat here. I give Eddie a free lunch, he don’t watch too close when friends park too long outside, unnerstand? Now don’t get the wrong idea. If Eddie were to see the driver of one a them cars shoot someone he wouldn’t think twice about puttin’ them in jail or icing him. And I wouldna go to Eddie and give him a roll a cash so’s he would get amnesia at the trial. It’s respect, Charlie. Everyone gots respect for your poppa. See, he’s in a position to really hurt people, some of them who are good 99% of the time. But he don’t. He looks at the whole picture, the whole man. But if it’s something really bad your old man will report it. But here’s the catch, kid: Your old man don’t take no cheap shots. He don’t make a big deal outta stuff, he don’t sensationalize it or make conclusions. He reports what he knows to be true. He checks his story before it gets printed and people, they see that. He don’t hang a story out in the paper just to see what reaction it will get, see? If he reports it then you know it’s true. It’s respect, Charlie. Your old man gots respect all across the board. Somethin’ else, too: You could give him a piece of information and never worry what that he would tell anyone where it come from. He is one tight-lipped guy. Maybe that’s why he no tell you what you ask. He can’t be bought, your old man. You may hear Sal say no charge when it comes to paying the bill here. But your poppa always manages to return the favor when you ain’t lookin’. Maybe he no gives you money direct, but he donates to charities here and helps the neighborhood when he thinks no one is lookin’. But there are no secrets in Little Italy, Charlie, and what your old man does gets remembered. You unnerstand what I tell you? Good, cause now is your chance to be like your poppa: you no tell him what we talked about, okay? This is just between us friends. And Charlie, if you become half the man your poppa is you gonna be a success.

Okay, maybe that isn’t exactly what Donnie Toots said. Who the hell remembers a conversation word for word you had when you were in your teens? But it’s close enough for this journal. I don’t know if I became half the man my dad was, bless his soul, but I sure as hell remembered what Donnie told me that night, and not just because he was a made man in the Laguario organization, and high up the ladder at that. I could see the respect in his eyes when he spoke of my dad, and I remember thinking that I wanted people to have that look in their eyes when they talked about me. Donnie Tutuccio lived long enough for me to see that same look when he spoke about me, and I treasure it. Donnie Toots was capped about fifteen years later coming out of a rib joint. I spent two months digging for information on my own dime and finally I led the authorities to the perp, a two-bit gun for hire. They stood him up for Murder One and years later he was put down by the state like the mercenary dog he was. Of course the authorities never found out who hired him, and neither did I. But Donnie would have understood that.

not exact but the idea is

So given the subject matter, I figured that my first foray wouldn’t be to the underworld but rather to the local precincts where the deeds had been done. No cop liked vigilantes; it showed them up and caught the imagination of the public. Never mind all the muggers the cops caught or robberies they foiled. It was always the one that got away that the public fixated on. Since three precincts were involved I would have to visit each in turn, read the official report and then talk to the first officer on the scene and then talk to the victims. It was going to take time but like I said, I was on salary and glad to get the hell out of the office and out from under the glare of the fluorescent lighting. I notated into my computer that I was leaving the office. I had learned the hard way to keep records of my coming and goings (my dear boss loved to try to establish that I wasn’t working my hours). So with a bright smile and a clear conscience I grabbed my laptop and headed out.

forgot how much fun Donnie Toots was

Chapter 3

The 23rd precinct was within walking distance so I headed there first. It took time to reach the man I needed to talk to since I had to say hello to nearly every uniform that was in the station. Not that I minded; most of them were good people but it sucked up time like you wouldn’t believe. I finally made it to Sergeant O’Reilly’s office and plopped myself down in the wooden chair by his desk. O’Reilly didn’t even look up.

Charlie, I’ve got six cases I’m shepherding, a friggin’ ton of paperwork and much as I like you I’d really wish you would go the hell away.

Ahh, now Dennis me lad, is that any way ta speak? And me with all tha good intentions in the world, an’ me poor self just wishin’ for a wee bit o’ yer time? O’Reilly looked up at me, grim and hard, but just couldn’t hold it and laughed.

Jesus, you and that goddam accent! You used that on my mother last Christmas and she’s still laughing. What the hell do you want? I’m not kidding—I’m really busy.

Denny, how are you? Nice to see you, too. No, don’t get up. A man of your age should sit as much as possible. Now I laughed. Denny, I got put on a so-called vigilante case. No one’s working it and it looks like no one is turning it into a serial non-crime.

Dammit, I knew it. I could tell by that apologetic air hanging around you. What do you want to dig around in this for?

I didn’t ask for it; I was assigned. Come on, you know I’ll treat your guys right. Who better to write it than me? No cheap headlines at the department’s expense.

I know Charlie, I know. I was just hopin’ the whole thing would die down. No matter how much good we do it’s never enough. Hell, maybe you can find this guy and convince him to let us do our job. What do you want from me?

Not much. I want to read the report and talk to whoever responded to the call. Yours was the second incident but the closest to the Herald so I walked over here first. I’ll talk to the victims, and then repeat the process at the 11th and the 9th. Once I get a better picture overall I might be able to piece the similarities together and get a fix on the guy. There have only been three official reports on this guy. There could be some that were never called in. Who knows? But my paper is paying for me to snoop and I know you haven’t had much heat from upstairs to get this guy. Otherwise you would have assigned a team. You haven’t assigned a team, have you?

No team assigned. Not even a rookie just outta the academy. Yeah, yeah, I know. I don’t have the manpower to use on this even if the man upstairs called me. It’s a sad day when the city has to rely on a reporter to solve a crime.

London’s Scotland Yard made use of Sherlock Holmes all the time, Denny.

Yeah, and he made them out to be fools in the process. I don’t care to play Inspector LeStrade to your Sherlock. And Holmes wasn’t a reporter. But at least I don’t have to worry about being made a fool, do I, Charlie?

Come on, Denny. You know better than that.

I do, I do. Go see Ben or Phil. They have the paper on this. Now go away and leave me to my misery.

Thanks, Denny. I owe you one.

And don’t think I won’t remember to collect, either! Go!

Ben wasn’t in but Phil Carnes was. We caught up on current events between us and then got down to business: Phil, I need to see the report on that attempted robbery last week in the east end off of Casey Street. You and Ben caught it on the wheel.

people know what the wheel is?

Yep, that was ours. Say, you clear this with Denny? Aw, of course you did. Let me dig it out of Ben’s cabinet. Phil rummaged around until he came up with a slender file folder. This is all we got. Kinda thin but it was really a non-event.

I read the findings of the case, jotted a note or two to myself and handed the file back to Phil. Can you sort of fill in the blanks for me? Impressions, thoughts, that sort of thing? You have the time? It never hurt to be nice, and Phil was a nice guy.

Hey, I’m a public servant, ain’t I? What can I say? Let me look at the file to get current. Phil scanned the paperwork and started in: Radio got the call at what, 2040 hours, and me and Ben were up on the wheel so we drove on down to Casey. There was a black and white already at the scene and we were wondering why we was called in. The uniforms, let’s see, it was . . . Petrowski and Bloom, they said for us to just interview the victim. We started to argue but Bloom says just talk to the guy fer Christ’s sake. Petrowski just looked at us and smiled. I hadda feeling he was setting us up so I told him to go get a Polish sausage and leave the detectin’ to the adults so they split.

By this time the victim is doin’ good and we don’t see no signs of shock or anything, and he ain’t really hurt. We introduced ourselves and asked him, his name was Brynner, what went down. He, Brynner, says he was headin’ home from work. I stopped him right there and said that it was kinda late and he says he stopped off at Kelso’s for a beer or two which he always does since its payday. I asked the obvious and he said he had about two boilermakers while he was there. So the guy ain’t exactly drunk but he does have a buzz on I figure but I didn’t put that in our report. Anyway, Brynner’s just walkin’ home and he says he notices but don’t pay attention really to the fact that there is a streetlight out and that’s where he gets it. He says he been livin’ in the city all his life and is careful but with the three drinks he ain’t thinkin’ so much about his wallet as he is about watchin’ TV in his Barkolounger. Next thing he knows he got two young PRs coming toward him and he knows he’s in the crap. The area is fairly dark and there’s nobody around but the two PRs and him. Well, he don’t want to get cut so before they even ask he’s diggin’ for his wallet, only one of the perps thinks he’s reaching for a weapon so he pulls a blade. Luckily by now Brynner has his wallet out and just throws it on the ground in front of the perps and tells them to just take it. Sounds like an everyday robbery, right? Well, here’s where it gets hinkey. Phil just looked at me, smiled, and continued:

The PR what had the knife just held it out at Brynner to keep him at bay while the other one bends down to pick up the wallet. Brynner says just as he bends down outta nowhere comes somebody and kicks the guy in the ass and he skids face-down along five feet of cement. While that one is feeling the pain the somebody comes up on the other one and brings his knife arm up and around and behind the PR’s back and the perp drops the knife, mainly ‘cause Brynner says the somebody broke the PR’s arm. He knows it’s broke cause he heard it snap. The unknown somebody then pushes the PR away from him and the perp falls over the other one who is still on the ground looking for a tooth or two and about a yard of skin. The vigilante is standin’ between the PRs and the victim and when they get up he just points for them to get out, which they did in a big hurry accordin’ to Brynner. The mystery somebody picks up Brynner’s wallet, hands it over to Brynner along with the knife, gives a little bow for Christ’s sake, and vanishes into the night like a goddam vampire. Again, according to Brynner. That’s the story.

What kind of physical description did Brynner give you? I asked.

About the perps? A pretty good one. They got picked up the next day sittin’ like two day-old muffins in the emergency room at St. Stephens.

No, I mean our good Samaritan.

Oh, we got crap there. The guy was wearing a black or dark blue hoodie and sweatpants, dark shoes, maybe, probably, boots, and gloves. He never said a word and it was too dark to tell if he had facial hair. Brynner did say that the guy didn’t seem to be bulked up, like his moves were more smooth than all muscle. He wasn’t really tall, either, maybe 5 feet 5 inches to 5 feet 7.

So we have a non-body builder, slightly less than average height, quiet, good Samaritan who appears out of nowhere, disables two would-be robbers, and then disappears into the night. This guy should be really easy to find.

Hey, it ain’t my fault. If the guy had a sword we could call him the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Phil, don’t even think that out loud! Can you see what a paper like mine could do with a label like that? Or, God forbid, the Enquirer?

Hey, you know how this stuff goes. Sooner or later the good guy gets in over his head and it’s his ass that gets kicked. And who gets to clean up that mess, I ask you? The boys in blue, that’s who.

Maybe with a little luck I can find the guy before he gets hurt. I’m going to talk to Brynner and see if he remembers anything else. If he does and it’s important I’ll call you and leave the info for your file. Thanks for the time, Phil. Tell Ben what I’m doing so he doesn’t feel left out.

Hey, just find the guy before he gets himself killed or even seriously wounded, okay? See ya in the funny papers.

I still had time before it was too late to go visiting so I picked up my car and made my way over to Tom Brynner’s home address. I passed Kelso’s Pub on the way and looked at the scene where the attempted holdup occurred. Evidently the streetlight had been reported and repaired for the street now had no dark spots. I parked and knocked on Brynner’s door and he let me in after I produced my newspaper ID and my courtesy card from the city police. Tom Brynner was a typical working stiff, late forties, wife, no kids at home. We talked about the incident and he really had little to add in the way of information that was helpful. The only thing he told me that might be of interest was that he couldn’t put his finger on it but he felt that there was something strange about the guy. Just what he had no idea—just a feeling. I thanked him for his time and in closing cautioned him to keep the details of his mysterious benefactor to himself. He said his friends thought he must have been drunk so they didn’t believe him anyway. I thanked him again and left.

Before leaving the neighborhood I walked back to Kelso’s Pub and luckily caught the same bartender that had served Brynner.