The dark, short-haired officer, dressed in his standard issue navy blue uniform of the Los Angeles Police Department, reviewed the documents in front of him. John Harrison pursed his mustached lips as he recalled the details of the Don Vicente bust last night. It still amazed him that he and his K-9 partner, Striker, had managed to take him down. He glanced at the floor where the large Arcanine snoozed quietly. Striker had saved his life several times and he smiled to himself at his good fortune by having him by his side. Later today, they were going to be awarded Medals of Honor by the mayor. He could not help but to smile.

As Harrison filled out the report form on the bust, he knew that he could be interrupted at any moment, since he was covering the front desk.

The desk itself was a dark mahogany color that was on a raised dais almost a foot above the main floor, so that the officer would have to look down at the person to discuss whatever the problem might be. So, he was pretty sure this high traffic spot would not let him get much of his report done. But he was needed there, so he did not complain.

A couple walked in and looked about a bit nervously. The young looking woman was dressed in a professional looking outfit: navy blue blazer, matching mid-thigh skirt, white blouse, nylons, and black high heels. She also had dark rimmed glasses and fiery red hair, which was tied into a tight bun. The older looking man was dressed in a simple dark gray suit, white shirt and black tie. His hair was a salt and pepper color, but more salt. His moustache and goatee matched his hair color. They kept looking around at all the policemen, detectives and various people being interviewed, both citizens and criminals, then they saw Harrison sitting at the front desk.

The couple tentatively approached the front desk while Harrison wrote down some notes. The man coughed politely to get his attention. The cop looked up from what he was doing, not looking too pleased, but not upset either.

"May I help you?"

"We, ah," the man started, looking at the woman, who returned the look. He looked back to the officer, his voice filled with a light uncertainty. "We ah, need to talk to someone."

"Well, I'm right here," Harrison replied, looking a bit annoyed now, but noting that the man’s voice sounded much younger than his apparent age. He guessed him to be wearing a costume of some sort, even though Halloween was a number of months away.

"Yes, er, we can see that," he stammered, trying to compose himself as he appeared to be wrestling with some inner demon. The woman seemed to know what he was thinking and took up the reins.

"We wish to see Giovanni go to jail," she blurted out. She took another breath, trying to calm her nerves. "He tried to kill us."

At that moment, an Arcanine leaped up with both front paws landing on the desk. Several small streams of fire jetted out of his nose, as though that name inspired some sort of hatred within the almost regal hellhound. The officer turned on the pokémon.

"Striker, get down. Now!"

The pokémon complied and went back to being on all fours. He then turned to his other side and called across the room.

"Jenny! We've got a couple of kids who want to talk about Giovanni."

”Thanks Harrison,” replied a slim brown-haired woman also dressed in the uniform of LAPD’s finest. Harrison stepped away from the desk as she came over to talk with the disguised couple. He looked back to his report.

”I know you two," she said, leaning on the front desk, her eyes narrowing a bit at them and her voice dropping. "Jessie James! You're Jessie and James of Team Rocket!"

Before Harrison could turn and listen to the conversation, another voice called to him.

”Harrison! I’d like to talk to you.”

The man who said that, Detective Jack Werden, was a gruff and heavy-set man, dressed in a simple gray suit, white shirt and dark blue tie. His badge was clipped to his belt and his .38 strapped to his left hip holster. His only encounter with him was over a girl named Anne Delane, who was a critical witness in identifying a key suspect named Dario “El Perro” Villalobos. El Perro had forced Delane to do hardcore prostitution after his henchmen had kidnapped her. It was Werden’s case and Harrison got her to give him information about El Perro. El Perro was found and killed in a raid when they tried to arrest him. This led to don Vicente Villalobos, his uncle, to declare war on the LAPD, killing sixteen officers including Janice Parker and her Growlithe partner, Jackson. But a tip on his location in Los Angeles led to don Vicente’s arrest and brought down the Dark Wolves crime ring.

So that case was a bit of a sore point with Werden. Harrison got the information and he did not.

Harrison stood up and gestured for another officer to watch the front desk, as Jenny escorted the badly disguised duo to an interrogation room. He and Striker weaved through the maze of desks and chairs, eventually reaching Werden’s office. The detective closed the door behind them. As Harrison grabbed a chair to sit in and Striker pulled up some floor space for himself, he glanced around the cramped, messy office. Behind Werden’s chair were two overstuffed filing cabinets. To the left, a small table with more files, some random papers on the floor, and an overflowing trash can in the corner next to the door.

Harrison was sure that he had to be the biggest slob he had ever met that was employed by the LAPD.

Werden sat down at his desk, pushing a few papers aside. He moved a very thick folder to the middle of his desk. From within this massive folder, he pulled out a smaller folder which Harrison saw labeled as “Summary Report” and a case number.

”How have things been since Villalobos was busted?” asked Werden, his tone was cordial, but professional.

”It’s…been fine,” Harrison replied, a little surprised by the question. “The reporters have been camped outside of my hotel room, since my apartment is being fixed for the door that was shot out by those Dark Wolf assassins. I don’t know what else they expect.” He smirked a bit. “Maybe they’ll start asking Striker some questions about breaking up the Dark Wolves.”

”Ah, the media vultures,” chuckled Werden. “I’ve hated those bastards since the O.J. Simpson Trial. Anyway, let’s get down to business. Harrison, the reason that I’ve asked you into my office is that you’re being assigned to a special project…and being partnered with me as well.”

Werden watched Harrison for a reaction. Harrison simply blinked and looked quite surprised. Werden smirked at him.

”Yeah, that was my reaction too. However, you’ll be sharpening your detective skills and dressing accordingly.” Werden pulled on his tie a couple times to emphasize his point. “But, since you’re still a beat cop, you’ll get to keep your K-9 partner.”

Harrison blinked again, still in a bit of shock as Werden handed him the small folder. On the front, he read “Summary Report – Case No. 812435.” Opening the folder showed mostly statistical data. His eyes scanned the information, then he blinked a few times in surprise. He looked at Werden.

”This can’t possibly be right.”

”It is. This ‘Angel of Vengeance’ has been around for about four years. He’s quite the hero too: stopped robberies, stopped muggings, rescued hostages, saved girls from prostitution, even captured rapists, gang thugs and murderers. Read a little further down.”

Harrison did so. His mouth fell open after a couple minutes. He looked at the detective again.

”He’s committed 857 acts of assault and battery?!”

”Yeah…it doesn’t mention the hundreds of thousands of dollars of property damage – which usually comes out of the owner’s pocket because no insurance company is going to believe that some winged freak destroyed their store or home.”

”Winged freak?” Harrison said in disbelief. “C’mon, you’ve got to be pulling my leg now. Where’s the hidden camera?” He tried to get him to laugh it off.

Werden only shook his head, which then prompted Harrison to stop laughing and read further. He read the description of the Angel of Vengeance aloud.

“’A possibly Hispanic male, early twenties, stands between five foot four to six feet tall, wears a loose sleeved white ninja-type outfit, may have black hair, but dark brown eyes are confirmed. No other facial features are discernable through the facemask. Has been witnessed to do the following: sprout wings and fly away, show displays of immense strength…’ ” Harrison looked at Werden who held up a black and white photograph. It showed three men sitting on the ground with their backs to each other. Wrapped around all of them was a large steel beam. Harrison was floored by it.

”It took over an hour for the fire department to cut the I-beam,” said Werden.

Harrison kept reading the list. His mind was racing.

”’Becomes invisible, runs very fast and…is bulletproof’?”

”That last one,” remarked Werden, “isn’t completely accurate. It seems that he creates some sort of shield that catches the bullets and then they just fall to the floor.”

Harrison arched a brow, then re-read the last item. Then he re-read it again, just to make sure it was right.

”He electrocuted an escaping rapist by calling down lightning on a clear night?!”

”There’s the real winner of the bunch,” Werden said sourly. “It’s a miracle the guy lived. The paramedics that treated him said it looked like something went into his chest and through his foot. They knew that from all the melted rubber and burnt foam from the sneakers. His leg had to be amputated below the knee because the lightning had literally cooked his leg like a turkey drumstick from the inside.”

Harrison was awestruck by this as he handed the folder back to Werden. Werden sat back down after getting the folder from him, letting out a sigh of exasperation.

“You know,” started Werden, “I thought I was doing well in the department and get handed this shit from brass. I really hate political posturing.”

Harrison looked at him, but his expression had not changed. Werden smirked at him.

“But I’m not worried,” Werden smirked, “they say I’m not a bad detective. Mayor Riordan caught wind of the weird happenings and sightings in Los Angeles about some winged angel that's scaring the crap out of people. This is apart from the obvious criminal acts this guy’s done.”

“Well,” Harrison responded, looking rather uncertain, “why me then? I don’t have much experience in this at all.”

“You have better people skills than I do,” the detective replied flatly. “You see, I can talk to them, get some information, but I’m more into busting the scumbag, than having nice chit-chat and tea. They feel that you might be able to get more information out of the witnesses. The key factor was when you talked to that Delane girl, even though you didn’t talk to me first about that, since she was my case.”

“I said I was sorry about that,” replied Harrison, his lips pursed irritably.

“I know,” Werden said, smiling a bit. “I’m just busting your chops. I’m the one who told them about your people skills.” He stood up and extended a hand to him. “Welcome aboard.”

Harrison turned a bit red and smiled some as he shook hands with the detective. As they sat back down, Harrison spoke up.

“What’s the first thing we do?”

“We wait,” he responded. “This Angel of Vengeance operates in the wee hours of the morning and usually in the downtown area. But sometimes he makes his way to some of the surrounding areas, so maybe we’ll catch a lucky break and see him.”

“So be sure to dress warmly. It gets cold at night.”

”Bitch, if you don’t get your ass back to that wall over there, I’m gonna knock out your fuckin’ teeth and sell you as the Blow Job Queen. Now, get your ass back over there!”

The young black girl, dressed in a tight red vinyl top and matching miniskirt, turned and walked back to the wall with the other prostitutes. She did not say anything, but her steely glare spoke volumes about how much she loathed Darryl, but she dared not say anything because he would do exactly as he threatened.

Darryl Washington watched her walk away, enjoying her young hips tilt back and forth, while her firm round ass molded nicely inside her miniskirt. At age twenty-four, he had already been in and out of prison a half dozen times; most of them before he was eighteen, so the Three Strikes law did not apply. He might as well have been tried as an adult for the drug possession, the intent to sell, and the multiple assault and battery charges he had done time for. Now, he was “an aspiring entrepreneur, marketing in human satisfaction.” His “employees” were young girls he threatened, beat, raped and even strung out on drugs to keep them in line.

He looked around at his “work environment.” He could not have picked a better spot. He had the girls lined up along the side wall of the Hollywood Cabaret. On the left was a liquor store and on the right, a rundown motel. The johns leave the liquor store with some cheap wine or beer, pick out a girl and cruise over to the motel for fifteen minutes – rarely longer than that. Some even skip the alcohol altogether, having endured the frustrations of the “no-touch” rule of the Hollywood Cabaret lap dancers. He saw it all the time. It was easy money and he loved to make money.

Other black entrepreneurs, in more legitimate industries, would not share in his enthusiasm or how he measured success. Given he was currently dressed in thick sweats due to the chill of the night, and thus, not a picture of success, he was saving up to buy his second BMW. He already had enough gold jewelry for himself and a few Armani suits. This was “value-added” with the stable of girls he could bang anytime he wanted. This entire operation was kept in a large apartment about four blocks away. He had soundproofed the walls, so that his activities there would go unheard and, more importantly, unreported.

He felt like he was on top of the world and he smiled to himself as he saw another potential customer approach him.

”What can I delight you in this evening?” he said, his voice rather friendly, but not loud, not wanting to draw attention to himself other than from the customer.

The customer looked about seventy years old with straggly white hair, liver-spotted skin on his spindly legs, old sandals, and an old beige trench coat. It was apparent to him that the old man was not wearing any clothes underneath. While Darryl had not seen him before, he was sure he had money. He could always sniff it out. It was that and the intensity of his dark eyes that told him that the old man meant business.

”I’m interested in some white pussy,” the old man’s voice crackled. “Ya got any of that?”

”Of course I do,” Darryl replied, confident in obtaining another sale, “provided you got the bread for one.”

The old man pulled a gnarled white hand from his trench coat pocket. In it, he had a fifty-dollar bill. Darryl simply smiled.

”Right this way,” he said, holding out his arm like a gracious host at a fine party to where the girls were standing. The two men walked over to the row of girls, who quickly primped themselves up to be selected. Darryl called out the two white girls and had them step forward. The old man leered at them long and hard. One was a fairly chesty blonde in white spandex pants and top, with matching high heels and showing off plenty of midriff. The other was a young brunette and rather pretty, but lacking some of the feminine development of her blonde counterpart. She was dressed in a black latex miniskirt and a short dark blue t-shirt that just stopped below her breasts. She also wore black four inch spiked heels, giving her a more statuesque appearance.

The old pervert really seemed to be enjoying himself as he gazed lustfully between the two girls. Just as Darryl was about to urge him to pick one, he nodded to the brunette. His voice cackled with glee and lust.

”I want her.”

”An excellent choice,” Darryl said, as he accepted the money from the old man. The brunette smiled brightly and walked with the old man to the motel next door, making idle chatter along the way. Upon reaching the door to the room, she pulled out a key from her little purse and unlocked it, letting them both in. Once the door was closed, her demeanor immediately changed, becoming very stern and professional.

“Okay, here’s how it goes. No weird, kinky stuff. No drugs. No oversized foreign objects.”

The old man smirked a bit and then narrowed his eyes at her. He put his hands together and muttered a few words. Pentagrams on the backs of his hands appeared and glowed a fierce red. The visage of the old man disappeared into mist, revealing his true form.

“Holy shit,” was all the girl could say as she stared wide-eyed at him. “I thought you weren’t real.”

He did not reply. Instead, he pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his belt, opened it, and showed her the picture. “Is this you?”

She looked at it. It was a flyer for a missing girl. The picture showed an innocent girl of fourteen, smiling and happy about being a freshman in high school. Her name was Rachel Black.

The sixteen year-old turned a lower lip up where it quivered in regret. She wished she had not run away and now wanted to be with her parents. She nodded quickly and looked at him right in the eye. A glimmer of hope shone there.

“Good,” he replied as he put the paper away. “You’re going to promise me something. When your pimp is busted, you are going to testify against him.”

“What?! I—I can’t do that,” she said with fear creeping into her response.

“You have to do this or he’ll keep doing it to other girls. Like he’s doing to your friends who walk the streets with you or he’ll find some new girls to replace you – like your sister.”

The girl cringed at that, folding her arms over herself like she was cold. Her stare matched how she felt.

“How did you know I have a sister?”

“I do my homework,” the vigilante replied, then his voice became firm. “Do you want this to happen to her?”

She stared at him a long moment; two intense gazes locked onto each other. But he won out. She looked down and shook her head.

“Good. I want you to call the police as soon as I leave. Tell them that your pimp is getting his ass kicked by me and where it’s happening. Once you’ve done that and they say they’re on their way, I want you to round up the other girls and convince them to testify. The more girls you convince, the longer the scum stays in jail.”

Rachel nodded as the Angel drew a card from his sleeve and put his hands together. The pentagrams glowed a fiery red as he focused his power.

“Warrior Strength,” he murmured and his body expanded and tightly fit into his outfit. With that, he darted out the door to take down the pimp. For a minute, she was in shock of what she saw, then remembered to call the police.

Nearby, in a blue unmarked police car, Werden and Harrison cruised the streets of Hollywood’s red light districts while Striker sat in the back seat. Harrison was now dressed in a navy blazer, gray pants and white dress shirt. Covering all that was a simple black trench coat. His badge hung around his neck in necklace form.

Suddenly, the CB radio crackled and a woman’s voice came over the speaker.

”Attention all units and JW1969. 240 in progress at the Hollywood Cabaret near Hollywood and Vine. Address 6315 Hollywood Boulevard. The Angel of Vengeance has been sighted.”

The cops looked at each other, then Harrison placed the red flashing light on top of the car as Werden floored it.

”Looks like we got lucky tonight. That address is right around the corner,” remarked Werden. Harrison said nothing as he picked up the CB and pressed the button to talk.

“Dispatch, this is JW1969 responding Code 3 to the 240 at the Hollywood Cabaret. ETA – three minutes. Immediate backup is requested. Subject is extremely dangerous. I repeat, the subject is extremely dangerous.”

”Roger JW1969,” Dispatch replied, “copy on back-up request. They’re on their way.”

Darryl found himself thrown against the plaster wall of the liquor store for the third time. Even in his daze, Darryl knew this was going to go down badly. He finally managed to throw a punch at the vigilante, but he caught the fist. The Angel squeezed strongly; forcing Darryl’s fingers to fit into spots they were not supposed to fit. Darryl screamed in pain as his index and middle fingers broke and the skin of his palm split open to allow entry of his fingertips.

The vigilante glanced quickly at the girls who cowered together along the wall of the Cabaret. They all watched him fearfully, not sure if they would be his next victim or he would assume command of them. At that moment, Rachel rounded the corner to where the other girls were and quickly explained the situation. He was here to save them, but they had to testify against Darryl.

He turned his attention back to the pimp who was writhing in agony. Now he needed to finish the job.

With the pimp’s bleeding fist still in his hand, he directed his hand up and over his head and twisted it. Darryl yelled in greater agony now that his arm was bent behind him. The Angel continued his motion, gripping Darryl’s wrist with his other hand and bringing him around, like he was swinging a baseball bat. The vigilante swung hard and let the pimp fly into the wall. There was a very audible thud and crumbling of plaster as a sizeable dent was made from Darryl’s back. Darryl’s limp body dropped to the ground feet first, then fell face first onto the asphalt.

He could hear the sirens blaring now. They were close. He drew his Flight card quickly and muttered the incantation to release its power. The mists swirled around him and the wings formed. Harrison, Werden and Striker arrived on the scene, loudly screeching to a halt. Harrison jumped out and opened the door for Striker.

”Striker! Charge and take down! Go! Go! Go!” commanded Harrison.

The large pokémon bolted towards the vigilante with remarkable speed, but the vigilante had already drawn another card. The card depicted a medieval soldier hiding behind a large wood and metal shield as numerous arrows bounced off it. The banner below it simply read: DEFLECTION. The dark hero incanted the card and new mists quickly formed a large opaque shield about four feet in diameter. Striker leaped at the vigilante to take him down, but he pulled back his arm and swung the shield, clouting the pokémon with a powerful backhand. Striker yelped in pain as he bounced and rolled away from the vigilante, almost back to Harrison’s feet. Both of the cops looked at winged man, drew their pistols and opened fire. The Angel crouched low, keeping the shield in front of him. Bullets struck the shield and unceremoniously fell to the ground. The policemen stopped shooting; Werden having run of out bullets in his revolver and Harrison with a half of a clip to go.

The vigilante took this opportunity to leap into the air and flap hard to escape. He ascended quickly and everyone just watched him fly higher and higher. The cops were awestruck by this, but Harrison managed to shake it off and saw that Striker was back on his feet. He gave the command, pointing skyward.

”Striker! Flame blast! Flame blast!”

Striker looked in the direction his master pointed to and saw the flying man. The regal hellhound sucked in some air to build up his attack. The smell of smoke and brimstone filled his partner’s nostrils. Exhaling with great force, Striker unleashed a massive fireball at the vigilante. The fireball rocketed into the sky as a meteor would fall to the earth. The Angel braced for impact as the fireball exploded on the shield, briefly lighting up the night sky. The shield faded away from the damage it took, but the dark hero kept flying higher.

Harrison saw an opportunity. He got down on one knee, took aim and emptied the remainder of his clip at the vigilante. The Angel dipped and rolled to avoid the bullets, then drew out another card. Harrison kept an eye on him as he switched out the clips in his gun. Werden was reloading his pistol as well, but not watching the sky. The vigilante spoke the words on the new card, which simply depicted a white arrow pointing to the top of the card. The banner read: ARROW OF LIGHT. The pentagrams glowed red once again and the card took on a very bright white luminosity. Harrison did not like the looks of this.

Suddenly, a ball of light blasted forth, heading straight for the pokémon. Harrison barely had enough time to react due to its blazing speed. Harrison tackled his partner to get him out of the way and pinned him to the ground. The white ball of light zipped past his head and crashed into their unmarked car, leaving a gaping hole about four inches in diameter in the right passenger door. Harrison glanced through the hole and saw another one in the left passenger door. He could now clearly see the street.

”Harrison, stay down! It’s coming back!!”

Harrison barely got a look at it before it slammed into the ground near his left leg, and then bounced away. It was not so much that it did that, but it kept doing that. He felt the vibrations of the high speed glowing ball of light slamming into the ground around his legs. He was sure that if he moved wrong, he would lose a limb or something, but he needed to escape. Fear set in as the pounding continued around and in between his legs. He had already let go of Striker, who could only bark fiercely at the speeding white ball. Werden was just as powerless to do anything. The tension mounted in Harrison’s mind as there was a brief pause. Maybe it was over.

Suddenly, a high-pitched whistling reached everyone’s ears and the volume increased dramatically. Harrison covered his head once more as the Arrow of Light slammed into the ground - right between his legs. He could feel his groin jump and shirk away from the point of impact as he cussed loudly. He shook visibly, wishing to God it was over.

The Arrow of Light quickly returned to its master, who arrogantly smiled under his facemask and continued to fly away. Werden cussed quietly as he shook his head in disbelief and saw why Harrison was shaking so hard.

The Arrow of Light had outlined Harrison’s legs with four-inch wide, six-inch deep potholes in the sidewalk. There was an especially larger and deeper hole just south of his groin

The two policemen and the pokémon sat tiredly in the large break room back at the police station. Other cops milled through once in a while to pick up some coffee or get a snack from the vending machine. Striker could be heard snoring quietly on the floor. The two men stared into space. The events of the night replaying in their minds.

”Can’t fucking believe that,” Werden started, his voice stern, but his exhaustion was evident.

”You and me both,” Harrison glanced up, his eyes were red with a dogged tiredness. He was not used to being up at 4:30 in the morning. He paused for a long moment, then continued, ”Maybe we’re going at this all wrong. Perhaps finding out who he is may help us out here.”

”We’ve tried that. Several thugs actually managed to hit him, so some of his blood had been left behind. The crime lab pegged some genetic markers and that’s how we know he’s a Hispanic in his mid-20’s.” He paused a moment. “There wasn’t anything remarkable about the blood either, except that the level of electrolytes was exceedingly high.”

Harrison nodded. It made sense. With what he saw tonight, having extra electrical energy in the blood did not surprise him at all. But how did he get like that? he thought.

”You know,” Harrison said, “for the ten years I’ve been on the force, there’s always been a reason – a motive, that drives the perp to do what he does. So…mysticism aside, why does he do it? What drives him?”

”Usually,” Werden replied after pondering a moment, “vigilantes have a sense of justice and want to do the right thing. However, this sense of justice isn’t always on track with the laws and normally, it’s more of a profound sense of vengeance than justice…justice in the mind of the guy who kills his ex-wife’s lover or the woman that sets his ex-boyfriend’s car on fire like in that Angela Basset movie, whatever it was called.” Werden smirked a bit, then continued, “But any shrink would probably tell you that something like this is caused by some traumatic event in early childhood or some psychobabble like that. You know, that ‘get in touch with your inner child’ bullshit.”

The two cops chuckle a bit, then Werden continues. “But even if that was the case, we’re pretty damn lucky he hasn’t killed anyone yet.”

”I don’t know…I don’t think he will,” replied Harrison. “I mean, he could’ve killed me easily. He was very accurate.” He shifted uncomfortably, remembering how close the ball of light came to his groin. “If he had that sort of disregard for life, he would’ve blown us away – even killed the people he’s beaten up.” Werden nodded in agreement, now feeling like they might be getting somewhere with this.

”Maybe some historical digging will produce some answers,” Harrison said, his eyes focused on the far corner of the table, his mind racing with ideas now. “I mean, what we saw tonight had to have taken some practice. No one who can do that can be that skilled unless they practice.”

”Sounds like a plan, Harrison,” Werden said, slowly standing up now. “The Records Room is downstairs, one floor above the morgue. I’ll look into area of attacks and see if there’s a central area that he might be based out of. That sonofabitch is going down.”

Harrison pursed his lips some as Werden left the break room. Research was not a strong point of his. Maybe someone down there could help him. He stood up to leave and smiled at Striker, who was already sitting on his haunches. The pokémon panted quietly as Harrison scratched him between his ears, then followed his master out of the break room and downstairs to the Records Room.

“Okay, that’s it, John. You’re all set to go,” said Officer Pamela Espion. She reset her thick, dark-rimmed glasses on her nose, and then pulled her medium length black hair back behind her ear again. She smiled a bit nervously. It was not too often that anyone came down here at this hour, much less Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome and his big dog, Spot. And they were all alone in the wee hours of the morning. Who knows what sorts of things could happen between the large stacks of --

”Great, Pam, thanks. I appreciate the help,” Harrison replied, offering a small, but friendly smile.

”Oh,” she blinked, then grinned, her cheeks becoming a bit flush on her olive complexion, “you-you’re welcome. Just…holler if you need anything.” She turned and walked away quickly; the heat in her face had become unbearable. Striker and Harrison watched the slender woman walk away, then behind a filing cabinet to her desk. Harrison glanced at his canine partner, who in turn looked back at him. Striker gave a low growl to which Harrison smirked.

”Yeah, yeah, I know. I need a date,” he murmured.”

Striker wagged his tail some, then Harrison turned back to the computer to get to work. Carefully finger tapping the keyboard, he typed:

        find white ninja vigilante

Pressing the Enter key, the screen paused then scrolled a list of ten newspaper articles. Harrison’s eyes flickered to the top of the screen.

        Found 10 of 2374 articles

”Thanks Werden,” he grumbled, pursing his lips. He knew again why he disliked doing research. He did not do that well in high school with it nor at the police academy and he probably was not going to do well here. But he pondered a moment, trying to pick out details of his encounter with the vigilante.

Let’s see, he thought, white ninja type outfit, Hispanic, just under six feet tall, uses playing cards…

He knew this was not helping. Most of it was already in the file. So what stuck out? The cards were the source somehow. Witnesses reported him pulling them before he would beat the crap out of someone. The same thing happened tonight. A hand went into the sleeve, pulled out a card, there was a red glow and bang, The White Fast Ball of Groin Death.

Red glow?

He remembered now. There were two bright red spots on the backs of his hands. His brow furrowed on that. That information was not in the file. Maybe the mainframe knew something. He finger tapped a new command:

        find red glow hands

He pressed the big key. A moment later, he cracked a smile.

        Found 3 of 3 results.

His eyes darted over the results. One result, which puzzled him, was dated almost twenty years ago. He typed again:

        read article 3

The mainframe told him to wait a couple minutes. Harrison stared blankly at the screen as Striker yawned noisily. He could only guess at what was going to appear. Finally, the article popped up. He skimmed the article, then his eyes widened.

" ‘I saw his hands glow red, but it smelled like he was on fire,’ reported one classmate of Esteban Ramero. The nine-year-old boy was promptly suspended for breaking Johnny Zontag’s jaw in two places. His guardians, who are his aunt and uncle, made no comment about the incident.’ "