The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(4)
Officer Herbal Tea looks up from his notes. “And this is a new comic? One your company is working on?”
I sigh. There’s no way to package this conversation for a comic newb. Reboots are often beyond the comprehension of non-geek folk. “It’s tricky. The original Falcon—based on Robin of Loxley—was written in the eighties and was less popular than his better-known Justice League–era compatriots: Batman, Wonder Woman, the like. Brilliantly illustrated—well, the originals anyway. They’ve been rebooted by a new artist since then. The new ones suck. I work on those,” I add.
He’s scribbling, and I note his furrowed brow, maybe at my candor about the current issues. Maybe I should learn to sugarcoat my words. But I’m just being honest.
“So, in the comics, the golden arrow is a what? A drawing? A pin? Only on bad guys? Does this Falcon character ever attack police, or is he simply out for crime fighting?”
Another tricky question, but I’m impressed by the level of his inquiry. If I were a Muggle policeman, I’d have listened to about three seconds of this before tuning me out. “Falcon and his sidekick, Swoosh, are vigilante heroes, fighting on the side of social justice. They often use the symbol of a golden arrow to mark their busts. Usually in the form of a golden arrow anchor running through the ropes holding the criminals, or the arrow—shot from his trusty bow—pinning the criminal to a wall. Was it on the criminals?”
“No.” He glances up at me, then presses his lips together.
“It’s a two-way street, this information thing. You’re the one here asking for help.”
“Drawn on the pier. Gold sharpie, maybe. And it wasn’t even finished. My guess is they ran out of ink, or the wood chewed up the pen.”
“And the outline thing, was that just in the picture? Like a flash or a glare or something from the camera? Did it look like a rabbit?”
The officer’s lips narrow into a line, and I can’t tell if it is amusement at my knowledge (or lack of) of photography or annoyance with being the questionee. “We noted a chalk outline, but I don’t think anyone saw it as the shape of anything. Just a chalk outline. People just do morbid stuff sometimes.” He sounds dismissive, but a thoughtful look flashes over his features, and he scribbles something in his notebook. I bet he is planning to reexamine the outline, which will probably be completely pointless.
Though there were similarities in the panel, to be sure, I figure that without the rabbit outline, I am back in tinfoil-hatsville. I’d been hoping for something more concrete when we started this conversation—a harpoon in the shape of an arrow tying the goons together or something. Not a measly scribble that could have been there for years before someone got the gumption to tie up a couple of passed out drug dealers or whatever. I’m not the only one with an active imagination, it seems, and as much as I love sharing my theories, it is time to come back down to earth. “So you think because someone drew part of an arrow on the pier in sharpie—”
“Gold sharpie.” His full lips are now toying with a frown.
I ignore him and continue, “—that this really has to do with The Hooded Falcon? It’s a stretch.” And that’s putting it mildly.
“I’m just following a lead and trying to weigh everything equally. You were the one who said the scene reminded you of this comic, and you knew the arrow was there,” he responds, his lips pressed into a line again. I stare at them just a moment too long.
As much as my little heart desperately loves The Hooded Falcon, this line of thinking is useless. Real criminals don’t mimic comics. This scenario is something that happens only in comic books, not everyday life. It’s a good story, though. My brain is off and racing away with the new possibility. Brilliance strikes, and it punches straight through my writer’s block. It could happen in the project I’m working on. A copycat comic book crime scene. It’s perfect. And just like that, I’m feeling rather kindly toward this interruption. I could kiss Officer Herbal Tea.
I need to get back to my desk, stat. “LA is full of street artists. I suggest you go ask them who drew it. Now, I have a deadline and need to go. Is this all you wanted?” I don’t realize I’m standing until I’m halfway to the door and catch the look of annoyance on his face. He’s probably not used to other people calling the shots or walking out on him.
“Not really.” He looks down at his notes then back at me with earnest eyes. “Rival drug dealers were cuffed with zip ties and then tied back-to-back with some packing materials from one of the crates on the dock. Our guys undercover say that there’s a possible drug war brewing. Each side suspects the other and has threatened to kill the person who turned them in. Things could get ugly in a hurry, and it’s my job to follow every lead—no matter how far-fetched—to keep that from happening.”
I kick my hip against the door to the conference room. “I get that this is important to you, but to me it just looks like someone saw the criminals tied up and reads too many comic books. Thought they were being funny. Or it was already drawn there and it’s a coincidence. There’s no way that this is related to a thirty-year-old comic book.”
“You said it was a current comic.”
“Our latest issue had space aliens in it. The panel we’re talking about is from the originals.”