From: tracker@wpi.WPI.EDU (The Renegade Ranger)
Subject: Crime and Chrome, Pt I
Date: 1 Sep 1993 15:13:29 GMT
Summary: J. Random Story


(Part I of I-have-no-idea-yet)

____
____

Two dribbles on the asphalt, like a night game between shadows on the
court. Again. The game was a solo, no defense, only the offense. He
turned, looked for the opening, and shot for the three, rimming the
first and having to settle for the two. At the sound of the buzzers he
left, the audience never catching a glimpse. It was the way it had to
be, for familiarity takes away the legend. He swore at himself for
missing the three-pointer, but he knew he could reschedule another
game, a good one-on-one with plenty of time on the clock. He left,
practicing the fast-break for his way out.

--

Wyn pulled up in the battered Saturn, flashing his badge and gritting
his teeth against the flash of the morbid paparazzi. They'd been
filming since they got the call, filming since they knew what it
meant, hoping to get something out of it without having to ask. He
hated the media.

The two bodies on the ground looked familiar, he knew they would. The
Knicks and the Lakers had seen to that, with their all-star posters
and their advertising sellout. Greccins and Halley, two of the highest
paid basketball starters on the west coast, at the short end of the
good life. The body bags were going to get more news coverage than the
inauguration, and why not? Since the first leak, after they found out
the Rams' center Cheski had gotten it outside of a questionable
section of town, these two made an even dozen.

"Detective!" Wyn turned to face the voice, and wished he hadn't.
"Criven Shea, SeattleFax Daily! I was wondering, detective, if you
could say for certain now if we had a pattern to these murders, or
whether you're going to wait until there aren't enough players left in
the league before you announce that we've got a nut case running
around murdering sports figures?"

With some difficulty, Wyn controlled his voice. "At this time, Mr.
Shea, we're refraining from making any speculations, at the risk of
sensationalism overshadowing the possible motives that may link a
number of recent murders, not merely these coincidental fatalities, as
regretable as they may be." Choke on that, you prying media bastard,
he though quietly. Unfortunately, the possibility of Shea doing so was
unlikely; someone with a mouth that big could easily swallow a truck,
if they so desired.

Shea wasn't buying it. "Do you mean to tell me that twelve prominent
sports figures are dead, with no leads, and you're denying that we've
got a serial killer?" He grinned, elating at being able to press
members of the force into a corner. "Don't you have any comment you'd
like to make?"

"None," Wyn shrugged with conviction, "that would prove constructive
at this point and time. Besides, of course," grinning, "stating my
firm belief that your investigation of our investigations would be
more productive if you'd quit sniffing around our asses like a mutt in
heat." He pulled aside a rookie from the 'Do Not Cross' projection
grid. "Kid, keep this idiot somewhere out of the way. Like Detroit."

"Got it, detective." With what seemed like excessive glee, the uniform
turned and performed his instructions to the letter.

Free of distractions, Wyn looked around him. The lights of the camera
crews, even from their respective but not respectful distances, shed a
soft light over the hard concrete. Bathed in the light lay two figures,
male, frozen in a moment of fear. All their athletic abilities hadn't
served them enough to get away, Wyn noticed.

They'd come out of a bar on the eastern end of the street, now they
were dead on the western. Some two hundred meters of space, including
a minor intersection between there and here. No alleys, no porches, no
recessed doorways in that space. Just as if he hadn't already done so,
he ruled out a mugging; no hiding places. Both victims had been hit
from behind with single head shots, almost centered. "While they were
at what appears to be a full run? Oich..." The third, Greg Yonnes, a
starter for the 76ers, had escaped with a neck creasing shot.
Fortunately the press hadn't heard about Yonnes yet. With any luck
they wouldn't. Not yet, anyway.

---

He slid back the cue, lining up the shot to drop into the pocket, no
cushion. Quick flicks and wrist action guided the stick, the
satisfying *chock* of the connection told him the hit was smooth and
on target. He connected with very little cushion, just barely a kiss,
and it sank full into the pocket, dropping like a lead balloon. His
opponent let a muffled gasp escape his lips, before he fell in defeat.
Drawing back his cue, he broke it down and wiped it clean. Single
elimination rounds were his favorite.

---

The phone never rang when Wyn was in the shower. It always had to be
the toilet. Thank god for cordless phones. "Yeah, what?" The words on
the other end of the phone went right through him, a blast of arctic
air. His lips dried, wet, and dried again. "Yeah." Almost wordlessly,
"Yeah, I'll be right there." Trying to clear the spinning world from
his head, he lowered the phone and hit the switch. Three lives in one
night! This last one was probably the worst; the bastard has used what
appeared to be a spear, slid right through the back of the neck and
through the throat. The others had been clean, quick. Sure, the
decapitation of the jockey had been messy, but it had at least been
instantaneous. "I'm beginning to hate this guy..."

The streets were dark, unfriendly. All of the alleys seemed to teem
with possible killers or victims, every shadow might have housed
another body or two. Grey through gray, the car moved slowly, almost a
predator in its own rights, preying on the mid-level predators,
leveling the population growth and loss. Sometimes it was an
impossible task.

Downtown was no picnic, or perhaps it was; the ants were out. They
were out to get all they could, regardless of whether they ruined the
picnic area or annoyed the people who were there. Perhaps that in
itself, more than the gathering, was their purpose: to annoy and
harass. Everywhere, with their cameras and their recorders, they tried
to steal and harass where they could, turning every morsel they found
into a feast of cornucopian proportions. Sometimes Wyn wished he could
step on them, bunches at a time. Well, most of them. He stepped out
the car, for the second time tonight ready to deflect questions. None
came. He followed the luminescent trail of ant-like reporters to the
source; their big feast was the commissioner. "Oh shit..." Wyn braced
himself for what was going to come after the interview, "It won't be
too bad as long as he doesn't start with..." And he cut himself short
as it started, broadcasting exactly what he didn't want to hear, at
approximately 100 decibels and on every major network.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the respected press," the Commissioner
began...

---------------
---------------


(Comments welcome, Copyrights reserved, Cows Cant Clumsily)

-Tracker (Back after a long absence)




From: tracker@wpi.WPI.EDU (The Renegade Ranger)
Subject: Crime and Chrome, Pt II
Date: 10 Sep 1993 15:55:02 GMT

[Part II of ??]

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-----

Crime and Chrome, Part II


Lights like needles pierced what had been a quiet night. Into the vein
of the neon shadows they slid, injecting the remedy to the stillness.
Through the body of humanity the remedy coursed, drawing cells to it,
agitating them, and leaving them. Wondering. Quivering. Waiting.

The crowd doubled on itself with agitation, struggling to hear the
words of the Commissioner. Hundreds of representatives of the esteemed
press, from as far away as Dallas, gathered on the steps designed to
be grand and spacious. They were obviously not designed to be grand
and spacious for more than a hundred people. Wyn looked around him,
trying to focus on the speech. If he was going to catch the backlash
from the Com's public speech, he was damn well going to know what to
expect.

"Ladies and gentlement of the respected press," the Commissioner
began, "We are facing a serious disturbance to the well-being of our
city's social atmosphere."

Wyn shook his head and walked away. When the speeches started like
that, they were only going to get worse. Why not just tell them that
they were looking at a nut case who liked to off sports figures in
bizarre ways? That would be too easy, he supposed. Looking off to the
side of the speakers podium he noticed four squat grey vans, the
hallmark of the Special Operations Quick Response Teams or, as they
preffered to be known, the SRT. Wyn wondered why they hadn't used any
of his favorite acronyms for the SRT.. he'd been hoping for SOTs, or
maybe SORTs.. of course he'd always liked SQuiRT as an acronym,
personally. His suggestions hadn't been well received.

With detatched interest he listened to the muted echoes of the
Commisioner's speech, with its promises of safety and priority. It was
all lies, and everyone knew it. "How do you protect all of the sports
figures that are around during the promotions for National Fitness
Week?", he sighed, "not to mention the charity flag-football game at
Grellis Memorial Park this.." Wyn stopped in his thoughts, and ran
like hell for the Communications van in the SRT cluster. For once in
his life, he didn't want his hunch to be right.

--

The vidset sat in a nearly empty room, with little but a pair of
intent eyes to mark its contents. It flashed shadows and light as the
cameras moved, a floorlamp of spectral quality which ghosted over the
lone figure on the bare wood floor. Watching.

 "...and in conclusion," the Police Commisioner was saying to the
cameras, "I would like to stress that we will do everything in our
power to prevent any further agressions against members of the
community and visitors to it."  The Commisioner stopped for a moment
as an aide clambered to his side, whispering intently. "And to that
end, we are going to reschedule the charity flag-football game
until..." the vidset exploded in a fury of glass.

They'd spoiled the shot. He was closing in on the end of the game, and
they wouldn't give him the opening. Too many men on the field, they
called the play off. The defense was getting good, he decided. But
they were still second string, and he was first round draft. They
didn't know that yet, but they would. He'd make sure of that.

Over the broken glass the bare feet shuffled, heedless. The rasp of
wood and silicon was lost in the rasp of air as the figure began to
move, fluidly, solidly. The blood on the floor mixed with the sweat,
forming a pink pool which reflected concentration and madness, each
tinged with the other. And desire.

--

Research hadn't turned up a thing. 14 killings, each with a related
theme: sports. Methods of death varied, but most were based upon
groteqsue interpretations of phrases used in the sport: A Jockey,
decapitated, 'lost by a neck'; A boxer taken out by a discarded
fisherman's gaff was in all the papers as 'Boxer falls to left hook'.
The list went on, but no one really wanted to hear it anymore. The
grim humor had been replaced by grim determination, but to no effect.
No common motive besides the obvious sports link could be established,
no connections drawn, no fingerprints or witnesses. With so many
sports figures, there was no chance of protecting them all.

Wynn looked at his notes for what had to be the 23rd time. Without
really thinking, his hand drew up a chart outlining the categories of
the figures who had been murdered. The one thing he couldn't
understand was that there were no interconnecting lines! On different
days different people died, all with only the athletic connection to
tie them together. It wasn't like there were football players one
week, tennis players the next week.. there was no cyclic repetition,
no possibility of someone making it seem like a random elimination to
cover up something larger. That had happened in 2023, according to the
books. With first-round draft picks getting $23 million as a lowball
offer, a measly $1 million from one of the second-round picks had been
enough to get some random joe to eliminate just enough people to put
the pick into the first-round, netting him an extra $14 million. But
none of these people were being drafted! "Hell, none of these people
are in the same sport! They're all just..." Wyn stopped, dropped the
keyboard and scattered the files over the table, searching for what he
just realized had been staring him in the face. He found it. "I'll be
damned... different days, different sports.. never the same sport
twice, unless there's a sport included in the group of victims that
hadn't been hit yet." Slowly, he shook his head. "This sick bastard's
playing a big game.. and we're just learning how to play...time to
talk to the only person we've got whose played and lived to tell.."

--

Greg Yonnes, starting center for the 76ers, was a big man. At 6'11"
tall, he was muscular and fast as well. Today and for the past several
days, however, he looked far smaller than he was. He remembers his
night outside of the bar, walking back with two of his good friends.
He remembered the large man appearing out of seemingly nowhere, joking
with them about how great it must be to play the game. He remembers
the man looking at his watch, smiling, and pulling out a gun, and
those chilling words which would have seemed funny at any other time:
"The shot clock is running. Maybe you should too." Greccins and Halley
were dressed to kill, not to be killed.. their dress shoes had slowed
them down. Yonnes had been lucky; one of the stipulations in his
contract with Addidas had been his wearing of their new line of
sneakers to the dinner they'd all attended before they went to the
bar. He'd easily outpaced them. He'd looked back, at the same time
feeling the path of the bullet skim his neck, where the center would
have been if he hadn't craned his neck around to look. The man shook
his head, and readied another shot. Then the man stopped, cursed at his
watch, and fled as the sirens echoed through the alleyway. Yonnes kept
running.

--

"I told you, Wyn," the Captain was saying, "He doesn't know anything
else. All this secondary interrogation is doing is bringing back bad
memories. The team's lawyers are starting to get nervous."

"Lawyers, like moquitoes, can just bite me." He dropped the sheaf of
papers onto the desk. "Look at these. No specific sport, or even
related sports, has been hit more than once, except when they were in
a group of other sports figures." He sorted out a few charts and
database printouts. "In addition to that, no one earning under $3.5
million annually, as of last year, has been hit, even in the large
groups. Someone's being specific, and damn annoying."

"It's more than annoying, Wyn. It makes us look stupid. We don't
_like_ to look stupid. Especially in such a high publicity fiasco."
Intently leaning out of his chair, he pushed the papers back across
the desk. "You're telling me someone's fucking around with us, playing
some stupid game. Well, dammit, you're a player now. Go out and do
whatever it takes to kick this guy out of the league. Understood?"

"Perfectly, Sir." Wyn smiled. It was time to change the rules of the
game.

-----------
-----------
(c)

-Tracker
Comments and what-not welcomed, Spontaneous combustion frowned upon.















"It's all just a GAME!" he cried.. "Why do you take it so
seriously..."





From: tracker@wpi.WPI.EDU (The Renegade Ranger)
Subject: Crime and Chrome (Part 4)(With Part 3 Repost)
Date: 7 Oct 1993 14:49:37 GMT

Due to a severe lapse in time, I'm reposting part 3 with part 4...
otherwise part 4 might not make too much sense. I've set a %Part 4%
divider before part 4, so you can skip there with a search command
if'n ya want.

Comments, Criticisms, Witticisms, but no Cataclysms welcomed.
 (Even though I've been way to slow to respond to y'all who've
replied.. please don't think me rude... just think me slow and
harried.)

Hasta..

-Tracker

------
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Crime and Chrome, Part 3

-----


It had been over a week. And nothing. Still no calls claiming
responsibility or making threats, no new killings. Wyn was beginning
to wonder if the killer had finally gone underground or out of the
picture. He wasn't liking the prospect of either. He was almost even
disappointed that no copy-cats had shown up or claimed the killings
for some liberation movement. It was easy to know why; whoever stepped
forward was going to turn the drizzle of outrage into a flash flood,
centered on them. Lord only knew how many liberation movements there
were out there at any given time, but none of them were dumb enough to
take the fall for this if it wasn't their doing. Though... maybe...

----

Recuperating. Not hiding. Physical therapy after the big game, no time
for autographs, no, have to be rested for the next period. Capacity
crowds expect performance, yes, have to give it to them. Hall of famer
performance...

The mind wrapped around itself, over and over. Each layer led it
farther away from reality. Each layer started before the previous one
ended. The words in the mind blended and twisted, like several
channels on vidsets all tuned differently and played in the same
room at full volume.  The discerning had ended. The deciding had gone.
All that remained was disillusion and dementia. But the mind still
lived. And worked.

The recently replaced vidscreen clicked on, its internal timer set to
catch the broadcasting of the evening news. Five faces appeared on the
screen, each separated from their companions by small lines, each
captioned and enumerated by channel. The eyes caught the words in the
captioning before the mind did, and automatically caused the hand to
hit the remote to zoom and recapture. The vidset shifted into recall
and time-delay receive mode, dragging back the previous 30 seconds of
broadcast and playing it while the current feed went into storage so
it could be seen in logical order. The benefits of modern technology.

"... convoy blocked the street for 3 hours so that his dog
could get a checkup at a trendy LA veterinarian. The press secretary,
as expected, is remaining secretive about details. In local news, the
Seattle Homicide Task Force received a call from a group claiming
responsibility for the recent murders of more than a dozen prominent
sports figures." Mad eyes glistened, narrowing. Hating. "The group,
which calls itself the Populist Freedom Demarcation Committee, says it
killed the figures as a warning to all those who would oppose the
freedoms it desires. It has not, as of yet, given any information as
to what those freedoms are, though information of how to contact them
was given for..."

No. "No!" They weren't going to take his spotlight. Whoever they were.
The deaths were cleansing, and just. They couldn't be despoiled by
people seeking to use them for their own ends. He wouldn't allow it.
The mad mind drifted, seeing the plastic section of leg on the floor,
a shell. Like him. He would still show them. He would be among them.
They would know. The leg tensed, metal muscles gliding into place over
nature's bones. Yes, they would know.

----

Wyn liked hockey. He could have rationalized it as an appreciation of
the coordination required to execute precise maneuvers on an
inhospitable surface, or perhaps explained that he found the speed and
variability with which the puck exchanged hands, or rather sticks,
incredible. He didn't. He liked seeing them slam each other into
walls. Ever since childhood it was the one form of violence he could
relate to and understand. His uncle had taught him that it was easier
to transfer all your force into your opponent than it was to try and
redirect all your force in response to every move the opponent made.
Wyn's uncle hadn't been the most social and civil man going, but he
understood brawl tactics pretty well.

Calgary and Boston were two of the best in the league, currently. Not
to say that standings didn't change very quickly, but they were still
holding their own pretty well. Out in the center of the ice danced
Steve Zimmer, Calgary's answer to the question of who was the best
skater in the league. He kept the stick low, but put a surprising
amount of power behind it. A very surprising amount. More than enough
to convince goalies that they had longer than they actually did to
block the shot, before it would go winging past them. Granted, Boston
had Hampton and Fresia, but tonight they weren't at their peak. Zimmer
looked like he didn't even need teammates. The crowd loved it.

In the second period it was Calgary by 3; a hat trick courtesy of
Zimmer. Apparently it had been peaceful long enough, and Boston began
to scuff it up. Zimmer, of course, was the focus. He was driving in
for an opening to pass of to Williams, who couldn't have had a better
position for shot on goal unless he was the goalie, and got taken full
in the back by Tham. It got busy.

Wyn watched with humored interest, glad that there were some fights he
didn't have to break up as his job. It was the referees' turn. There
had to be at least 6 on the ice, and one or two others were coming
out.. but one with a stick? Refs didn't take sticks on the ice, but
here was one as large as life heading right for the center of all the
hockey.. Hockey. There hadn't been any dead hockey players yet...
"Shit!" He saw the blade of the stick, and broke into a run down the
stairs for the ice, through the cheering oblivious crowds.

The blade was steel.

------------
%Part 4%
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 The roar of the crowd was a wave, crashing over warnings Wyn tried to
shout as he went. The crowd saw the fight, but not the danger as th
man dressed as a referee glided across the ice, smooth as polished
silver.. the color of the steel blade on the stick he carried. Pushing
himself harder, Wyn realized he would get onto the ice in just a few
seconds, and had no way of controlling his direction once he got
there. "Oh shit..." He vaulted over the front row and tossed himself
over the security guard and over the plexi-shield, hoping he was going
to land heading the right way.

----

 They hadn't noticed him as he slid along, nearly a ghost in the
chaos. His black and white stripes provided camoflague in front of
millions of eyes. Hunter's clothes had to match their terrain. Zimmer
sat there oblivious, engaged with his companions against a horde of
Boston players, none of them really caring about their surroundings. A
mistake they would regret.

 He saw it almost peripherally, the movement. It came unexpectedly and
blossomed into fear. Someone had seen him, someone who knew his
intentions. The figure charged down the stairs, and was leaping up and
over onto the ice, sliding on an intercept course for Zimmer. It
couldn't be a fan.. no fans could move that fast. The game had picked
up a new twist, one that he didn't like. Not at all.

----

 Zimmer looked up just in time to duck the left hook, only to get hit
behind the knees by another Calgary player sent sprawling. The Boston
players sure weren't much on defense tonight, but they were sure
enthusiastic about the offense. Somewhere in his mind a gear clicked,
making him turn back towards where he'd been focused right before the
hit. One of the refs was skating right towards his group of players.
That wasn't too odd in itself... the stick the ref was carrying was
definitely out of place. Zimmer blinked twice to clear the ice out of
his vision, and looked again. He knew every ref that was on schedule
for tonight, and this wasn't one of them. The guy who wasn't a ref was
looking straight at him, and Zimmer didn't like the look one bit.

 He dropped to his knees again and pushed off sideways, narrowly
missing someone who slid across the ice and impacted with the group he
had just left. A fan? No time to wonder. He stood up, short kicks
getting him up to speed. He glanced back, and swore. The ref wanna-be
had turned to match his angle, and was moving in on a diagonal. And
the guy was fast. Zimmer pondered the possibility of checking him into
a wall, but thought better of it as he saw the guy swinging the stick
back and forth like a scythe. Just like a scythe... Zimmer sprinted
for the net, and one of the fallen sticks.

----

 Wyn hit harder than he'd been planning on, dropping two players on
top of him in a sudden heap. They were on the verge of returning the
favor with fists when he yanked the badge. "Police! Clear the fucking
ice! You've got a murderer out here dressed as a damn ref!" They
followed his pointing, and saw Zimmer driving towards an abandoned
goalie stick near Boston's goal, someone closing in fast behind him.
"His stick's got a steel blade on it, probably sharp! Move the hell
out of the way!" Wyn drew the H&K, dropped the safety, and opened up
on the pursuer. He was sure that at least 3 had hit, but the guy
shrugged them off. "Psychos in bullet-proof vests... oh joy.."

The two teams saw the guy take the hits and not fall, and four of them
took off at a sprint towards the chase scene, sticks in hand. Wyn
tried to stand up to stop them, but lost it totally, hitting the ice
and sending the H&K flying towards the wall. He swore, and dragged the
taser out of his pocket, setting the firing charge for maximum
penetration.

----

 Zimmer got to the stick, and picked it up in a diving roll. The move
had been pure showmanship when he first started, but now it might just
have saved his life. He heard the metallic cough of a pistol, and
hoped it was his pursuer they were shooting at. He looked back, just
in time to see his pursuer's stick slice through the back corner post
of the goal, where he had been a second ago. "So much for the stick
fight idea.." he thought, increasing his speed. If he could get by the
team box, he'd be able to get off the ice and... and? He had no idea
how he'd outrun someone on the ground in his skates. His only hope was
to outrun his opponent. "I can do that..." he looked back at the
stick-swinging figure, closing in. "I hope..."

----

 It was down to the last few seconds for the defense. It was a race for
victory, and the away team was getting closer. Every second that
Zimmer stayed on the ice, he got closer to death. But he knew Zimmer
knew that, and he knew Zimmer was aware that trying to get off the ice
would end it for him that much quicker. He could wait. It was only a
matter of seconds. Zimmer was tiring, and he had all the strength he
needed. No one would break up this fight. No one.

----

 Tham hit the side of the man chasing Zimmer like a cement hammer.  He
knew if he missed he'd hit the wall and be in a world of hurt, he just
wasn't planning on missing. The guy had been so intent on Zimmer that
he'd never even seen Tham and the three others coming. He fell down
and shoved off, just in time to see Robinson slam into the guy with a
foot extended. That was going to hurt. Tibbons and Marks followed up
with sticks, and the force swung the guy completely around before he
hit the ice. Blood pooled out of his mouth and onto the ice, steaming
gently. All four got up and gave each other helmet slaps, while the
crowd, which was just catching on, cheered even louder. Then the guy
got up off the ice.

 Where he'd been hit in the head there was some blood, but it had
clotted in only a few seconds. The skate to the gut hadn't evn drawn
any blood, and he hardly looked dazed. All four players and the one
lone other stared at each other for a split second. With a piercing
yell, he grabbed his club and started a swing. That was all the time
it took to convince the four it was time to go. The stick hit the
plexi-shield and went right through, exactly where Tham's head had
been a moment before.

----

 Wyn saw the collisions, and was almost happy when the killer went
down. He wasn't anywhere near happy when he saw him immediately get
back up after taking that kind of beating. After slicing through the
plexi-shield with no problem, the guy disregarded the four players
entirely, leaving them to ponder if they'd done anything at all. He
got up and started towards Zimmer again, who'd had the misfortune to
stop and look back to see if it was over. It obviously wasn't.

 Wyn was screaming at the security guards, who were just now starting
to react to all this and come onto the ice. A whole lot of good it
would do, since they were armed with nightsticks and stunners. One of
them moved faster than the others... no surprise; he weighed about
forty pounds less. He'd seen Wyn's gun go flying, and he picked it up
from next to the wall where it had stopped. Dropping into a braced
firing position he emptied the clip in quick two-shot bursts, aiming
low first, then high. One or two of the low shots hit the skates, and
the pursuer stumbled. The blade on his right skate had bent from the
shot, it was just about useless. The guard's other shots hit high,
sinking into the wall as the pursuer rolled skillfully across the ice,
yanking quick release straps on his skates.

 The figure stopped his roll by the astonished Boston pen, vaulted
almost 2 meters into the air, over their heads, and took off at a
blistering run. Before the players could reach out to grab him, he was
gone. All that was left was silence.

------
------