When the Smoke Clears

Chapter 12

"You should consider it, Frank." Lieberman stood in his home office, looking out the window. Tiny snowflakes fell from the cloud-filled sky. "Weather's not getting any warmer."

Frank shook his head as an incredulous huff of laughter rolled out of him. A black beanie was pulled over his ears, and his hands were stuffed into the pockets of his thick, black coat. "You clear this with the missus?"

They'd been on this for five minutes now, David trying to convince Frank to stop camping out in cold, abandoned warehouses and stay at the Lieberman house, as if Sarah would be thrilled about the idea of a serial killer living in her basement. Little did he know, Frank wasn't crashing on concrete floors. He'd come into a little cash recently– courtesy of his housecall with the Serpents– and had paid up front for an extended stay at a cheap motel on the South side. It wasn't exactly a luxury suite, but it meant a roof over his head and a warm bed to crash in. He didn't need much more than that.

"I'm a big boy. I handle myself just fine."

David turned to face him. "Yeah, I can see how 'just fine' you handle yourself." He motioned to the beat up pickup truck in his driveway.

Frank glanced over his shoulder, following Lieberman's gaze out the window. The truck was considerably more beat up than it was when Frank pulled it out of a storage unit two weeks ago. It'd been through some scuffles, just like Frank. It likely wouldn't last the winter, but that wasn't his problem right now.

"So, did you get anything or what?" He asked with that growly bit of impatience in his voice.

"I got a lot of something's," David said with a smug smirk. "I've been a busy man, Frank."

Lieberman walked to his computer and took a seat in the chair. His fingers moved across the keyboard with that annoying speed Frank remembered all too well. They click-clacked away, and the screen responded by pulling up various files, photos, records, website excerpts, and a slew of other things.

"Your boy's a busy man, too." David leaned back in his chair and pointed a finger at the computer. "Decorated serviceman. Skilled, well before he enlisted. Skilled well after. Look at this stuff."

He leaned forward again, typed and clicked to move one screen here; bring another over there. Frank leaned in too, furrowing his brow at what he saw. Poindexter had an impressive kill count, as well as decades-worth of expert shooting range tests. Perfect, actually. His expert aim extended well before that too, in the form of baseball stats he'd accumulated through adolescence. Apparently he'd been a phenom of a pitcher before he enlisted.

"This guy has unnatural hand-eye coordination, reaction time, precision, depth perception. The list goes on."

Frank shot Lieberman an annoyed look. It almost sounded like he was impressed by this son of a bitch. "Still human." He reminded him.

"I mean, kind of." More clicking. This time, medical photos were revealed, showing Poindexter on an operating table, face down with his back cut open like a fileted fish. His entire spine had been replaced with something... decidedly not human. The man looked like he was twenty-five percent metal at this point. How he could move at all was a mystery to Frank, let alone so quickly.

"How'd you get these?" Frank asked.

David shrugged. "I have my ways."

Frank leaned back and rubbed the stubble on his chin. "He was going away for life," he said. "No way the state would foot that bill."

"Oh, they didn't." Lieberman spun in his chair to face Frank. "His surgery was a highly-experimental procedure. Privately-funded."

"By who?" Frank asked.

"Do you need me to tell you what 'private' means, Frank?"

He glowered. "Thought nothing was a secret to you spooks?"

Lieberman smirked. "Touché." He turned to face the computer again. "I haven't found anything concrete yet, but I'm working on it. My money's on these Bishops and their 'security company' though."

Frank wasn't a betting man, but if he was, his money would be on them, too. Why, he didn't know. Maybe they thought Poindexter would be a good investment, but given his history that seemed unlikely. Leverage seemed a more feasible scenario. Benjamin Poindexter definitely seemed like the kind of man you had to hold something over in order to control.

"I, uh... I found something else." David said. He sounded hesitant.

"What is it?"

After some consideration, Lieberman pulled up a couple of old news articles and videos, time-stamped around eight years ago. They talked about an attack on the Bulletin building. It was reported that Daredevil had attacked and killed several employees there. Another report followed. Another attack, this one in a church. It was suspected that this "Daredevil" was an impostor. Benjamin Poindexter, Frank assumed. He knew Red, and that wasn't his style.

"So he played dress up and killed some people. What's this got to do with anything?" He asked.

"Karen was on the witness report at both scenes, Frank." Lieberman looked up at him, his face serious. "The Bulletin I get. But a Catholic church? Isn't she Jewish?"

Frank frowned. David had a point. The Bulletin building had been targeted before by criminals looking to make a statement. It made sense for Karen to get caught in the crossfire there. But the church... Frank couldn't make sense of it. He couldn't see any reason for Poindexter to hit it, unless he was targeting Karen specifically. She said he was in Fisk's pocket at the time. Frank knew Karen had a long and unpleasant history with Wilson Fisk, but was he really willing to publicly execute her like that? What could she have possibly done that would've made him send his attack dog after her, not once, but twice? Frank could feel his blood pressure rising just thinking about it.

What aren't you telling me, Karen?

"I want this." He motioned toward the screen angrily. "All of it."

Lieberman pulled a simple thumb drive from the computer and handed it to Frank. Apparently he knew better than to argue with him when he was like this. "What happens next, Frank?"

"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to, Lieberman." Frank snatched the thumb drive and shoved it into his pocket. Then, he stalked out of the house without another word.