He's Not a Man Anymore, 3/?

[ladybug_tales]

Title: He's Not a Man Anymore (a.ka. The Lycanthropy Case), chapter three
Fandom: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
Rating: T/PG-13
Word Count: 4,557
Main Characters: Fictional Rockapella
Summary: The guys go to Riverdale in search of information on the attack.

Will be posted to 10_hurt_comfort when complete.

Chapter Three

The ride to Riverdale was mostly uneventful. Sean decided to take the route leading through Inwood Hill Park and over the Henry Hudson Bridge.

"You know, there's that weird legend about this place," he remarked as he paid the toll and drove onto the bridge. Below them, Spuyten Duyvil Creek was cold and ominous in the autumn morning.

"You mean about the devil pulling that Anthony Van Corlaer guy under the surface?" Elliott frowned. That was not exactly what he wanted to hear right now.

Sean nodded. "What I want to know is, who knew about the story to tell it?" he said. "Think about it---he was all alone trying to swim across the creek here. And he never made it across. So unless his ghost came back and told the story to someone else, it sounds like it got started by some over-imaginative people."

Scott could tell from Sean's tone of voice that he was mainly poking fun at the folklore, but that he was also leading up to a point.

"People always have these crazy legends and kooky tales," Sean said as they reached the other side of the bridge. "They probably make them up to scare each other, and before you know it, they've stuck."

"Like vampires and werewolves," Elliott mumbled from the passenger seat.

"Exactly," Sean said.

"Sometimes they make the stories up to try to make sense out of nutcases," Elliott said.

"Which you aren't," Sean returned.

"I've been starting to wonder," Elliott said wryly.

Scott, who was sitting behind him, leaned forward and placed his hands on the top of the plush seat. "You're just fine, El," he said. "Someone's probably doing this to you to get you discredited!"

"We've made a good number of enemies," Barry agreed.

"What I just don't get is how they're doing it," Elliott said. "I'm sure I'm not being mind-controlled. . . ." He looked guilty as soon as he had said it. The topic was still an understandably sore spot for Barry.

But the older man just gave an affirmative nod. "You don't act like you're mind-controlled," he said.

"I act like I just space out," Elliott said, his voice turning bitter.

"It almost sounds like some kind of brainwashing," Scott frowned. "But no one would've had the chance to do something like that to you. Our recent missions have gone off without a hitch, including your solo assignment the night before last."

Elliott nodded. "It was just routine. I got back even before anyone thought I would, including me."

"What were you doing on that mission?" Sean asked, keeping his eyes on the road. By now they had almost passed through Spuyten Duyvil on their way to the center of Riverdale. Sean intended to stop at the first diner or café they passed in that area.

"Trailing after some two-bit con artist," Elliott said. "He's partnered with Vic the Slick for some scams."

"And you caught him, right?" Sean said.

"Yeah," Elliott said. "He should be locked in jail right now."

Seeing a sign for a diner, Sean turned into the other lane and then over into the parking lot. "Well," he mused, "that doesn't sound like grounds for someone doing this to you, El."

Elliott gave a glum nod as he moved to get out his side of the car. The others exited as well, heading towards the front entrance.

"Now remember," Sean said, "act casual."

"What's our cover?" Scott asked.

"For right now, we're just curious," Sean said. "Later on we might have to reveal we're detectives to get anywhere." With that he pushed open the door, the bell tinkling overhead.

The others followed him into the quaint, homey diner. There were hardly any other patrons, save for one at a back booth and a couple others at the counter.

The waitress looked over, smiling at the newcomers. "Good morning," she greeted. "What can I do for you?"

"We're looking for a good breakfast," Sean said with one of his winning smiles.

She gestured at the chart above her head. "Everything we've got is up there," she said.

Sean looked up at it, nodding in approval. Soon he and the others had made their selections and were coming to sit at the counter.

"We saw the paper today," Scott said, trying to introduce the subject in a casual manner.

"So did all of New York," the waitress remarked. "We've already had some other reporters hanging around, hoping for a follow-up. They're trying to get everyone interviewed here sooner or later." She glanced at their fedoras. "Say, you guys aren't reporters, are you?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

Sean tipped his hat to her. "Nope," he said. "But they do have good taste in headwear."

"We were just wondering what actually did happen around here last night," Elliott said, placing his left arm on the counter. His right hand rested on his lap. He had to admit, he was leery of bringing it up and revealing the bandage around it. The werewolf had sported a bandaged hand in the picture. What if someone ended up thinking he really was the one who had attacked?

. . . What if he was?

"Search me," said the waitress, throwing up her hands. "I was home in bed. But you know, my brother might know something. He works for a local P.I. around here."

"Really," Sean mused. "Which one is that?"

"Aaron Gordon," she said. "He's a really good detective. He just got his nephew, his sister's kid, out to work there with him. Maybe he could tell you something too. I bet he was there."

"I've heard of them," Elliott said. "They'll probably talk to us."

Sean nodded. "We'll have to try there," he said.

The middle-aged man sitting next to Barry glanced over at them. "You wanna know what happened?" he said.

Barry frowned as he looked at the other customer. His eyes were bloodshot and haunted as he gripped his mug, his knuckles white from the force of the exerted pressure.

"Were you there?" he asked.

"Was I there?" the guy repeated. "Oh wow, was I there!" He shuddered.

Now everyone turned their attention to him. "Well?" Sean exclaimed. "What happened? What did you see?"

"I couldn't sleep last night," the stranger said, turning on the stool to face them better, "so I went walking in the park. And that's when I saw this . . . this thing!" He let go of the mug to gesture with his hands. "It was like a wolf, only it was standing upright and wearing clothes. And it was chasing this poor guy!"

"Did it catch him?" Sean frowned.

"It tried," the man said. "He tripped on the ground and it clawed his leg. Then someone threw something at it and distracted its attention so the guy could get away.

"It got real mad then. It ran over to a park bench and lifted it up, then heaved it right at the person who'd distracted it. That's when the reporter snapped the picture for the paper."

"And where were you while all this was going on?" Scott asked.

"I was just watchin'," was the answer. "I wanted to scram, but I didn't want it to see me go. So I hid behind a tree and waited. When the police showed up, it bolted. No one could find any trace of it after that."

"What do you think it was?" Scott wanted to know.

"I wanted to think it was some crazy publicity stunt gone wrong," the man said. "But that was no costume. I'll guarantee it! The guy's clawed leg was real, too. He had to get a whole bunch of stitches for it!"

Elliott looked down at his hand. There could have been something sharp for claws on the costume. It would be time-consuming to fix up something like that, but it could be done. It was certainly more logical than the alternative.

But . . . how would something else have been wearing his clothes? What would he have been doing during that time?

Or could it have been a highly-detailed costume, but he had worn it? That still only raised more questions. Where had it come from? Who had made him get into it?

Why was this happening to him?

He massaged his forehead with his left hand. Could a recent case have something to do with it? But if so, which one? Surely not the two-bit con artist caper. The scheme the creep had tried to pull off had involved priceless artifacts and jewelry he had tried to sell through mail-order flyers. Or more precisely, he had pretended to sell. He had just wanted to get people's money, without having any intention of sending them the things.

And now that Elliott thought of it, a great majority of the items had featured wolves in some way. Maybe there was a connection.

He stiffened. One item he remembered looking at when everything had been confiscated was a ring with a wolf's image engraven into the band. A Latin inscription had been on the inside of the band. He had not known how to translate it, nor had he particularly cared, but he remembered that it had given him an uneasy feeling. He had wanted to get it away from him as soon as possible.

"El?"

He started back to the present. Scott was giving him a concerned look.

"The food's here," he said. "Are you okay?"

Elliott hesitated, then gave a shaking nod. "Yeah," he said. He did not want to talk about this in here. So he turned back to the counter and tried to smile at Scott. "I'm fine."

Sensing Elliott's feelings, Scott finally gave a slow nod. They would discuss it later.

He turned to his own food. "This is good," he said as he took a bite.

The waitress beamed. "You need something to take your minds off that creepy story," she said. "What are you guys, anyway? Out of curiosity, I mean. Are you paranormal investigators?"

"Sometimes it works out that way," Sean smirked.
****
The rest of their time in the diner proceeded without incident, and though the food was delicious, Elliott was relieved to return to the privacy of the car. He had gotten lost in his thoughts several times while eating and was growing increasingly anxious to tell the others of the strange ring. They had noticed his nervousness, too---especially Scott.

"Well," Sean said as he pulled down his seatbelt, "what did you think of that?"

"It was interesting," Scott frowned.

"But it really didn't give us any answers," Elliott said. "And I kept being worried that someone would see my right hand bandaged up and get ideas."

"You're lucky you're left-handed," Sean commented.

Barry sighed. "Maybe we should drive out to the park and see if we can find any clues the police overlooked," he suggested.

"I was thinking of that," Sean agreed.

"And I was thinking of something, too," Elliott said.

"We could tell that!" Sean said. He revved the engine, pulling out of the parking space. "What's up?"

Elliott leaned back, staring through the window at the passing scenery. ". . . That scheme the con artist was mixed up in when I arrested him," he said. "It was mainly him trying to sell people these weird things with wolves, like jewelry."

Sean shot him a stunned look. "Really," he breathed.

"Yeah," Elliott said. "And there was this crazy ring amongst the stuff we took from his hideout. It had a Latin inscription inside the band."

Scott blinked. "Do you remember what it said?" he asked.

"Not really," Elliott said. "I just knew it was creeping me out. I didn't want anything to do with it." He sighed. "I've been trying to think what it said, but all I really remember is transmuto."

"Transmuto," Scott repeated. "Transmute. . . ."

"And it had a wolf engraved on the front of the band," Elliott said.

". . . So maybe the inscription had something to do with transmuting wolves?" Sean deduced.

"That's what I'm wondering," Elliott said.

"You didn't read it aloud, did you, El?" Scott asked in concern.

Elliott shook his head. "I dropped it like a hot rock," he said.

"That's good," Scott said, relaxing a bit.

Sean shot him a look in the rearview mirror. "Oh come on," he scoffed. "Don't tell me you think the ring could've cursed El into . . ."

"I don't think anything," Scott interrupted. "After all, El, you didn't turn into any wolf this morning."

"I just acted like one," Elliott groaned.

"But I want to take a look at the ring," Scott went on. "And maybe we can try to look it up in the database and see if there's any information about it."

"I think it was stolen from a museum exhibit on sorcery and witchcraft in the Dark Ages," Elliott said.

Sean gave a low whistle. "Pleasant," he said in sarcasm.

". . . By the way," Elliott said, hoping to change the subject, "are we going to the park or the detective agency first?"

Sean was about to reply when a sign caused him to do a double-take. ". . . I was going to say the park, but here's the agency," he announced, pulling up in front of a modern building with Aaron Gordon, Private Detective painted on the door in white. "Let's go in and see if they have anything to tell us."

Scott was quiet as they climbed out of the car a moment later. He looked to Elliott, who seemed even more droopy. Swallowing hard, Scott walked over to his best friend. "El?"

Elliott looked over at him.

Scott felt horrible. ". . . I shouldn't have said those things about the ring," he said.

Elliott shook his head. "I don't want you to try glossing things over," he said.

"But I don't want you to have crazy ideas because of what I said," Scott said as they went up the sidewalk. "Maybe werewolves exist. I don't know. But I still don't think you are one."

"Really?" Elliott asked. "Or did you just say that to make me feel better?"

"I believe it!" Scott exclaimed. "El . . . you just . . . you just don't seem like one. I'm sure someone just wants you and us to think it. . . ." He trailed off as they reached the door. Sean swung it open, entering the outer office with the others close behind him.

"Maybe you just don't want to think I'm one," Elliott said with a small smile.

Scott lowered his voice. "Of course I don't," he said. "But there's more to it than that."

But he was prevented from continuing by the arrival of a bored-looking teenager wearing a white shirt and dress pants. The blond blinked in surprise. Was this the P.I.'s nephew? He looked at least five years younger than Scott!

"What do you guys want?" he asked, sounding as bored as he looked.

"Well, we were here to see if anyone knew about the werewolf attack last night," Sean said, crossing his arms.

"You want my uncle then," the kid replied. "Sorry, he's already been hired by someone to find out what happened."

"Oh, we didn't want to hire him," Scott spoke up. "We just wanted to talk to him."

A shrug. "You can wait for him, then," the boy told them. "He's talking to his client on the phone."

"How long do you think he'll be?" Sean asked, wondering if they should just come back later.

A glance at the clock. "Could be five minutes, could be thirty."

"How about we check out the park and come back?" Elliott said, not liking the thought of hanging around here waiting.

Sean nodded. "Maybe we should," he mused.

"Should I tell him you came by?" asked the nephew.

". . . Sure," Sean said after a moment's reflection.

"Names and company?" A frown. "Or are you reporters?"

"We're not reporters," Scott sighed.

"Oh, I thought you were," the kid smirked. "They travel in packs."

"We're from ACME Crimenet," Sean said. "We wanted to talk about the werewolf case, four detectives to another."

Now a flicker of interest showed in the teen's eyes. "You're from ACME Crimenet?" he exclaimed. "So you chase Carmen Sandiego and her gang? What do you want with werewolves?"

Sean could not help feeling pleased to have been recognized. "Not all of our enemies are from V.I.L.E.," he said importantly. "But we did wonder if the werewolf gimmick could be being pulled off by someone at V.I.L.E."

"They steal things," the nephew frowned. "Why would they want to pull off some crazy stunt like this?"

"We have our reasons for wondering," Scott said.

"Oh yeah? And are you going to tell them to my uncle?" Now a bit of defiance made its way to the forefront of his personality. "He shouldn't have to spill things to you if you won't give him anything for it. We're not running a free information service here."

Sean opened his mouth to reply, though he was not sure what to say. Of course none of them wanted to tell a stranger about Elliott's situation, no matter how renowned he happened to be.

A door opened behind the boy, sending him a mile into the air. "Jeff, what's going on out here?" an authoritative voice demanded. A tall, well-built man with brown hair stepped into the lobby, regarding the scene with an impassive expression.

Jeff hesitated. "These guys came to see you, Uncle," he said then. "They're from ACME Crimenet."

"Really." The P.I. regarded the Musicnet detectives with a raised eyebrow. "And what is your business here, gentlemen?"

"We wanted to talk to you about the werewolf attack last night," Scott said. "It's very important that we find out what was behind it."

"I never knew ACME took such an interest in these kinds of things," was the surprised response. "And where are my manners? I'm Aaron Gordon," he said, looking apologetic. "This is my nephew Jeff."

"Good to meet you," Sean said in a grand tone. He proceeded to introduce himself and the others. "We're from the Musicnet branch of ACME," he added.

Jeff looked even more interested. "That really exists?" he said.

"Sure," Sean said. "We combine our knowledge of music with our detective skills to solve crimes!"

Mr. Gordon spoke up before Jeff could say more. "Well, while that may work for ACME, we utilize more . . . traditional methods here," he said. Scott had the feeling that he was saying that mostly because he wanted Jeff to hear it.

"Anyway!" Mr. Gordon looked the agents up and down. "You never did say why you're so interested in the werewolf attack," he said to Sean, who shifted.

"It's . . . kind of a private matter," the group leader admitted. "Secret agency business and all that." It was not really a lie, especially since Elliott's job was at stake. All of their jobs, really---since none of them would stay if Elliott was kicked out.

"I see." Mr. Gordon seemed displeased. "We don't know that much, actually; you might know more than we do."

"Maybe we do," Sean said in an unconcerned tone. "But we still need to know more. What we know doesn't make much sense."

"Run it past us anyway," the P.I. told him.

After exchanging glances, Rockapella repeated what had been told to them at the diner---as well as why the waitress had recommended that they come here.

"Ah yes," they were told, "she must have meant Evan, another junior detective."

"He's higher in rank than me," Jeff said, looking bored again.

"That's because Evan actually shows an interest in the work," Mr. Gordon scolded.

"Pushing papers and going on long stakeouts are not interesting," Jeff said.

Sean felt uncomfortable. "Maybe we should come back later," he said.

Mr. Gordon snapped back to the present. "No, we can talk now," he said. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to involve you in our family . . . discussions." He sighed, turning to go back the way he had come. "Let's go into my office."

Sean and the others moved to follow, as did Jeff. But Mr. Gordon stopped the boy before he could enter the room. "Don't you have some other work to do?" he asked, his voice lowered.

Jeff gave him a put-out look. "If you want me to have hands-on detective experience, then I should be allowed into these kinds of get-togethers."

"This is just an informal conversation," Mr. Gordon said. "You can leave your assignment and come to the office when our client gets here."

"Your client," Jeff muttered as he turned away.

Mr. Gordon ignored that, letting the door close halfway. "He's kind of a wild kid," he apologized to Rockapella. "My sister wanted me to give him a job here, hoping he'd learn some discipline. He came in thinking detective work was all about spying and chasing and catching crooks."

"A lot of people do," Sean said. He counted himself among that number, though he was grateful that he had come to see the truth before too much time had passed.

"I guess you have to deal with that in ACME, too," Mr. Gordon said, crossing to his desk.

"You could say that," Scott said. "But about the case . . ." Somehow they kept getting deterred. Was that just because of Mr. Gordon's personality? Or could it be on purpose? . . . That sounded ridiculous. He was just too paranoid after all this time.

Mr. Gordon nodded. "I was getting to that," he said.

"Did anyone from here see the attack?" Scott asked.

He shook his head. "I was called in as a consultant to the police after it happened," he said. "I brought Jeff and Evan and we scoured the park and the surrounding area for clues."

"And did you find anything?" Sean wanted to know.

"Not much, but there was this." He opened the top drawer in his desk, removing a clear plastic bag. As he set it on the desk, Rockapella gawked. Elliott felt sick.

"Torn pieces of cloth from the werewolf's tank top," Mr. Gordon said, indicating the turquoise material. "I only found it after the police had left."

"Has it been analyzed yet?" Sean wondered.

A nod. "But nothing very conclusive was found," he said.

Sean picked up the bag. "Mind if we take it and run some tests ourselves?"

"No," Mr. Gordon said, watching him with a curious expression. "But the police want it too. I was supposed to deliver it when I was finished with it. That was actually supposed to be one of Jeff's tasks. . . ." He glanced to the half-open door.

"We could deliver it when we're done with it," Scott said.

Mr. Gordon sighed, looking hesitant. "I don't know. . . ."

"We'll take full responsibility for it," Sean said. "We're a fully licensed organization, working with the police, the government, and whoever else of the good guys are on a case."

"Yes, I know ACME's credentials," Mr. Gordon said with an impatient wave. "Alright, take it. But if you don't mind, can I ask what you're hoping to find?" He studied each of the agents, his gaze coming to rest on Elliott. For some reason, the brunet looked particularly uneasy.

"We're not sure," Sean said, choosing his words with care. What he was thinking of was determining whether the cloth had for sure been torn from Elliott's tank top or if there could have been another, identical one.

A sigh. "Is it too much to hope that you might share the information with me if you find it?" Mr. Gordon said dryly.

An uncomfortable silence.

"If we can," Scott said. "We might not be able to. . . ."

"Yes, I know," Mr. Gordon said. "'Secret agency business and all that.'"

"You're catching on," Sean smirked.

"Did you find anything else?" Scott asked.

"Other than some stomped-on pinecones, no," Mr. Gordon said. "Though there was a small bit of fur caught in one of them. . . ."

"Real fur?" Scott interrupted.

Mr. Gordon blinked. "Yes," he said. "Don't tell me, you want that too."

"It'd help," Scott said, looking a bit apologetic.

With an exasperated sigh, Mr. Gordon dug into the drawer again and pulled out another bag. Sean snatched it up as well.

"So, in light of these things, what do you think happened last night?" he asked.

"I really don't know," Mr. Gordon said, shaking his head. "Of course, the notion that there was a werewolf is preposterous, so the only possibility left is that it was some kind of fake."

"But that doesn't lessen the number of questions at all," Sean commented.

"It certainly doesn't," Mr. Gordon frowned.

"Did you talk to anyone who'd seen the attack?" Scott queried.

"I spoke to a young man who had been clawed by the werewolf," Mr. Gordon said. "But he was so high-strung and agitated after the experience that he was convinced it had been a real creature."

"That's understandable," Scott said. "Did you get his name?"

"I'll just give you this," Mr. Gordon said, handing him a piece of paper with several names and addresses scrawled on it. "There's all the people I talked to."

"Great," Sean said. "We'll go talk to them after we check out the park ourselves."

Mr. Gordon came out from behind the desk. "Is there anything else I can help you with?" he inquired. "My client is going to arrive soon. . . ."

"We'll probably have more questions later," Sean said, taking a step back, "but for now this is good. Thanks!"

Mr. Gordon nodded. "I'm glad to be of help," he said, reaching out his hand in a polite gesture. Sean took it, giving it a firm shake.

In the interest of being polite, Mr. Gordon went to shake hands with the others as well. Elliott hung back, swallowing the lump in his throat. As Mr. Gordon came to him, Elliott held out his right hand with hesitance, finally grasping the P.I.'s hand as he shook it. Both he and Mr. Gordon seemed to be staring at the white gauze. But nothing was said. Elliott withdrew his hand, turning to follow the others out the door.

Jeff was standing by the vacant receptionist's desk, looking over a folder and making notes on a small pad of paper. "Did you find anything out?" he asked, glancing up at them.

"Some," Sean said. "We have some leads to keep us busy for the day." He walked past, heading for the front door.

"Being in ACME must be exciting," Jeff said, his tone turning wistful. "Unlike this place. . . ."

"We have to go over things really carefully too," Scott said. "There's a lot of discouraging days in ACME, just like there would be for any other crimefighting organization."

Sean nodded. "Like it or not, the boring parts are necessary."

Jeff sighed. "I wish I could be part of a really action-packed adventure," he said. "Car chases! Outwitting femme fatales! Death-defying stunts on top of buildings and bridges! Catching the crook at the very last moment and throwing him in jail!" He smacked his fist into his open palm for emphasis.

"You watch too many James Bond movies," Sean said in a nonchalant tone. "I don't think you'd be so into it if it really happened."

"Yeah, that's what my uncle says," Jeff grumbled as they headed outside.

"Maybe you should listen to him," Scott said with a small wave.

Jeff muttered to himself, but returned the wave through the glass pane in the door.