by Dave Barnowski
Guns Benson looked down at his watch one last time. It was nine o’clock at night, and he was in the middle of a crowded discotheque with plenty of witnesses. He smiled, because there was no way anyone could prove he had anything to do with the murder happening on the other side of Cliffland. Benson had plenty of cops and other people in authority on his payroll, but one honest cop could ruin everything. That honest cop’s murder was what was happening right now.
The policeman in question was James Grant, a third-generation police officer employed by the City of Cliffland. His father Wayne had named him after his partner and best friend, Jim Corrigan. James was just a month shy of his fiftieth birthday, and had four children by three wives from marriages that had each ended in divorce. He had this weekend off, which meant that it was also his weekend to have his kids. He took them to see their grandfather, his father; a widower with dementia, Wayne Grant lived in a nursing home.
During every weekend with them, James took his sons ranging between ten and seventeen years old to see his father. His oldest son didn’t like having to visit with the older Grants all that much, but James didn’t care; a judge had given him visitation rights, and as far as he was concerned, a judge trumped a pouting seventeen-year-old every time.
Each and every weekend, after driving his boys home to their respective mothers, James would then stop at the local bar that catered to police officers. This time he had a shot and a beer, the same as always. He talked about the Indians’ chances this year. He avoided shop talk, especially any talk about the Guns Benson gang.
That gang had become a sore subject for him. Guns Benson had been a small-time hoodlum until recently, always part of a gang, but never a leader. That had changed in the blink of an eye, and now he was running most of the criminal activity in town. “And we can’t touch him,” fumed James Grant to himself.
James had discussed this with his father just before the older man was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Still lucid most of the time, Wayne Grant told his son that Guns Benson was the son of a particularly vicious gang leader named Gat Benson, who disappeared back in 1940. Guns Benson wasn’t any better than his father, James mused, except that he was evidently a late bloomer in the world of organized crime, being in his early fifties.
How or why Benson had suddenly been able to rise to the top had long puzzled Grant, until he saw some recent surveillance photos of the man. Guns Benson had no shadow. Detective James Grant had spent the last day combing through old surveillance photos of Benson, from back when he was just a minor hood. He had a shadow then.
Detective James Grant was convinced that Benson’s lack of a shadow had something to do with how the criminal had become Cliffland’s top crime lord; he just didn’t know what or how. That was for the state authorities to figure out. A small city like Cliffland didn’t have the budget to deal with meta-human activities. Unfortunately for James Grant, his report had to go through his supervisor, and his supervisor was on Benson’s payroll. Grant’s supervisor had destroyed the detective’s report, the photos, and the negatives while he and his sons were visiting his father.
James remained oblivious to all of this. As far as he was concerned, the information was on its way to Columbus. Somehow, some way, Benson had gained some kind of super-power. The State of Ohio would investigate, perhaps call in the Feds, and they, in turn, would call in the boys in spandex, if needed. James felt good about the job he’d done as he finished his beer.
Saying his goodbyes, he headed back to his car. Thinking to himself about how much easier policework was back in his father’s day, before the masks showed up, he didn’t sense the danger of the car driving slowly up behind him. He was a law enforcement officer leaving a known establishment where police officers gathered. Nobody was so brazen as to harm a cop just outside a police bar, or so James thought.
The car slowed to a stop right next to him. The front passenger window opened. “Excusé,” said a man with a heavy Spanish accent “We’re lost. How do we get back to the highway?”
James sighed, even though alarm bells were dimly ringing somewhere in the recesses of his mind. These folks really were lost, because the highway was several miles away. He turned and bent down to the partially open passenger window, and only then saw that he was looking down the double barrels of a sawed-off shotgun.
***
Even as James Grant was being gunned down in Cliffland, the man he was named after — Jim Corrigan — was enjoying a rare night out on the town with his wife in Gotham City. The occasion was a simple one; Dr. Kent and Inza Nelson were in town because Gotham was the latest stop of the King Tutankhamen tour traveling across the United States. Jim Corrigan’s wife Andrea wondered why they hadn’t seen the tour when it was in Boston, as it was closer to the Nelsons’ home town of Salem, Massachusetts. But Inza told her that they were both very busy as Doctor Fate when the tour was there and hadn’t been able to find the time.
That was at the beginning of the night during dinner. It was also the first and last mention of super-heroics, the Justice Society of America, magic, or sorcery. Andrea had a rule when she and Jim went out with his friends on the police force — no shop-talk. That rule applied now, too, or she wouldn’t be able to take part in the conversation. Inza smiled as Andrea laid down the ground rules; she wished she had been as forceful twenty-five years earlier in her marriage, as it would have saved her and Kent a lot of pain. Inza readily agreed, though Kent was a little taken aback before nodding in agreement.
The couples ate dinner and then went to a small jazz club. They all loved jazz. Andrea may not have lived as long as the other three, but she knew her jazz, and with that the conversation really took off. The foursome arrived home at the Corrigan’s house after midnight. Jim paid the babysitter, while Andrea made sure their daughters Libby and Diana were all right, while Inza checked on her two-year-old daughter, Celeste.
The Corrigans lived in a good neighborhood, but it was fairly late, so Jim insisted on giving the teenage babysitter a ride home. Kent offered to accompany his old friend on the drive.
Andrea raised an eyebrow at that, then cracked a smile as she said to Inza, “Thank you for waiting.”
Realizing she was referring to her rules about not talking shop, Inza smiled back and said, “You’re welcome. How about a nightcap?”
Jim and Kent continued their small talk in front of the tired teenager during the drive to her house. Jim asked about old friends from their days together in the JSA, referring to them only by their civilian identities until the girl was safely home. Then Jim asked, “Okay, Kent, what is it?”
“Same old Jim, right to the point,” said Kent Nelson. “Do you remember the Ring of Life?”
Corrigan had just pulled out of the driveway and had started along the road at a normal speed when Kent asked him that question. Slamming on the brakes, Jim pulled over to the side of the road. “Yeah, I remember. The Ring of Life was a gift from the Voice — the Voice, who may or may not be God. Whatever the Voice is, it’s the Spectre’s boss. It’s also the reason I’m still alive. I lost the ring in a battle with Kulak back in ’42, the same fight when you lost your full helmet.” (*) As he spoke, Jim was unable to hide his anguish.
[(*) Editor’s note: See “A Spectre is Haunting the Multiverse,” All-Star Squadron #27 (November, 1983) and “By Hatred Possessed,” All-Star Squadron #28 (December, 1983).]
Kent hung his head sheepishly. “Yeah, I thought you might remember.”
“So why bring up the Ring of Life after all these years, Kent?” The loss was still a sore point for Jim.
“Sorry, Jim. I didn’t realize how much the ring meant to you,” said Kent. “Nabu probably did, but I didn’t.”
“Why are you bringing up Nabu?” Jim asked. The whole conversation was going somewhere, and Jim was at a total loss as to the point.
“Well, old friend, back when I retrieved the full helmet from Kulak in 1960, Nabu resumed full command of my body. (*) Unknown to me, he also took the Ring of Life from Kulak. Although as Doctor Fate we possess Nabu’s memories and occult knowledge, that information had been kept from us. So we never realized that Nabu had kept it in the Tower of Fate until Inza found it just last week, after we started cataloguing things he’d accumulated over the years. I want to give it back to you, Jim.”
[(*) Editor’s note: See Doctor Fate: Children of Fate.]
Kent reached into his jacket pocket and took out the Ring of Life, holding it in the palm of his hand as he offered it to his old friend.
Jim was at a loss for words. He had thought that he’d lost this gift from the Voice forever, yet here it was — his for the taking. Jim just sat there quietly.
“Inza and I have been doing some research and speculating on the ring,” Kent said as he waited for Jim to take the ring. “We suspect that Nabu kept it as a defense against the Spectre, because the Ghostly Guardian is potentially so much more powerful than a mere Lord of Order. The ring’s magic is defensive only, not offensive. It can only be used for good purposes. Inza thinks that, given Nabu’s underlining subterfuge, he found the ring powerless when he tried to wield it. I suspect she’s probably right. I also suspect that, when you lost this ring to Kulak, it also led to the Spectre becoming more and more vicious as the years went by. But that is purely conjecture on my part.”
Jim heard Kent’s words and nodded before he said, “Maybe you should keep the ring, Kent.”
“No, Jim. The Ring of Life was given to you. It is best that you have it, especially now that you aren’t as powerful as you once were.”
“I… I don’t want to lose it again.”
“You didn’t lose it, Jim. It was stolen.”
Jim looked Kent straight in the eyes. Finally, the red-headed police detective nodded and took the ring.
“See, now that wasn’t so bad,” said a smiling Kent Nelson as he reached into his pocket and took out something else.
Jim frowned at his old friend. Corrigan couldn’t sense anything magical from the small circular device that Kent now held in his hand. “What’s that?” he asked.
“This is a JSA signal device. The team unanimously voted that you should have one. We also decided that you’re welcome to come to any meeting at any time. It’s up to you, Jim.”
“I don’t think I need that, Kent,” protested Corrigan. “I haven’t been to a meeting in years. Besides, with my powers, I can call on the team without the signal device.”
“Do me a favor and take it anyway, Jim. Hawkman asked me to do this. You know how Carter is; if you say no to me, you’re going to wind up having birds follow you everywhere and chirp at you until you agree.”
Jim gave him a scowl. “He’d never do that if I hadn’t changed the Spectre’s ways.”
Kent smiled back at Jim and said, “But you have, Jim.”
A defeated Jim Corrigan sighed resignedly as he took the JSA signal device and put in his pocket.