Public Domain Heroes: The Press Guardian #7
David Michael Newstead | The Philosophy of Shaving
Perry’s face dropped the moment he saw the headline. He looked at his smartphone that morning and discovered that the far-right lawmaker, Bartholomew Danor, died while vacationing in the south of France. It had been almost a year since he’d last spoken to Danor. And while Perry suspected foul play, for now French authorities seemed confident a heart attack had killed the man, who admittedly was in his mid-fifties. Still, in the aftermath of Danor’s death, his mercurial political party began falling in line with the regime almost immediately. Two weeks later, the Political Party Registration Act was passed by the Yaharzan Parliament along with a slew of other regime endorsed legislation. Cynthia dispatched Nathan Darms to France to investigate as the newspaper’s remaining staff poured through pages and pages of recently codified law. Perry Chase joined in this unceremonious drudgery, documenting the latest maneuvers of President Krebtz and the New National Dream.
He was so blurry eyed from this work, in fact, that Perry ignored the mountain of mail that had been piling up on his desk for several days. It wasn’t until Friday afternoon that Perry collapsed into his office chair and stared off into space for half an hour before finally reaching over and opening the envelops. Eventually, his eyes widened. One letter had a USB drive taped to a plain greeting card. All it said was, “My last gift,” written in a hurried, angled way. Perry sat up in his chair, realizing the potential significance. The fog in his brain lifted. Twenty minutes later, he was on an air-gapped laptop with Cynthia Blake looking over his shoulder, while the envelop itself was now tucked away in a plastic bag, pending forensic analysis. If Danor was murdered, Cynthia told him, that changed everything.
There was a terabyte’s worth of data on the USB drive. It appeared as if some information had been neatly organized and purposefully added, while other files and folders were probably grabbed at random.
“Maybe he was fleeing the country…” Cynthia said, turning to Perry.
It would likely take months for them to sift through all the documents and determine their relevance, but one folder stood out above everything else. It was simply labelled, “The Chessman.” In silence, Perry hovered his cursor over the icon and opened it. What followed shook Perry Chase to his very core. Whatever faith these two glib reporters still had in their government evaporated as they read over the material. The Chessman had secretly been set free!
Ten months ago, Detective Nicholas Baldwin arrested the Chessman after the highly publicized shootout in Capital Park. Records indicated that the Chessman spent three months in the city jail before being moved to a secure location by the Ministry of Interior. Then, Special Office took over the case. The Chessman was eventually relocated from a facility in the Yaharzan Mountains to Special Office headquarters for questioning. A month later, he was moved to a fortified safehouse in the countryside. And a few weeks ago, the biggest crime lord in the country was quietly released on his own recognizance.
Cynthia Blake was already on the phone, hiding her panic in her work. She was calling a dozen sources for confirmation and to get their comments, hoping that they would tell her it wasn’t true. Both her and Perry believed that their readers deserved to know what was going on as soon as possible. The paper’s next issue had to expose everything, they told each other. No trial date had been set. Criminal charges weren’t even filed yet. Perry grabbed his camera and raced for the exit. As he was leaving, Cynthia started to voice a doubt, a profound fear about the future, then she stopped herself from saying more. There was work to be done.
At dusk in Capital Park, an old man with wispy, white hair sat on a bench in front of a pristine pond. He roughly tore pieces of bread off a large loaf, then threw them to the colorful ducks congregating around him. Beyond watching the sunset, he seemed to be deep in thought. The Press Guardian still approached him cautiously, realizing that the Chessman was alone.
“I was wondering when I might see you again…” he said to the masked hero.
They looked at each other, then the Chessman went back to feeding ducks. More than anything, Perry wanted to confront him, fight him, drag him back to police custody. But this frail senior citizen just sat there comfortably.
“This might surprise you, but I have a lot of respect for what you do,” The Chessman told him, “Your skills are impressive and you’re quite sharp, young man.”
“What happened while you were imprisoned?” The Press Guardian finally asked.
“Which time?” he replied, laughing a little, “I’m afraid as smart as you are that you don’t really understand the way the world works.”
“You’re a criminal,” The Press Guardian told him, “You traffic drugs and weapons and human beings. You extort! You kidnap and counterfeit. You operate brothels and illegal gambling establishments, run internet scams that steal millions, and you have people killed every day.”
The Chessman just stared at the sunset arching across the sky.
“You know, when I was a boy during the war, my family and I lived in this park…” the Chessman said as if he was going to continue the story, but he didn’t.
He paused, “I survived. And I have survived every regime since.”
In an instant, his entire face changed. His eyes darkened and that demeanor of a friendly grandfather figure melted away. What remained was a blank, ruthless expression.
“I respect you. I do…” he told the Press Guardian, “But in my business that doesn’t matter. This isn’t personal, you understand? One day, sometime soon, one of my men is going to kill you and rip that mask off your face. They might even be merciful, because I order them to be. We can make things quick and spare your loved ones. But interference always demands consequences.”
Tossing the last of his bread to the ducks, the old man got up and began walking over to an approaching SUV, while the Press Guardian remained stoic.
“You’ve been warned,” The Chessman said over his shoulder.
Autopsy Inconclusive in Death of Far-Right Leader, Bartholomew Danor
By Nathan Darns | The Daily Review-Express
Remembered for his decades of promoting traditional Yaharzan values, commentators were quick to point out that Bartholomew Danor died in a luxury French hotel in the arms of a prostitute. The President’s office was uncharacteristically diplomatic this week, releasing a brief statement that applauded the far-right leader’s lifetime of service to his country. But as many people have noted, there was no love lost between Danor and President Krebtz. And while his death was first believed to be a heart attack, medical examiners in France have now officially found the results to be inconclusive. Other revelations are also adding to the controversy. Investigators have said there was only partial security footage around the hotel and that the young woman staying with Danor has since disappeared. A spokesman for the New National Dream has condemned any sensationalized speculation and outlandish conspiracy theories, asserting that “these media vultures should allow Danor’s family to mourn in peace!’ But a timeline of Danor’s recent activities has only raised more questions. Records show that for months now he’s been moving increasingly large sums of money out of Yaharza. In addition, Danor took a series of strategic vacations around Europe that some believe to be attempts to gain political asylum. A deputy from Danor’s own faction, the Eternal Nation Party, has called these reports ridiculous, “Bart Danor was a patriot, just a simple man with a heart condition. Nothing more!” If only, the coroner agreed with him, people might be more likely to believe that. For the time being, many do not.
