A Case For Conners

Chapter 2

Chapter 1: The Accident

Cars flew by the busy city streets and small teams of people moved along the sidewalks, busy chatting to each other and looking at their phones, never once glancing at him. The kid shivered a little as another gust of wind blew over him. After all, it wasn't known as the windy city for nothing. It had been a couple months since he'd escaped from the hospital, and room 67. All he had on him at the time was a pair of bloody clothes and a key with #18 taped to it. It looked like an old hotel or apartment key, but of course, he couldn't remember which apartment complex it belonged to.

A couple months had gone by on the streets of the city, and all the kid had added to his person was a pocketknife. This wasn't just for defense, but also for practical daily use. Several small things had to be cut loose or trimmed up and it was very annoying to get someone else to help you, doubly so if you were homeless. Of course, he would love to have a place to call home, but that required money, and that required a job.

He'd tried getting a job several times, but without any way to identify himself or even a simple name, he had nothing to go on; so he was always turned away.

He toyed around with several names for a while, but nothing sounded quite right to him. When one interviewer had asked for his name, he'd blurted out Phil Monroe, but he dropped it after a week. It was then he remembered the name of two of the medical doctors that had been in the hospital room: Josh Michaels and Conner Castro.

He thought about Conner Michaels, but that didn't sit well on his tongue. He switched them around and considered it.

Michael Conners...

It rolled of the tongue well and seemed like a name that would fit most any kind of personality, which was good, considering he still didn't know who he was.

Happy with his new name, Michael decided he needed to get some new clothes, and a shower of some sort. He spent an hour roaming the streets, trying to decide on his target, when he heard a small group of young men talking next to him.

"...through the back. I don't think they have the new ones yet."

"Well, no way of knowing until we try. So, are we going to sit around talking all damn day or we gonna try this?"

"I wouldn't," said Michael. "They only put security cameras on the back door and front counter."

He pointed them out to the group. They looked at him, more than a little uneasy.

"Who asked you anyway?" demanded one of the boys.

"Easy now," said Michael. "I'm just trying to help you out, but it's your call what you do with the info."

"We'll listen," said another, obviously the leader. "If what you said amounts to anything useful, we'll talk more then."

"If you say so," Michael said as he leaned against the side of the building.

In a few moments, the group came out with a small bundle of food and clothes.

"Thanks," said the leader. "You oughta come with us."

Michael shrugged. It wasn't as if he had anywhere better to go, and this group may help him live on the streets.

They lead him to a small alleyway, and Michael instantly knew what was going on when the boys surrounded him. This was a canonizing. It was a ritual dating back centuries that had turned into a sort of right of passage. It puzzled him that he could remember something so trivial as that, but nevertheless, he did.

"So, you really wanna roll with our group?" asked one of them.

He didn't respond, but noted where two of them stood, right in front of a discarded trashcan. It would be easy enough to kick them both into the can and injure them enough to handle the other two.

"We don't mind you tagging along," said the leader. "But we have to know you can take a hit first."

At that moment it started.

Michael saw the two in front of him move and he jumped, and leaned backwards to catch himself on his hands. Now that his legs didn't have to support his weight, he kicked either boy in the chest with all his might, and he was quite strong. They flew backwards into the can, stunned.

He turned quickly and his mind flooded with adrenaline as he examined the other boys. One of them was leaning to punch his left cheek, the other coming forward with a kick. Michael caught the first member's fist and used the momentum to send the puncher into the kicker's path. A sick crunch was heard as the two collided and Michael stomped hard on one of their hands.

Now, the two who he'd knocked into the trashcan were up and ready, charging. He examined their stances quickly and noted his target. They were strong, but untrained and sloppy. This wouldn't be hard if he just kept a cool head.

Michael ran in as if to punch them, but changed it up at the last second and planted a knee and left elbow into their stomachs.

The boys fell over, writhing in pain. He'd apparently studied in martial arts before the hospital, because quick and athletic movements came as second nature to him. His brain automatically noted weaknesses and nearby objects with incredible speed, earning him a victory in any fight he'd had so far.

After a moment, the boys got to their feet.

"Where the hell did you learn that?" one of them asked.

"Not sure," said Michael.

It was at least half true. Luckily, the others didn't question his odd answer, but congratulated him with a fist bump. Michael had a group of friends.

"So what are you all called?" he asked them.

"My name is Hunter," said the leader.

The next six months flew by for both Michael and for the rest of the gang. His ability to think quickly and adapt led them to trust him with bigger and bigger jobs. For a long time it was simple: Hit a*****e here, steal a car or two, and every now and then deal some pot. Now, they were ready for the real deal: Cocaine. Of course, it would be his job to actually handle the trade, but Hunter and the other three were watching him from a distance to make sure he'd be ok. Michael fingered the pistol in his back pocket. He was anxious, yes. After all, this was a job where a lot of things could go wrong, and if the buyer were actually an undercover cop, they would all be in trouble.

Michael found himself marking places to escape in case he needed to, when the buyer came into the alleyway. Michael's mind seemed to freeze time and break apart everything about the buyer that was important.

The buyer had a teardrop tattoo below his left eye, a prison tattoo. The ink was worn, so it had been present for some time. This man was definitely not a cop. The wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes spoke to age and stress, but his eyes were still intelligent. Michael felt sure this was a small-time dealer, but not a user.

"You from the Hunter?" asked the other man.

"Yeah," said Michael quietly. "Let's see your offer."

The man opened a small bag and Michael saw the crisp hundred dollar bills. Satisfied, he handed the man the pouch. The buyer examined the product for a moment, and nodded to himself.

That was when it went wrong. Michael heard a noise behind him, out of instinct, he spun around, gun held straight out in front of him. He saw a figure, a male. Michael didn't take the time to think, didn't take the time to analyze and that was a mistake. He pulled the trigger, aiming right for the head. The bullet hit the target right between the eyes… soft innocent eyes… the eyes of a child. As if in slow motion, he saw the boy open his mouth, shocked. Then, the blonde boy fell backwards, dead. For ten seconds, Michael stood there, with a single thought passing through his mind.

I just killed a child.

Michael's arms shook and he ran, stuffing the money and gun under his shirt. He didn't know why, but all he knew to do was run as fast and as hard as he could. He could hear Hunter and his boys calling after him, but that didn't matter right then. All that mattered was to run, to run and get away.

Because as long as he was running, he didn't have to think; and as long as he didn't have to think, he didn't have to admit what he'd just done. Michael ran for what felt like days. People shouted at him, and threatened to call the police. He ignored them. Michael ran through the broken-down streets. He passed abandoned buildings and shops. He flew through an entire district and kept running until the buildings and people began to change into the upscale part of town. He ran until he simply couldn't move anymore and finally collapsed into a garbage bin.

It was only at that point he realized that Hunter and the boys would think he'd stolen from them. After all, he was supposed to bring the money back to the group. Michael hadn't been meaning to steal the money, but he certainly couldn't waltz back to the group and tell them that. He was out, and after what he'd done to the kid, Michael didn't want to go back.

How far and how long he'd run, Michael had no clue, but it was far from the slums of Chicago he was used to. It was clear that he didn't fit in with the people here, many wearing designer jeans or fine suits. In the slums, he knew how to blend in. It was easy. All you had to do was walk with your eyes down and swear at anyone who talked to you. This place was different. Here the buildings were taller than any he knew, and cars zoomed by too quick to follow. And the sheer number of people… They couldn't even contain themselves to the damn sidewalk they were all pushing and moving too fast. A few saw him and a couple offered him help, or a sympathetic dollar bill. This place was different, people here didn't carry guns and deal drugs to get by. These people were pristine and clean, not dangerous.

Carefully, Michael ducked back further into his alleyway until he couldn't see anyone except a sleeping homeless man. He decided that this was a place he could lay low for a bit. He'd been eating well during his time with the group, and he had some money in his pocket: enough to get some clothes and maybe even some ID from the black market.

Michael knew something was wrong with him. He was out of danger's way, he'd dodged the bullet but his gut was still tight and his body was still laced with adrenaline.

I'm not scared... I'm angry, he thought.

He looked down at the gun his hand… He'd killed a child… If Michael had seen another man kill a child, surely he would kill them...

Slowly, he raised the gun to his head, finger on the trigger. It would be kinder if he died for what he did… but the anger in his stomach boiled white-hot. He wasn't just mad at himself. He hated the entire group of thugs and gangsters in the city. It was them and their empire that lead to death and punishment of others. He lowered the gun, putting the safety back on. Yes, Michael had played his part in the crime of the city, and in time, he'd pay for what he'd done in whatever way possible. However, before that time, he wanted to help set things as right as he could. Maybe he could fix some of what he'd caused and make criminals pay.

The question was: How? Michael spun the problem around in his head for hours before finally passing into restless sleep.