Only That Fit to Print

Who: Lucas
Where: The Echo
When: Early Morning

There were perks to sleeping in his office most nights. They seemed few and far between to the observer, but for Lucas, a cat nap on the couch in his office meant a multitude of things. He could sift through cases and reports in work by his co-workers, keeping his family name out of them, as well as swiping the better story by going through others notes. It didn't really win him friends, but those who cared, or realized what he did, just took their notes home with them.

Every so often though, something as glorious as the package that had shown up at the Echo came when he was the only one around to take it. If other people had been in the office already it would have never made its way to his desk, Lucas knew that much. He was one of their best, but they didn't give him great stories, he took the great stories. But there hadn't been anyone else there, and thus it fell into his hands.

He'd skimmed the contents for a moment then got up to lock the door to his office. Slowly, meticulously, and carefully he worked his way through the photos, unlit cigarette dangling from his lip. He took in everything, the way the torture played out across the man's skin, the progression of damage, the pain captured on film, all of it with a devilish smile on his lips. Everything about it appealed to the darker side of him, the side that longed for pain, giving and receiving. He loved it.

He studied both letters, the neatly typed informative letter and the scrawled and blood splattered confession. Both were interesting and both were his. He knew full well there was a phone call to make, one to the lovely Sam about the fire bug and his confession. There was also one that needed to be made to his far scarier cousin about the root of the torture. Lucas flipped back through the pictures again, just to make sure. Yes, definitely could be Max's handiwork.

Leaning back in his chair Lucas lit the cigarette, blowing smoke at the ceiling while he thought. There was a way to spin it away from Max, that much he'd already figured out. He'd paint the police as the ones at fault. That they wasted too much time before putting a sufficient investigator on the task. They'd twiddled their thumbs and finally some vigilante bothered to take on the challenge of hunting down trouble and forcing the confession. The typed letter would stay out, but the confession would go in. He'd send it to Sam, but not until the copy went into the evening paper. The pictures were a different story. The pictures he knew better than to post, but he also wondered if it was worth sending to the police either. Maybe he'd just shove them in a drawer until he took them home later. He rubbed his forehead a little, trying to smooth the lines of frustration there. They were going to make him look old.

Lucas didn't lean forward again until he'd finished the cigarette. When he did, he fished out his bottle of whiskey and a glass, pouring himself a good portion. Drink in hand he loaded a sheet of paper into his typewriter and started. Lucas Spitfire would be the byline on the front page of the paper, fuck Hollis and his promotion. This was much better.