Diana Trillion leaps up from her desk, sending up a flurry of paperwork in her wake. She half-jogs, half-staggers to the Chief's office, encumbered by a smart jacket and pencil skirt that are just on this side of too chic. Her wild hair always seems a half-step behind, while her jittery, self-conscious manner does little to convey the brilliant mind behind her over-sized glasses.
Jim Trooay, on the other hand, doesn't even bother to get up. His nose in an overstuffed manila folder, he rolls across the bustling police department, deftly navigating coffee-toting assistants and uniformed officers without looking up from the file. Trooay cares little for his appearance, as evidenced by his coffee-stained oxford shirt, ratty tweed pants, and his socks -- one argyle, one checked -- stuffed into two dilapidated brown leather shoes.
The Chief wastes no time with pleasantries: "Alright, you two -- I hope that you've had enough time to learn your lesson from the Esson Madees inci-- for Pete's sake, Jim! Look at a man when he's talking to you!"
"Whuh? Oh, sorry, Chief ... I just can't get enough of this HODOX file! We were so close to Dentist that time, and I'm just sure I can get a new angle on him!"
"I'm afraid we have more pressing matters at hand, Jim. No sense in dredging up ancient history around here, not with this madman on the loose. Tell me, Trillion ... what do you know about ... The Roddler?"
Trillion recites her own file on the criminal mastermind: "The Roddler, née Richard Enbalz, is as close to this reality's version of a mad scientist as can be found. Widely assumed to have formulated many of Mr. Dentist's most deadly concoctions, his understanding of the chemical world is matched only by his capacity for evil. Although he has never been formally charged with any criminal activity, he remains on the short list of suspects in many cases -- The Beatlemania epidemic of 1991, the Jeezum Medicine shortage of 1997, and last year's PDPW outbreak. While the source of his pseudonym has never been confirmed, many believe it has something to do with his obsession with vials, silos, and walking canes."
Trooay lets out a whistle: "Boy, Diana ... most of the time I'm just amazed you can find your damn keys every day, but then you show off what that brain can really do and--"
Showing only the faintest sign that Trooay's comment has fazed her, Trillion continues: "He currently resides at Bell End, a 19th century mansion on the outskirts of Docks City, where he runs an online craft shop specializing in glassblowing and woodcarving. He also hosts a weekly public access show about both hobbies, and has a modest following, despite (or perhaps because of) his criminal associations." One could hear the parentheses in that last sentence.
The Chief allows a small amount of fatherly pride to creep into his otherwise crabby features. "Good work, Trillion. As you probably know, we've had surveillance on this guy for years. We've got agents posing as gardeners at Bell End and even as techies on his show ... I can't believe he gets away with calling it Blowin' and Wood, but he does and that's beside the point. The point is that we've collected almost enough evidence to be able to arrest this guy for building weapons of mass destruction. O'Danahan even managed to nab blueprints for something big. Unfortunately, as you can see ... well, it's a pretty crummy copy."
The Chief produces a large, faded rendering that just barely reveals a long, slender object reminiscent of a long-range missile. Written in an exacting hand above the drawing are two inscrutable words -- the only letters that are legible read:
-I-K --CK--S
Trooay and Trillion make eye contact for the first time in six weeks. He breaks the silence: "Well, Diana, it looks like we've got a mad scientist to take down."
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SILK JACKETS? I think not, dear reader! Tune in next time for our first-ever continued storyline! Hopefully the wait won't be long...
