<div class="floatleft">(http://img819.imageshack.us/img819/3311/filmnoir3.jpg)</div><strong>Drake Holland</strong><br/><strong>Age:</strong>35<br/><strong>Crime:</strong>Aggravated assault, torture, attempted murder<br/><strong>Location:</strong>New New York, Public Library<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Phaedra<br/><hr/>Drake staggered to his feet.  His eyes were watering, and he couldn't stop coughing.  He'd taken in too much smoke, far too much, trying to help Phaedra haul the two unconscious berks to the window and toss them out, and now he was paying for it.  How did the saying go? "No good deed goes unpunished"?<br/><br/>He felt his sunglasses fall off as he toppled facefirst onto the snow, and heard the lenses crunch as he stepped on them in his attempt to regain his footing.  The woman--Phaedra--seemed oddly appreciative of his efforts; he was glad that someone did.<br/><br/>That was before everything went to hell, though.  When the vans exploded, the shock wave nearly sent Drake off sprawling to the ground again.  Only by grasping onto Phaedra's shoulder did he stay upright.  After that, there was a surreal moment of silence, with only the crackling of flames and the eerie wail of the fire alarm in the background.<br/><br/>When he regained lucidity again, he realized Phaedra was shouting at him.  What was she shouting? Come on?  Where did she want him to go?  Why not just surrender? Better than getting shot for resisting arrest, any day of the week.  "Nnngh," he murmured, shaking his head. "Less just....less just...they're the cops," he finished, somewhat less than intelligently.<br/><br/>Then two things struck him at once.  First, he felt the bulky weight of the shrink's half-melted tablet in his pocket.   That alone didn't mean anything to him.  It was just a pound or two of electronics and plastic, of value only to a woman who would never need a tablet ever again.   He could take it or leave it.<br/><br/>But he suddenly remembered, like the icy touch of a ghost's fingers upon his brain, the third voice he had heard in the library:<em>He’s here, the one who killed her. I know it. You know it. Wont get it wrong this time... this time you’ll make sure you aren’t caught, either.</em><br/><br/>Suddenly the tablet was the most important thing in the world.  If the data could be retrieved from it...he could read the profiles of each of these lunatics.  The shrink would have their case histories, their crimes spelled out in detail.<strong>He could find out which was the one who killed Marilyn.  </strong><br/><br/>That was the only thing that mattered.  Everything else was unimportant.  He didn't care if he was fleeing the scene of a crime; the only thing he cared about was finding out what the tablet had to say, so he could exact his vengeance at long, long last.<br/><br/>He looked up.  Half of the cops were injured or reeling on the ground; the other half were busy arresting others of his group.  No one happened to be looking his way at the moment.<br/><br/>He glanced down the nearest alley and, after a moment's indecision, bolted, sprinting as fast as his legs would carry him.