The rain in the metropolis always smells like rust.
As I parked my patrol car next to the fire hydrant on Seventh Street, the wipers were swiping across the windshield three times a second, churning the glow of the neon tubes into pools of fuzzy orange. Megan in the passenger seat was using a marker to draw my caricature on the case record book - a policeman with a beer belly and the words "Justice late but never absent" written on his forehead.
"Kobe, you didn't sleep well last night." She suddenly capped the pen and poked my arm with the tip of the pen. "The bags under your eyes are almost as big as the police badge."
I pulled up the brim of my hat to cover half of my face. The evening news from the Daily Planet was playing on the radio. Clark's voice came through the electric current, as steady as a wheat field in Missouri. He was reporting on a chemical plant leak in the south of the city, and there was nothing unusual between the lines, as if he was just an ordinary reporter who had just returned from the scene, rather than the superman who used his heat vision to fuse three high-pressure water pipes three hours ago.
