Davis was a photojournalist, famous for his true crime pictorials depicting all manner of depravities, including gruesome murders and violent assaults. He won Pulitzers and was the only photographer regularly on the best sellers’ list.

Davis was eventually released. He had not actually committed the crimes. Rather, he knew the people who had and went along to document them. People still believed it a disgrace, but that didn’t stop them from buying his books.

The murder scene was wiped clean long before the police arrived to trample it in their carelessness. It didn’t matter. Their best evidence was always manufactured.

Carl would maintain his innocence until the day he was executed. Most non-biased observers believed him. He was a convenient fall guy to take the blame for a crime that couldn’t be solved. Yet no one dared leap to his defense. If the court system officially concluded Carl had murdered a family of seven while at the same time driving his taxi on the other side of the city, who was anyone to argue.

Later, he explained the solitude was good for him.

He grappled with what to do next, but everything made sense. The police scanners were quiet, news was normal. He was safe. Tonight, nine days later, he could kill again. The cycle continues.

From guest contributor, Kevin Reitz

It was the case that made him. No motives. No suspects. The victim was by all accounts universally beloved.

So when the poor widow received an unsigned letter–explaining how her late husband hired an ex-soldier to murder him before Sarcoidosis left him completely debilitated–it was twenty years too late to matter.

Nobody has ever seen a hero quite like the Masked Crusader. Resplendent in his uniform of blue and yellow, he combines colossal strength with supersonic flight and a prodigious intellect. He seems to have leapt right off the pages of the monthly comics.

But his greatest nemesis proves the suddenness of crime. He invariably arrives just after the fact.