He ducked beneath the yellow tape as it billowed in the evening breeze, his anger displayed prominently upon his face as he hastily weaved a path through the sea of officers. Scowling beneath his breath, he complained, "Three o'clock in the morning. Better be damned good to drag my out of bed, or some putz is gonna find out first-hand about my ability to get along with others."

"Harvey, tone it down. The beats are going to think you're crazy," she said, as she fell into pace with Bullock. She snapped her fingers twice, calling the attentions of two officers and indicating the front door. "No press until you hear from me."

"What am I coming into Montoya?" he asked in response, wishing that he had a strong cup of coffee and a couple aspiring. "Whole lotta blue for your typical homicide. What gives?"

"Nothing run-of-the-mill about this one. House is owned by one of Gotham's up-and-up, name of Shamus Westlake. Came from old Gotham money, which was lost in the days following the quake. With the reopening of the city, Westlake returned to the forefront and began rebuilding his empire, much to the disdain of his competitors."

"Sounds like a DeeZee hit."

"Maybe..."

"What? You know something I don't? By all means, fill me in," Bullock replied with a marked edge of bitterness in his words. He hated all the guesswork, all the questions and answers, and he just wanted to get to the meat of the case, to have someone lay the black-and-white out in front of him. But it was never that easy.

"Westlake never left Gotham," Montoya responded, leading Bullock up the mahogany staircase to the second floor. "Yeah, he lost his money in the collapse of Gotham, but he was one of the few that got stuck on the bridge in the gridlock to escape. He was forced to tough it out with the rest, and he managed to survive that."

"Kinda makes you wonder how a guy like that makes every magically reappear, don't it?"

Montoya hung a sharp left, entering the master bedroom with Bullock on her heels. From behind her, she heard a low growl as Bullock's gaze fell upon her partner, Crispis, and she cut him Bullock off before he could comment by saying, "That's one of the holes in our case."

"There's more than one?" Harvey asked, swallowing the insult he had prepared for the detective he had been forced to employ. He shivered beneath his overcoat and waited for an answer, "Well?"

Straightening-up from his kneeling position, Crispis slip his glasses up the tip of his nose and said, "Evening to you, too, Seargent Bullock. Don't suppose you brought the coffee? No, I thought not. Skipping to the point, notice any problems, Seargent?"

Bullock peered around the room, taking note of the major monuments and the swathe of lab technicians gathered around each one: blood stains, a broken mirror, splintered furniture, stripped wallpaper, and a door hanging over its hinges. Then the realization came, and he asked, "How long has the scene been open?"

"Twenty or thirty minutes, tops," Montoya answered, checking the hands on her watch. "Beats were first on the scene, and we called you on our way in."

Bullock's mind sifted through the haze of memories from the ride in and his arrival outside the site. Mentally, he counted the police cars out front and said, "No coroner on site. Where's the stiff?"

"I hadn't even lit the signal yet," the man said, tying his overcoat tighter against the rooftop winds, apparently talking to the shadows. He turned toward the blackened projector and remarked, "You might as well answer me. I know you're here."

"I must be losing my touch," a gruff voice answered as the shadows surged forward, slowly evaporating into the silhouette of an imposing man clothed in black. "How long til I have access?"

"No guarantees. My men won't be cleared out til after dawn, which I know doesn't help you much. Forensics is just getting in the door now. Any ideas?"

"The trail's going to be cold by tomorrow night. Who's your team on the inside?" Batman asked, standing tall and gathering his cap about him.

"Montoya and Allen are the investigative. Bullock's on site as my eyes and ears. We're preparing to issue a statement to the press."

"It's too soon."

"The press is chomping at the bit to know something."

""They don't need to know that the body is unaccounted for. My city doesn't need to be panicked."

Gordon met the man's gaze straight-on, knowing more than to let the Batman intimidate him. For a moment, he questioned whether he should how Batman knew about the missing corpse, but he thought better of it. "What do you suggest?"

There was a moment's hesitation as Batman replied, "Have your men finish their work at the crime scene, then reduce your local manpower to three officers. I want full access to the site by nightfall tomorrow. I'll get word to you of my findings in twenty-four hours."

"What about the evidence? Do you need access to..." Gordon trailed off, letting his words drift into silence as he realized he was talking to empty air.

She paced the room uncomfortably, waiting as the last of the tech and forensics officers exited the bedroom. She watched as Crispis glanced at her time and again, and she knew that he could see her anxiety. And then, there were alone at last, and she said, "Let's walk this through."

Crispis turned away from the window and slowly traced his way across the bedroom, careful not to step atop of the crime scene's flagged areas. In a flat tone, he responded, "It's going to be difficult to assign a timeframe without a victim."

Montoya shook her head in disagreement and said, "9-1-1 received a call at three-fifteeen this morning. Witness says she called the minute she heard the shots."

"We'll need transcripts of that call. Who was the witness?"

"Refused to give her name and left the phone hanging off the cradle. The call was placed on a payphone half a mile down the road."

Just a passerby out for a walk at three in the morning?" Crispis asked with a note of sarcasm in his voice. "Even at a sprint, in street clothes none-the-less, that phone booth is a good three to six minutes away from the crime scene."

"Which means that we can backtrack the time-of-death to just after three a.m. Where's the victim coming from at this hour?"

"Television was still warm downstairs, left on the infomercials. It's reasonable to think that the victim fell asleep watching late nite TV, then stumbled upstairs to bed, where he was attacked."

"He was an easier target sleeping on the couch. There would have been less of a struggle," Montoya pointed out, gesturing toward the upheaval of the bedroom.

"But there was no angle to the street," Crispis countered, tracing a latex-covered hand over two matching bullet holes in the wall nearest the door. "The parlor is at the rear of the house, and the drapes were stationary, meaning no outside views of the public chambers."

"Bet you a cup of coffee that the victim wasn't killed by someone outside this room."

"I'm not biting, Renee. Tell me what you got," he declined, knowing better than to doubt her intuitions, despite the relatively short duration of their partnership.

"Bulletholes suggest a trajectory that support your claim, but look at the chalk," Montoya responded, kneeling beside the outline of the blood stains. "Okay, we don't have a body, but visualize it. In your case, the victim is shot from outside, two strays lodge in the wall and the victim falls face-first on the floor, leaving a pool of blood. So tell me, where's the broken glass?"

Crispis looked to the base of the window and to the carpet below. Slowly, he ran his hand to the back of his neck and began to massage the muscles at the base. Mumbling, he said, "Get a couple of forensics boys across the street, see if there are any bullets in the side of that building."

There were some that would call her isolationist and antisocial, but those who cast such aspersions were usually the farthest removed from Barbara's social circles. In truth, Barbara moved throughout a good number of circles, and he tendency to sit alone in the clocktower only furthered that movement. The tower itself had been a fixture of Gotham City's olden days, but was refurbished and redecorated to suit her needs as an information courier, and to double as a mobile dispatch for the Gotham City Police Department.

Tonight, the tower was abuzz with activity, intercepting police and military transmissions from around the globe, watching for keywords, and recording it all silently. In the center of these transmissions, Barbara sat in her wheelchair, her attentions focused upon a direct feed from the GCPD's private cellular frequencies. A microphone twisted around her cheek, and spoke softly, saying, "Oracle to Batman. Looks like another loose end just popped up."

"Montoya is recalling a forensics team to the crime scene. I'm watching them arrive now," he responded, his low and gruff tone trembling the bass receptors of her communications system.

Dividing her main view screen, Oracle began scrolling through a list of figures. Continuing, she said, "I've been watching for movement in his finances and insurance coverages. So far, it's all been silent, but I'm being cautious."

"Probably wise. Have there been any press announcements?"

"Not yet. Dad's sitting tight on your orders, waiting twenty-four hours. After that, he's going to release a missing persons all-points for Westlake."

"Twenty-four hours is too long now. Arrange for a leak to the press. I want Westlake found before the trail gets too cold. Also, get me a list of high-dollar and/or repetitive dollar exchanges from his financial records," Batman responded, and she immediately began to input his requests.

"What are we looking for?"

"Motive."

The precinct was a madhouse of chatter and ringing phones, and upon entering, Montoya immediately wished that she had a bottle of aspirin and some spring water. She checked her watch again, and it was seven a.m. Four hours lost to a messy crime scene and almost nothing to show for it.

Crispis took a seat across from Montoya's desk, and took the phone off the hook without missing a beat. He looked up at her and said, "I hope forensics turns something up. We're running on empty."

"Doubtful, but it's good to hope," she responded, ruffling the snarls from her hair and wishing she'd had time to wash it. "Besides, we still have no body. Kinda makes it hard prove murder without a corpse."

"What are the other options?"

"Kidnapping, extortioin, insurance fraud. For all we know, Westlake coulda stumbled off to a hospital on his own."

"Local registries are empty," Crispis replied, shaking his head. "I had dispatch check earlier."

"Still, it wouldn't hurt to run them again, maybe even run the medical clinics for anonymous patients matching his description," she countered, scrawling a reminder to do so on her desk calendar.

"Why's Gordon keeping this quiet with the press?"

"Two reasons. One, we don't know if there's been a murder. GCPD needs to keep face. And two, if the victim is still alive, we want him to stay that way. He's either in hiding or being held against his will. If we go public, we run the risk of him taking flight or his jailer deciding Westlake is a liability and offing him."

"Again, you're assuming that he's not already..."

"Montoya! Allen! Bullock! My Office! Now!" a yelling voice interrupted from behind closed doors, and Montoya shrugged toward her partner, equally as confused as to what had angered the Commissioner.

The shuffled past Bullock's office as the obese officer exited and fell in line behind them. And no sooner had they entered Gordon's office then he slammed the door behind them, pointed toward the small-screen television, and said, "Somebody explain this."

"...just learned that prominent Gotham financier, Shamus Westlake, is currently missing and believed dead. Police sources have refused to comment on the case other than to indicate that Westlake was apparently involved in a scuffle within the confines of his Gotham Heights home. In related news, an anonymous source has offered a $250,000 reward for information leading to the discovery of Shamus Westlake's whereabouts..."

Next Issue: The investigation continues as the clock beats against Montoya and Allen. Batman takes his investigation underground. But is there even a victim?