Michael Franzoni

"Let me ask you a question, Renee" he began, lifting the yellow tape so that she could duck underneath. Pressing his coat to his stomach, he followed her under, stepping carefully along the old boards of the peer. The wind whipped along the shore, making it difficult to hear, forcing him to raise his voice slightly. "Nothing too personal, I promise. I'm just curious."

She glanced back at him, pulling a pair of latex gloves from her belt and sliding them over her hands. Smiling, she replied, "Just ask, Crispis. Stop dragging your feet."

The scene was packed, flooded with white spotlights and blue uniforms, as they crossed directly to the black tarp. Water sprayed over the edges of the dock, throwing a taste of brine into the air. Several officers cleared from their path, trying their best not to impede an already disturbing case. Bending to a crouch, Allen cleared his throat and asked, "Don't you ever get tired of this? Dragging yourself out to a crime scene, and finding that there was nothing you could do to prevent any of this from happening."

"I try not to think about it."

"That's not an answer."

"No, it's not," she retorted, joining him on the other side of the body. Her fingers laced over the edge of the tarp and inching it backwards. She inhaled sharply as her gaze fell upon the body, and continued. "We're out here to do a job, and if we're not here to make sure justice is served, then none of this is ever going to end. That's why I do the job, because someone has to. There are too many people who would rather put that responsibility on someone else. Gotham doesn't need me to be another. I don't suppose things were any different in Metropolis?"

"Not in the least. We all wear the shield, Montoya. One city or another, it doesn't matter. I was just curious to your motivations," he said, fixing his attentions on his partner. When she finished, he took the tarp from her and pulled it the rest of the way down, revealing the corpse in full. Clicking his tongue, he said, "I hope you're wondering what I'm wondering."

"Who made the identity on the body?"

"How'd they do it?" Crispis asked with a nod, confirming the direction of her questioning. Gesturing toward the face, he pointed out, "Facial lascerations will make it almost impossible to make visual confirmation against photographs, at least until the excess blood is cleared away by the examiner. Body type and stature match his profile, but even so, this one isn't open and shut."

Montoya touched the face lightly, pressing at the cheeks and jawline, then said, "Bruise tissue, too. Probably beaten before anything else. And his jaw is stiff. Either rigormortus or off-joint. That's going to rule out dental records, unless the coroner cuts in."

"Go for the latter. The blood's still warm, so his joints aren't going to seize up for a little while. He hasn't been dead for too long, and I'm sure the coroner can confirm that. I doubt we'll have to worry about family blocking a thorough autopsy. Records show he and his wife were estranged long before the quake."

"Nor was he killed here," Montoya responded, pointing back toward the head of the peer. "The lab tech's are already fluorescing the scene. There's a trail of blood leading from the edge of the pier to the body's location. Looks like it was dragged here, but why?"

"Back in the day, the families would make their kills in public places, to demonstrate the reach of their power. Each of their hitmen had a signature style, usually only known to the members of the other families," Allen said, tracing a finger along the victim's chest. "Triple-tap to the chest and another to the esophagus. Quick and soundless death, even if he was beaten prior to the shots."

"We need to check with forensics. See what kind of shells they've recovered from the scene and compare them to Westlake's house."

"I'm willing to bet that they're different weapons. They both seem to have different stopping power. The gunshot wounds in this victim don't indicate clear passage. No exit wounds."

Renee nodded, continuing her train of thought by saying, "I also want the M.E. to make this autopsy her first priority. We need to know if this is Simon Westlake, and if it isn't, I wanna know who's pulling our chains."

The man looked down at his cards, contemplating the mix of red and black. Warily, he eyed the men that sat around the table, trying to read into their expressions and discern his next move. His glance turned toward the small pile of chips that remained in front of him, comparing them to the winnings of his opponents. Cursing beneath his breath, he thrust his cards into the center of the table and said, "<I fold.>"

"<Fyodor, why not split your earnings among the three of us? You lose less money this way, no?>" another man teased from across the table, upping the ante by throwing a couple more chips into the center. He was bulky in the shoulders, stretching his sweater wide across the broad length. "<I raise your bet and call.>"

The next player cleared his throat loudly, casting a contemptuous glare at the man to his right. "<You call your bets too early, Alexei. Show some courage and stay in the game a little longer. No more playing for peanuts.>"

"<Money is money, until we get paid, Mikhail. We play with what we do not have. Still, some of us are more risk-takers than others,>" Alexei responded, nodding his head toward the fourth player. "<How do you bet?>"

The fourth is not given the chance to answer as a cold voice calls from the darkness, saying, "I think it's time to call this game a loss for everyone." Slowly, the shadows descended upon them, crashing through the table. As the table split beneath his weight, the two halves rocketed upward, slapping two of the Russians beneath their jaws and flipping them onto their backs with a loud bang. The wind knocked out of them, they scurried to move away from the table as the shadowed figure reversed his momentum and somersaulted onto an open space of floor.

Silence had encapsulated the room, the russian men either unable or unwilling to cloud the air with senseless chatter. Fyodor reached for his gun, fumbling with the leather tethers that held it within its holster but finally freeing it. The moments wasted were moments lost, and he would not be allowed the chance to recover. The man in shadow moved with an unrivaled furvor, sending a metallic bat whistling through the air. There is a sharp sound of metal colliding with metal, sharp and screeching, and the gun flies from Fyodor's hand just as a strong boot lurches against his mid-section, knocking the wind from him. Fyodor found himself face-level with the approaching knee, and then saw nothing more.

Flipping backwards, the shadowed man vaulted over Mikhail's head, the heavy weight of his cape dragging along the Russian's face through descent to the floor. The shadow swiveled back around, bring the back of his fist to bear with the side of Mikhail's skull, and following it with a brutal assault from the other hand, shattering the bridge Mikhail's nose. Blood sprayed into the air, and the Russian fell to the floor, cradling his broken face.

Thrashing the thick fabric of his cape backwards, the shadowed man stepped slowly and imposingly toward the two men who still lay on their backs. He paused above Alexei, staring with a menace in his eyes that could not be described. For a moment, he looked away, taking note of the three unconscious men and making sure that they were still out. Then again, he moved like liquid lightning, dragging the bulky Russian by the shirt and lifting him into the air. The man thrashed wildly in his grip, trying to get free. Bringing him close, the shadow spoke, "Tell me about your business with Westlake."

"<...d-d-d-dead...>" Alexei replied, still struggling to gather breath from the initial attack. Feabily, he brought his hands up to block his face, his strong arms trembling with fear in the face of an urban myth.

"How?"

"<We gave him to the Lucky Hand Triad...to settle a debt.>"

"<Consider your debt absolved. Your money is no good in my city. Nor will it ever be. Leave Gotham,>" the shadowed man replied, changing up languages and pulling the Russian closer to his cowl. His grip tightened on the Russian, and his head nodded slightly toward the unconscious comrades on the floor. Reiterating his point, the Batman snarled, "<Tonight.>"

The air wreaked of formaldehyde, and she fought to breathe past it and ignore the smell. She hated the mortuary. More than any other part of the precinct, this was the one that got to her the most. For some reason, it was the largest reminder of the futility of their jobs, that sometimes, it wasn't going to turn-out alright in the end. Still, it was a part of the job, and she knew better than to show a weak stomach for this portion of forensics. Standing by the doorway, she asked, "What do you have for us, doc?"

"Three gunshot wounds - from a low-caliber pistol, in succession - to the right shoulder, sternum, and the lower abdomen. All three bullets lodged in the body, probably due to a lack of momentum upon penetration. However, the gunshots were received after a thorough beating by no less than three antagonists," the doctor said, removing the latex gloves from his hands and sighing.

Allen stepped to the edge of the table, examining the body as he asked, "Seems like a wild assumption, doctor. How do you know it was three or more opponents?"

"No assumption whatsoever, Detective Allen. Come with me," he said, leading the detectives to an X-ray board, the examiner flipped a switch and began to trace the projection, saying, "As you can see, there are several contusions to the head, chest, back, and stomach, each of varying size and intensity. However, if you look closer, you can tell where the knuckle indentations of the fist assaults were landed. The size difference in those indentations is enough to suggest multiple attackers. Plus, I have reason to believe that some of the attacks, primarily those to the back and to the chest, were landed concurrently."

"Which means he likely saw one of his attackers. And if he was attacked from behind at the same time, that could mean premeditation. Renee, what's ballistics have to say on the bullets?"

She looked through a manila folder that had previously been tucked beneath her arm and replied, "The gun used on the victim was a twenty-two caliber, enough to kill if there's enough shots fired, but not usually deadly to the center mass. Twenty-two is a standard-issue that anyone in Gotham can buy after a waiting period. Bullets had their numbers shaved away, so they're untraceable. The shells pulled from the building across the street from Westlake's apartment were high-powered rifle rounds used in conjunction with a street-suped version of the AK-47 that is apparently quite popular with the resurfacing Russian drug czars across the country. The rounds in the bedroom wall were a third type,

"You saying that the families are returning to Gotham?"

"It's ripe for the picking. A brand new look, big money being spent all around, and people desperate to rebuild their lives. Wouldn't surprise me if the syndicates are trying their weight back into a fresh arena, despite its history of running-out the Vittones and the Bertinellis. And then there's the Batman-factor as well. Not exactly a friendly environment for organized crime, but it could be with the right cultivation."

Allen shook his head, ignoring the bit on the Batman and soaking this all in bit-by-bit. Distracting himself, he turned back to the doctor and asked, "Have you been able to positively identify the victim as Simon Westlake?"

The coroner nodded briefly, adjusting the tie that hung loosely beneath his lab coat and answered, "Yes, Detective Allen and Montoya, you officially have a murder investigation on your hands."

"I've got movement, Batman," she said, channeling her voice directly into his cowl. He listened intently, paying close attention the brightly-lit dashboard of the Batmobile. As usual, her voice was calm, yet triumphant, as if she had stumbled onto some long-hidden secret. "I thought you might be interested."

He punched the accelerator, whipping the wheel into a tight lefthand turn. The buildings streamed by in blurs of color and light, a still-frame portrait of Gotham that few were given the chance to appreciate. A police scanner chimed quietly in the background, easing his mind with the caucophony of sound. Knowing Barbara, she probably had a similar array functioning in her clock tower, but perhaps on more global of a scale. Clearing his throat, he answered, "Tell me."

"Gotham City Savings and Trust. Electronic transfer of funds from an annuities account held under his father's name. Only problem is, the account was opened after the reopening of Gotham, and Westlake's father has been dead for some time, which is what left him in charge of the family business. In fact, the bank is new to the city."

"Who is the recipient?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the road and his ears on the details of a routine shoplifting at the Gotham Shopping Center.

"There's nothing set-in-stone, yet. The money's bouncing around from account to account, mostly filtering through off-shore accounts and German bonds, but ultimately landing nowhere. It's splintered three times, already. I doubt that the GCPD's hackers could monitor movement like this," she replied, the soft whine of her wheelchair wheels sliding across the floor filtering in the distance.

He growled slightly, but not loud enough for it to carry across the com-link. He couldn't put a beat to it, couldn't make it dance. Why would the Russians and Lucky Hand Triad work in conjunction, especially in regards to a globally low-ranking businessman. Shaking his head, he replied, "Keep an eye on the movement and document any discrepancies that arise. How did Westlake move the money into the fund initially?"

"That was the tricky part," she called back, and he could hear the distinct tapping of keys in the background, as Oracle pulled up the information before her. "He was utilizing a computer virus, a worm, to skim funds off the top end of his gross margin, essentially underplaying any profit that his company was making. This wouldn't have benefitted his stock profile any, but it was an effective way to secure the liquid that he needed. I found the virus embedded in, of all things, his company's email software. Everytime an intraoffice communique was forwarded or replied-to, the worm would activate and slough the top point-zero-one percent of the company's profit margin. It's a slow build-up, but it's quite lucrative in the long-run. I'm looking at close to seven figures over the course of the last few months. And since Westlake does his own books, it would only be caught on an IRS audit, which he wasn't going to wait for."

"Is it possible that he is utilizing the same procedure to move this money? As the money is splintering, does the account balance remain accurate?"

"To a degree, yes. Accounting for bank surcharges and rapid turnaround, as well as interest accruel, it's difficult to monitor exactly."

"Continue to watch the money's movement. Flag any off-shore accounts in the orient, and monitor progression through those accounts. If you notice any repeating account numbers, flag those as well. If the Lucky Hand is involved, they'll know soon enough not to stake their claims on Gotham," he said with a renewed vigor, flipping the on-board guide systems to trace a route toward Chinatown.

Next Issue: The Mystery Crime comes to a crashing conclusion as Batman and the GCPD collide in their quest to bring the killer to justice. Meanwhile, there are sinister indications of future problems in Gotham, and only one truth can stand revealed. Will there be a new status-quo for Gotham City, or will life return to its normal beat, ignorant of the world around it?