The pickup cruised across the bay bridge toward Gotham City. The late afternoon sunlight showcased rust spots in the lower panels of the decade old Dodge. Hardened urban drivers zoomed around the vehicle, many of them smirking a the Georgia plates.
The driver kept his speed a couple of miles under the posted speed limit, and kept the truck in the center of the six lane thoroughfare as much as he could. The driver's side window was rolled down, and a muscular tattooed arm rested in the open space. David Allen Coe poured from the antiquated sound system. A Lexus passed by on the left, honking its displeasure at the truck's slow rate of speed. The driver watched the luxury car pull away, then flicked the remains of a cigarette out of the window. He glanced over at a closed shoebox riding at the opposite end of the bench seat, and kept driving steady.
Two nights later, Gotham City emergency personnel were called out to a raging fire. A low-dive restaurant called Jimmy's Blue Plate burned to the ground. The owner of the establishment, one Carl Edwards, an ex-con who still dabbled in the criminal underworld, was inside when the fire began. He never made it out. Also killed in the blaze was a man identified as Filepe Nunez, an illegal alien who was employed as a night janitor. The Gotham City Fire Department quickly ruled the fire an arson. Traces of accelerant were all over the smoking ruin. Police forensics later found that both Edwards and Nunez had been hogtied at the time of their deaths.
The day after the fire, Sal Suznik, the manager of a nearby run down apartment building named the Roundtree Arms, was shot in the head by an unseen assailant as he left the complex to run an errand. The murder happened in broad daylight. Investigators identified the killing weapon as a Remington .404 hunting rifle The bullet that shattered Suznik's skull was the kind of load normally used to hunt deer. The angle of the entry wound suggested that the shooter had fired from the top of a building across the street.
Hot on the heels of Suznik's death, a street pimp by the name of Long Daddy Slim was found knifed to death in a back ally, just two blocks from the Roundtree. The blade had punctured Long Daddy between the ribs and slid up into his heart. The death of a common pimp could have easily been written off, except Slim was a member of the Demonz, one of Gotham's many street gangs. This caused complications and drew attention.
Police Commissioner James Gordon put down the report on Long Daddy's death, and laid it in top of the ones detailing Suznik's demise and the arson at Jimmy's Blue Plate. Seated in front of Gordon were detectives Harvey Bullock and Rene Montoya, two of Gotham's finest.
"Quite a bit of activity in such a short time," said Gordon, "even for that part of town."
"Yeah," said Bullock, rolling a toothpick around his mouth. "Something is going down."
"Is it gang related?" asked Gordon. "Another outfit trying to move in on Demonz turf?"
"Maybe, but it doesn't look that way," said Montoya. "The diner was a hangout for the gang, but it wasn't used a s a base for any of their operations. Edwards was crooked, but he wasn't a gang member."
"Neither was Suznik, although we think he was a Demonz informant, giving them a safe house and shaking down his residents," said Bullock.
"Protection racket?" asked Gordon.
"Uh-huh," replied Bullock.
Gordon made a face. "This stinks," he said. "There has to be a stronger connection somewhere." He looked at the two detectives. "Find it."
That night, two Demonz foot soldiers were shot at close range. Bullock and Montoya arrived at the crime scene, stepped through the yellow police tape, and got a quick rundown from one of the officers on the site. Walking back to the bodies, Montoya squatted down on her heels to take a better look.
"Looks like a forty-five," she said indicating the fatal wounds.
"Mmm-hmm," replied Bullock, looking around the immediate area for anything that might catch his eye. Shadows leaped at his feet.
"Bullock."
The voice, no more than a whisper, sounded right next to his ear. Although he was a veteran of many years, and more than a few of these encounters, Harvey Bullock still jumped. Damn, he thought, I hate it when he does that.
"Look Rene, it's our favorite caped vigilante come to pay us a visit." Bullock peered into the gloom, but could just barely make out the figure in the dark. "What do you want, freak?"
"These two were targets of opportunity. Someone if hitting the Demonz. If the killer is not caught soon, the gang will start to lash out, and innocents will get hurt."
"Brilliant reasoning, Sherlock," said Bullock. "What about the other one, the pimp? Was he a target of opportunity?"
"No," said the shadow. "He was killed with a knife. That one was personal."
"Any idea what this is all about?" asked Montoya.
"Some," replied Batman.
"Care to share that with us?" inquired Bullock. When no answer was forthcoming, Bullock was hardly surprised to find that Batman was already gone, swallowed by the deep shadows.
In the early hours before dawn, Batman sat back in a chair in front of a huge computer screen installed inside the Batcave. His cowl lay behind his neck as he searched for an elusive clue that would make all of the puzzle pieces fit together. The man commonly known as Bruce Wayne pinched the bridge of his nose to help regain some focus. Suznik is the key, he thought. Pimps and street soldiers could have been killed for any number of reasons, but the apartment manager was specifically targeted.
"Green tea, Master Bruce?" As always, Alfred Pennyworth took care of his charge, just as he had since Bruce was eight years old.
"Thank you, Alfred." Batman took a small sip from his cup, and put it down, the brew already forgotten as his mind raced. He accessed the Gotham City police data base and punched in a request for all criminal activity regarding residents of the Roundtree Arms in the last six months.
The list was depressingly long. Most of it small time crime like petty larceny and insurance fraud. Scanning through the police reports, one suddenly caught his eye. A double homicide from six weeks ago. The victims were a young married couple who lived together at the Roundtree. He glanced at the cops who drew the case, Petrova and Gillman. Decent detectives, he thought, but the circumstances seemed to be against them.
According to their report, Tom and Ashley Martin were both abducted from their apartment in the middle of the night. Despite the struggle which obviously took place inside, and the time, none of the neighbors would come forward to aid the investigation.
The bodies had been dumped in a trash bin some blocks away. Both had been beaten to death, and Ashley had been sexually assaulted. Due to lack of evidence, and any eyewitnesses, there had been no arrests in the case.
Reading further into the report, Batman found that Ashley martin had been employed as a waitress at Jimmy's Blue Plate diner before her death. The couple was originally from out of state, and had only recently moved to Gotham. He read the remainder of the report and logged out, knowing that the night would bring more information.
Agnes Munson had lived alone at the Roundtree Arms since her husband had passed away. Mostly she kept to herself because the building was getting too dangerous for an old woman. After what happened to that nice couple across the hall, Agnes found herself wishing she could just escape and go be with her beloved Henry. That desire had yet to be granted.
She had just finished watching some idiot get kicked off of an island on television, and decided some hot cocoa would hit the spot before she turned in for the evening.
Carrying a cup back into the living room, Agnes nearly dropped it when she saw the figure standing next to her television set. The Dark Knight held a finger up to his lips, and then switched the device off.
"Mrs. Munson," said Batman gently, "I'm sorry for the intrusion, but I'd like to ask you a few questions."
"I don't know anything," she said. A slight tremor ran down her arms.
"Six weeks ago, the young couple that lived across the hall were beaten, abducted and later killed. They put up quite a struggle because their apartment was trashed. The front door was broken off of it's hinges. The attack took place late at night. You had to at least hear something."
Agnes Munson sagged. "May I sit down?" she asked. Batman nodded and gestured toward a chair. "That was a terrible night," began Agnes. "I woke up when the Martin's door was kicked in. The yelling and screaming began right after that. I could hear things being broken and thrown against the walls." She stopped a took a sip of hot chocolate. "I opened my door to see what was happening. A thug was standing in the hall. He said the most awful things to me, and then told me to mind my own business. The last thing I heard before closing the door was the sound of something hitting flesh, and the girl crying for help."
Silence reigned inside the apartment for a moment. Agnes raised her aged, wrinkled hands up before her eyes. Her voice was choked. "What could I have done?" she asked the hushed hero in front of her. "If Henry were still alive, he would have done something, but I'm just an old woman." Tears leaked down her face.
"You could have called the police," said Batman. "You could have cooperated when they came to investigate."
"I was scared," said Agnes. "Early the next morning, Mr. Suznik knocked on my door. He told me not to tell the police anything, and if I did, what happened to the Martins would be nothing compared to what would be done to me."
"The man you saw in the hall. Did he wear a jacket?"
"Yes," replied Agnes. "I'd seen them before. One of those Demonz."
"Thank you, Mrs. Munson," said Batman. "You've been very helpful. This time." He moved toward a window.
"You aren't going to tell anyone what I said, are you?"
The Caped Crusader stopped halfway out of the apartment. He gave Agnes Munson a long look. "Two people died, Mrs. Munson. Maybe you could not have prevented their deaths, but you could have helped bring the killers to justice. Now you have to live with the fact that you did nothing. I think that will be punishment enough." Agnes Munson began to cry as Batman disappeared into the night.
On a hunch, Batman visited the cemetery where the Martins had been buried. Decorating the grave of Ashley Martin was a bouquet of fresh flowers, placed there much more recently than six weeks ago. The Dark Knight stared at the flowers and the headstone for a minute, then left the dead once again for the living world.
That night, while Batman was occupied thwarting a robbery elsewhere, a meth house burned down. The productive drug factory belonged to the Demonz. Three meth cooks and an unknown amount of product went up in flames. An investigation into the fire later revealed that the cause had been a Molotov Cocktail.
Miguel Villaran was a short order cook at the aptly named All Night Diner. He had just gotten off of his late shift job and out the restaurant door when a pair of gloved hands yanked him into the ally. One hand covered his mouth as he was pushed up against a wall.
"Hello, Miguel." The frightened cook could only make out a face and two burning eyes in the inky darkness. "I'm going to ask you about your former place of employment. You will answer them, yes?" The hand fell away from Miguel's mouth, replaced by a forearm that rested lightly across his throat.
"Si, Diablo. I understand." Miguel decided he might not die here in this stinking ally if he cooperated with this dark menace.
"You used to work at Jimmy's Blue Plate before it burned. Did you ever work with a waitress named Ashley Martin?"
"Si, we often worked the same shift."
"Did she ever have any problems with the Demonz?"
Miguel swallowed hard. "Ashley was a very pretty girl. The Demonz would give her a hard time, always harassing and making lewd suggestions. Where she was from, such things did not happen. It bothered her greatly."
"Did the owner ever try to put a stop to it?"
"No, he was connected to the Demonz. Everyone knew it. He did nothing."
"Where was Ashley from?"
"Somewhere south," said Miguel. "Georgia, I think." The pressure was suddenly gone from Miguel's neck.
"I'm sorry Miguel, for the hard tactics. You've been a great help."
Miguel nodded, and sensed the dark figure was about to leave him. "Diablo," he said. "Ashley was a good person. She didn't deserve what happened to her."
"I know," said Batman. A beat passed, then he triggered off a grappling hook and was gone.
Sitting on a rooftop a few moments later, Batman watched storm clouds gather over Gotham. Things were starting to fall into place. Someone was culling the Demonz in revenge for the killing of Ashley Martin. It was obviously someone close to her, which did not fit the description of anyone living in Gotham, he thought. It was time to check on her friends and family in Georgia.
Once inside the Batmobile, the Dark Knight was able to remote access his computer network back at the cave. The Martin obituary mentioned the names of her closest relatives. Batman plugged in the names and searched federal and state data pools for any pertinent information.
The first to come back was Arthur Kramer, who was Ashley's father. Batman scrolled through his available biographical information. Arthur was a Vietnam veteran, on government disability and a frequent visitor to the local VA hospital. There wasn't much chance he was the killer. Batman also ruled out the mother, Rose Ann, as well.
The next name set off alarms. Dale Lee Kramer was Ashley's older brother. He had served a stint in the armed forces, and also one in prison for first degree assault and battery. Dale Lee had been paroled six months ago. Batman hacked into the Georgia DMV to get a description of Dale's current vehicle, and got fairly recent pictures of him from both the DMV and the Georgia penal system.
A man has to have a lair, someplace where he can retire to rest and recuperate. Logic dictated that Dale Lee, who did not know anyone in Gotham, would have to stick close to Demonz turf. He would have to spend a considerable amount of time in reconnaissance and planning. The problem was, the Demonz controlled a large area. If Batman were forced to check every flop house and two-bit motel in their outlying territories, it would take far too long.
Billy Weems ran an extensive underground gambling operation. A small man, with a decidedly weasel-like nature, Billy was almost always underestimated by those who opposed him. It was his edge, and he used it well.
He was leaving a high stakes poker game, one that had been very profitable for him, when he was yanked up into the air and onto a single-story roof. A sharp bark of surprise gave way to exasperation when Billy saw who had nabbed him.
"For the love of…couldn't you just call? They make these wonderful devices now, they're called telephones. There's no use scaring a body to death every time you want to talk to him."
"I'm looking for someone, Weems," said Batman. "and I need to find him fast."
"Oh well. Why didn't you say so," said Weems. "I'm always ready to help my good friend, the dark avenger of the night." Batman ignored the sarcasm that dripped from Billy's words.
"Weems, do I have to remind you what I can do to your lucrative and illegal business enterprise?"
Billy went quiet for a moment as he recalled the one time the pointy eared freak did show that he was capable of making life difficult for one Billy Weems. "No, no," said Billy. There's no need in going all vigilante on me. Of course, I'd be happy to help."
"Good, I'm glad we could come to an understanding," said Batman. He held out a picture of Dale Lee Kramer. "I'm looking for this man."
Billy took the photo and peered at it. "Never saw him before," he said.
"There is a description of the vehicle he owns on the back, along with some vital information," said Batman. "You've got two days, Weems, or I'm going to come back and ask why he hasn't been found. And I'm going to ask hard. There is a number at the bottom for you to contact me."
"Yeah, yeah," said Billy as he looked a the picture again. "We'll find him." He looked up, but Batman was nowhere to be seen. "Jerk."
A full day later, a member of the Demonz was found lynched. He was hanged from a tree branch in a small park adjacent to a gang house. The victim's hands were tied, and his Demonz jacket was defaced.
The gang had been a slow burning powder keg until this latest incident. When the latest death was discovered, the Demonz erupted into an orgy of violence. A dozen people died before order could be restored by Gotham City police and SWAT units. Batman dove in and out of the hotspots, lending a hand when he could. It was in the aftermath of one such episode that the receiver inside of his cowl rang. He triggered the response.
"What have you got for me, Weems?"
"How did you…," began a clearly flustered Billy Weems. "Never mind, I probably don't want to know. Look, one of my boys spotted that truck at a cheap dive called the Sketch House. It's on Dixon Avenue."
"Thanks, Weems. Lose this number."
"Man, I didn't want it in the first place," said Weems as he hung up.
Batman sped down Dixon, but stopped his car well short of his target. Going by rooftop, he finally settled in across the street from the Sketch House. It was a run down dump that had seen better days a quarter of a century ago. Batman easily found the truck, and was unsurprised it no longer carried Georgia tags. The vehicle was parked in front of a room, but with the hotel being two stories, Batman couldn't be sure in which room Dale Lee was staying.
Stanley Green was plopped down in an easy chair, glued to the television screen when he head the bell tinkle above the door to the hotel office. Grumbling, he levered himself up and glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. Stanley hoped this customer had lots of cash. They were going to need it.
He came to an abrupt halt in the doorway between his private office and the public lobby. Stanley gaped when he saw the black-clad figure running a finger down the registry book. Even in the light of the office, the Dark Knight was an imposing figure.
"There is an old Dodge pickup in the parking lot," said Batman without looking up. "I need to know in which room the driver is staying. He would have a deep Southern accent." Stanley was too amazed to speak. Batman flicked his steely gaze to the hotel clerk. "Now," he said. The command broke Stanley's paralysis.
"He, he is in 24B. Upstairs," stammered Stanley. "Said his name was Jack Grover."
Batman turned to go out the door. He stopped and looked back at Stanley. "You didn't see anything," he said as he slipped back into the confines of the night. Stanley Green walked very shakily back into his private office and slumped down into his chair. He then reached over and turned up the volume on his television.
Batman made his way up to 24B. He stood outside the door for a moment. No lights were on, and the room appeared to be dead quiet. Taking a set of tools from his utility belt, Batman quickly jimmied the cheap lock and stepped inside.
Dale Lee was gone. Batman pulled out a small, low-yield flashlight and began to search the room. He uncovered a hunting rifle stashed underneath the bed, and materials for making crude explosives littered the bathroom. The Dark Knight was more than satisfied that he had uncovered enough evidence to alert the police when he spied a shoebox atop the nightstand by the bed.
Carefully opening the top, Batman found a series of letters written by Ashley Martin and mailed to her brother in Georgia. He pulled out a few and began to read over them. As he did so, the final puzzle pieces clicked into place.
The letters detailed the trouble Tom and Ashley had stumbled into since their arrival in Gotham. She had written about the harassment at the diner, how Big Daddy Slim kept making advances and pressuring her to join his stable of prostitutes. She had also detailed how Suznik tried to get both her and Tom to do favors for the Demonz. Ashley confessed to her brother that she did not tell Tom about all of her problems for fear that he would rush out to confront her tormentors. She was afraid he would get hurt.
Batman was reading through the last of the letters when he heard a key hit the lock on the door. He rose as the door swung inward. The light flickered on.
"You can't trust anyone in this city," said Dale Lee Kramer. He stared at Batman. "I've heard about you," he said. "Here and there. Didn't think you were real." Dale Lee pulled a gun from behind his back. "You're going to try and stop me," he stated.
"I will stop you."
"No," sighed Dale Lee. "I'm not finished yet." He brought the gun up and fired, but Batman had anticipated the move and dove to his right to land on top of the bed. He immediately launched himself at Dale Lee, catching his arm as he swung the weapon around. A short, hard punch snapped Dale Lee's head back and a pressure lock on his wrist forced him to drop the gun. Batman took an ineffective blow on the shoulder, then increased the pressure on Dale Lee's wrist, forcing him to his knees.
"Stop struggling," said Batman. "I'll break your wrist."
Dale Lee looked up , his eyes twin pits of hate and rage. "Bastard," he spat. Batman twisted Dale Lee's arm behind his back, then punched him in the face again. In the immediate aftershock, Batman captured Dale Lee's other arm and slipped a pair of plastic cuffs over both wrists.
"Don't move," said Batman as he stepped back. Dale Lee immediately hopped to his feet. Batman grabbed him by the throat, and forced him back against the open door. "You're done," hissed Batman. "Your demented crusade is over."
"What do you know about it?" demanded Dale Lee through blood-stained teeth. "I'd burn down this whole city to bring Ashley back. I'd kill every gang member for just one more day."
"That won't make your sister live again," said Batman, even though he felt a pang of sympathy. He jerked a knee into Dale Lee's solar plexus, who sank to his knees again withy a gasp of pain.
"Stay there," said Batman. He keyed a private comm line in his cowl. "Commissioner Gordon, I have the Demonz killer. He's at…"
"I won't go back," yelled Dale Lee. He jumped to his feet and plowed a shoulder into Batman, knocking him off balance. Darting through the door, Dale Lee placed one foot on the outside railing and leaped off into space.
Batman lunged to catch him, but grabbed nothing but empty air. He leaned forward and looked down at Dale Lee's motionless body sprawled out on the parking lot. In the distance, police sirens began to wail.