4. Hand of Blood

Dora felt numb and cold. She stared at the corpses strewn across the ground, captivated by the macabre scene. She couldn't help but think back to what she had seen in the aftermath of the earthquake, and then again during the gang war. She had hoped to never see things as gruesome as all that again, but here she was, having just relived a microcosm of it all. She lost sense of time as the scene seared itself into her memory. She didn't know how long it had been since Red Hood had left the alley. The rain had stopped almost as soon as she lost sight of him, but the puddles remained.

Red puddles. Steady streams of blood oozed out of the bullet wounds in Mikhail, Yevy, and Rafi's heads, mixing with the blood still gushing out of the shredded stump that was Sergei's neck.

A shiver ran up Dora's spine, not caused by the cold. She spat onto the ground. Her own blood was lost in the red rivers that branched out over the alley's uneven ground.

Then the numbness began to fade and she started to feel... something. It took her a minute to realize what that feeling was.

Relief.

Dora would no longer have to deal with Mikhail, Yevy, or Sergei ever again. Killing people was wrong... but... there was no doubt in her mind that Gotham was better off without them. Red Hood had not only saved her life and rid the world of a few scumbags, but it suddenly dawned on her that he had all but avenged her father. The men he had killed tonight did not murder her father but they were certainly complicit.

Did she really hate Sergei and his men all so much that their deaths made her feel good? Satisfied? What had she become?

What had Gotham turned her into?

A flash of lightning illuminated the alley for a split second. Thunder crashed shortly afterward, so loudly it resounded in her bones. But there was no rain.

Instead, she cried. Not because of grief, but of shame.

That sense of relief was gone, and disgust had finally blossomed in its place. Disgust not at the scene, but at herself. Her parents didn't raise her this way. Her father wouldn't want her to relish in death, even in those responsible for his own.

Tears still streaming down her face, she looked down at her hands. She hadn't killed anyone, let alone touched any of the corpses, but she was still red-handed—literally. The run-off from the rain made it impossible to escape the blood. She knew she could wash it off, but for some reason she felt guilty. She had prayed for the deaths of these men. Their blood hadn't stained her hands; it had stained her soul.

Taking a deep breath and wiping the tears away, Dora steeled her resolve and convinced herself again it was all for the better. She stumbled back into the Alibi through the back door, still dizzy from hitting her head, the cracked lens in her glasses made navigating to the kitchen harder. After washing her hands of blood in the kitchen sink, she made her way into the office and slumped into the chair, exhausted. She rummaged around the papers on the desk until she found her phone, smearing blood all over the month's receipts and invoices.

Dialing Rochelle's number left smudges on her phone's screen. She hadn't washed her hands well enough.

"Dee, are you okay?"

"Yeah, Rocky, I'm fine. The red guy's gone. How are you guys?"

"Good for the most part. Dr. Thompkins is taking care of Holly personally. Says she has a concussion, but that's worst of it."

"Alright, listen, don't call the cops, if they come sniffing around, tell them you left early tonight and didn't see anything. I don't want this bullshit to mess with your immigration process."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, just get patched up. I'll see you tomorrow."

They exchanged goodbyes, then Dora dialed 911.

"Gotham City Emergency Hotline. What's your location?" The dispatcher sounded bored.

"Park Row and Nolan Street. The Alibi. It's a bar."

"Are you safe?"

"Yes... it's over now."

"What's over? What's the emergency?"

"I just witnessed a murder. Or, uh... Murders? Four. I saw a man kill four people."

There was a pause on the other end. "You saw someone kill four people?"

"Yes."

Another pause. "Can you describe the attacker?"

"Tall..." Dora was almost embarrassed to say what came next, but she said it anyway. It wouldn't hurt to be as descriptive as possible. "In, uh, really g-good shape," she stammered, recalling Red Hood's broad shoulders and chest—and the effortless way he moved. "He was wearing a red mask and a black motorcycle jacket. And he's armed. He has a gun and a knife on him." Nausea churned her stomach as she remembered Red Hood cutting off Sergei's head.

"Wait, did you say he was wearing a mask?"

"Yeah, a mask, but more like a helmet. It covered his whole head. And it was red. He calls himself 'Red Hood.'"

There was another pause. "Okay, it seems like we already have several units en route to your location. What's your name?"

"Dora Silva."

"Is there anyone else with you?"

"No."

"Okay, Dora, is this the best number to reach you?"

"Yes."

"Do not leave your location. Do not touch anything. Police officers, detectives, and EMTs will be there shortly."

"Thanks."

"I'll stay on the line until—"

But Dora hung up. Talking to a stranger over the phone wouldn't make her feel any safer. In fact, despite having just witnessed the murder of four men and the murderer himself escape, she already felt safe. The men that had been harassing her for months, the men that had helped kill her father... were dead.

#

Dora was wet, cold, and shivering despite the mylar blanket and cup of coffee the EMTs had given her. If anything, the blanket was making things worse. Its foil-like surface reflected the strobing red and blue lights from the police cruisers, making the light bounce off the sterile compartments and equipment of the ambulance whose tailgate she was sitting on. The lights made her dizzy. It was probably more the fault of her concussion, but her broken glasses weren't helping. She took them off and popped the scratched lens out of the frame.

There. Now I'm only a little less than half blind, she thought, shoving her glasses back up her nose. She replaced the ice pack on the back of her head and flinched at the pain.

"You alright?" someone asked.

"I'm fine." The concussion must have affected her attention span. Her eyes and mind refocused on the two detectives standing in front of her. One was a big white man. Large and bearded, and sporting a fedora. The other was a slim Latina, who looked like she weighed only half as much as her robust partner, though she was still a bit taller than him. It took Dora a second to recall their names. Detectives Bullock and Montoya.

"Okay, so let me get this straight," Montoya said, her eyes skimming her notepad. "The victims, who have been extorting you for months—"

"Years," Dora corrected. That's if they included Sergei and his boys extorting her father under Kosov's regime.

"Right, years." Montoya amended her notes. "Those guys tried to sexually assault you, uh... 'gang-rape' you. Then out of nowhere, a man with a red mask comes down from the rooftops and beats them all up... Kills them each with a gunshot to the head, then as an afterthought, cuts off the head of their leader... Sergei, right?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Dora said. And it was true. Ninety percent. She had omitted Rochelle and Holly's involvement, but it was better the cops didn't know about them. "He calls himself Red Hood. And the guys he killed were members of the False Face gang."

"Red Hood, huh?" Bullock scoffed, arching an eyebrow. "Great, I fucking knew it. We have another fucking Bat in town. As if we didn't already have enough."

Montoya frowned. "No, killing is not the Bats' MO."

"Every person this red mook has killed tonight was not just a criminal, but a mobster or a gangbanger, with career-long rap sheets. The Batman hates those types the worst. Plus, did you forget about Batman's girlfriend the Huntress? She wasn't above killing people when she first started out."

Montoya looked to Dora. "Did this Red Hood guy mention any affiliation to the Batman?"

"No," Dora said. "He was actually insulted when Sergei assumed he was part of the Bat crew."

"Then maybe he's not a vigilante," Montoya said, turning back to Bullock. "Maybe he's a rival gang-leader trying to take out the competition. We've had plenty of masked mobsters. Orpheus... Tarantula."

"Bah! You think this red brain donor is going to run drugs, guns, and hookers in Gotham? All on his own?"

Montoya shrugged. "Maybe he's got a crew. Orpheus and Tarantula each had dozens of thugs backing them during the gang war. And about fifteen years ago, there was a crew running around Gotham calling themselves the Red Hood Gang. Maybe they're trying to make a comeback."

"If he's got a crew, why's he doing all the wet work himself then? Huh?"

Montoya pointed back down the alley, where the CSIs were taking photos and cataloging evidence. The bodies still had not been moved, only covered by tarps. "Maybe he's just good at it and gets his hands dirty so someone else won't."

"Maybe he just likes it, the sick fuck," Bullock added.

"Okay, good point. But whatever the case, nothing makes street-thugs fall in line better than a boss with a bite to match his bark. I mean, look at Black Mask. Not afraid to get his hands dirty when his crew is out of line—he's judge, jury, and executioner. And he runs this town. At least until tonight."

At that, an imaged flashed through Dora's mind.

Roman Sionis, also publicly and notoriously known as Black Mask, stomping on her father's chest with his $3,000 Italian loafers.

She heard her father's ribs snapping.

She heard him crying out in pain.

Dora shook her head, dispelling the flashback while biting back the urge to cry again, but the panging had taken root. Her head and chest throbbed anew.

"Montoya, I really don't think this guy is going to have any buddies in the underworld," Bullock said, gesturing madly, "because he's fucking killing them all! The city just survived a gang war! This mook is going to start another and get us all killed!"

Montoya shrugged again, pocketing her notebook.. "Hey, it's just a theory."

"Pardon me, detectives." A CSI technician had come up to them. His blue gloves were covered in blood. "We've finished collecting evidence. We're waiting on your command to bag the bodies and send them off to the medical examiner."

Bullock turned around to take one last look at the carnage in the alley. Although the scene was already chiseled into her mind forever, Dora couldn't help but look past his shoulder. The bodies had been covered with tarps, but they were tinged with red at the edges. It had stopped raining, but in the time that it took the police to arrive, the run-off had rinsed away most of the puddles of blood that had transfixed her so tightly before.

By morning, Dora knew that it would look like nothing had ever happened back here. It had been the same with her father's murder. Even with its bloodstains invisible, this alley would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Bullock gave Montoya a quick glance, and in response, she nodded at the CSI tech. "Yeah, go ahead. Take them away."

Dora stared as the CSI tech removed the sheets covering the bodies. They grabbed them by the arms and legs and stuffed them into large black bags, a task that required two people. It was easier to pack away Sergei's body, given that his head wasn't in the way. Dora's mind flashed back to Red Hood stuffing the severed head into a plastic grocery bag he had pulled out of a trash bin.

"You know what bothers me, Montoya?" Bullock said to her, but his eyes were locked on Dora. "This girl says she witnessed these guys, the four of them, killed in cold blood. Gangland execution style. One of them had their head fucking sawn off right in front her eyes. Yet... she's not a dribbling mess. Any other broad would've pissed herself on the spot."

Montoya gave Dora a long hard look, adding to Bullock's penetrating gaze. "Not shaken. Not in shock. Provided a detailed and coherent eye-witness account. Yeah, could've been rehearsed." Then without notice, Montoya's speech switched to Spanish, directed at Dora. "Sabes que todavía tiene que venir a la oficina y firmar una declaración formal? Hay penas para mentiras. Me entiendes, mija?" You know that you still have to come to the office and write a formal statement? There are penalties for perjury. Do you understand me, kid?

Dora grimaced. That offended her, as if the detective thought she couldn't understand her in English.

"No soy tu hija," Dora said bitterly. I'm not your kid. "But look. I'm a CNA. I mean, I was. And I've seen dead bodies before. Touched them. During the gang war a year ago, No Man's Land the year before, I helped out at the Park Row Clinic. Ask Dr. Thompkins. I saw a lot of Blue Boys hurt bad. Bad. I'm proud to say I helped a few. I'm also sorry to say I saw a few pass away." She trained her eyes on Bullock—the Blue Boys were what the GCPD called themselves when the government had abandoned Gotham after the earthquake and they stayed behind to main order as a semi-sanctioned posse of vigilantes. "I saw a lot of messed up shit after the quake and during the gang war, detective." A half-truth, Dora admitted to herself. She had dealt with wounded patients and some that had died on the gurney or even on arrival, but they were mostly stab and bullet wounds—no decapitations, and only a few cops. It all still haunted her, but she still hadn't settled on what she was feeling about Sergei and his men's deaths—and that shameful uncertainty bothered her more than actually seeing them killed.

"Okay, sweetheart," Bullock said, pushing Montoya out of the way, and putting his face directly in front of Dora's. She could feel his breath on her face and the heat from his cigarette, still hanging from his lips. She couldn't help but breathe in some of his smoke. Reminded of Mikhail, she frowned in disgust, but did not look away.

"I've been working for the GCPD for almost twenty years," Bullock told her, twin streams of smoke coming out his nostrils. "I've seen some shit. Some fucked up shit, little girl. You have no fucking idea. I was here for the gang war and for No Man's Land too, but this is by far one of the most fucked up nights we've ever had since. The dispatch has been blowing up all night. In just a few hours, this Red Hood motherfucker has single-handedly killed almost two dozen people, left behind five decapitated bodies—"

"This makes six," Montoya corrected.

Bullock backed away from Dora a few inches and rolled his eyes, incredulous. "God help me. Six fucking heads, and guess what? The night's just started. The first call about this guy came in just three hours ago. Imagine what this psycho can do with a whole fucking night, kid. He's almost as bad as the Joker."

"Why are you telling me this?" Dora asked.

Bullock turned around and spat his cigarette onto the ground. He stomped on it and looked at Dora with contempt. "Because even though this Red Hood guy saved your life, I don't want you to forget that he's dangerous. He wasn't acting in self-defense. He didn't have to kill these guys to save your life. He's not a fucking hero. He's a cold-blooded killer, kid."

Notes

Song Reference: "Hand of Blood" by Bullet for My Valentine

Version 41.1