A/N: Standard Disclaimers Apply

Chapter Eleven: Names

By the time I was masked, I had a tracer on the pusher, and stalked back out to the roof. No sense making a scene in the club, but all I had to do now was wait. My tracker worked like a charm. Fifty-seven minutes later, the pusher walked out the front door. He was on foot, and I followed him from the rooftops. The pusher leaned against a building and took out a wad of cash. It looks like it was a good night for him.

I dropped from the roof and landed right in front of him.

"We have to talk," I growled.

The punk dropped his cash. I put my forearm into his throat and dragged him into the alley. I slammed him against the wall twice.

"Rope," I demanded.

"R- r- rope?" he blubbered.

I narrowed my eyes and growled in my most threatening voice, "You… heard… me. Three women are dead, and all have been spiked by Rope." I pulled him off the wall. Nearby was a large, steel dumpster with a sliding side panel. I propped his head on the crease and nearly slammed the door on his neck. "Talk!"

"S- side pocket! I got some Rope!"

"Who is your supplier?" I barked as I pulled out his supply of pills.

He didn't immediately answer, so I punched the panel. The steel rung like a bell.

"Johnny Rancid!" he screeched, "I get my stuff from Johnny Rancid!"

Three seconds later, the punk was trussed up with a little note for the cops. His head was still stuck in the dumpster, exactly where I thought it belonged. Johnny Rancid. I cracked my knuckles as I went back to my bike. I knew exactly where to find him, and rode to the southeast side of Finger Hill. Rancid was a part owner of a bar, after "going straight," called Gut Rot. It was a known hang out for outlaw bikers, tough guys, fight clubbers, and other punks. The ATF had an extensive file on the place already, as did the ABC. I put the bar on my patrols as often as I could, too.

The Gut Rot was a small steel building. Rows of Harleys were parked in front, and I took a deep breath. No time for disguises, but I wanted to make a bunch of noise anyway. I parked my own high performance motorcycle next to all the Hawgs and walked right up to the bouncer. He was twice as big as I was.

"This is a 'Members Only' bar," he said gruffly and put his finger on my chest.

I grabbed, pulled it back, and twisted. His face contorted with the pain as I broke his finger and nearly broke his wrist. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he dropped to a knee. I pushed him aside and walked through the doors as loudly as I could. All eyes went to me and then quickly focused on whatever glass was in front of them. I stalked across the room, my eyes glancing around for trouble and casting withering glares at several of the toughs. No one got up to challenge me.

Johnny Rancid leaned against the bar like a bull ready to charge as I walked up to him.

"Hello, Johnny."

"If it ain't the bird boy," he said with false pleasantness. "It's been what, two, three years?"

"Not long enough, in my book." I glanced around. "Interesting place you have here, Johnny. I've seen two on the FBI Fifty Most Wanted, eight parole violators, twenty ex-cons, and well, you."

Johnny picked up a shot glass and started wiping it with a bar towel. "Pays the bills."

"I hear you've been dealing pills."

"You heard wrong. Who told you that?"

I smirked, "Not your concern. I'm looking for Rope dealers."

Johnny snorted, "Oh really? Goldie not puttin' out for you anymore? Or are you after for another piece of tail? Gotta admit, Witchy's looking mighty fine of late. I hear that hottie, Jinx, has joined up with you losers."

I took a deep breath and tried to ignore the insinuation. I snarled, "I'm talking about accessory to murder, Johnny. Now that's got your attention? Good. I'll be back tomorrow night, and I'd best have that list."

"Or else?"

"Your words, not mine," I said as I left.

As I left I could practically feel daggers in my back the way Rancid was glaring at me. I swung my leg over my motorcycle when my T-Communicator sounded.

"Nightwing? It's Cyborg. We've finished the initial lab work on the package. On the paper were black carpet fibers matching the ones found on the three victims. The bird was sent by the killer."

I nodded. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, and Detective MacDonald called. They've ID'ed the fourth victim. Kerry Kenedy, twenty-five, another prostitute, no one reported her missing."

"Good work, Cyborg."

"She says she wants to meet with you in the morning. I'm shutting down."

"All right, rest well. I'm done here."

…..

I could only imagine the look on MacDonald's face as she walked in and saw the vase of lilies on her desk. I crouched on top of the massive file cabinets and waited, shifting my legs just enough to keep them from cramping. It was the easiest way to gain entry to the precinct: floral delivery guy.

The door opened. It always amazed me how no one looked up. Ever. MacDonald looked around and frowned. She held the little card saying "File Room" that I left with the lilies.

"You've been withholding information, Sergeant."

She jumped a good three stories.

"Dammit, Nightwing! Stop doing that!"

I smirked as I flipped down from the cabinets and then turned serious. "The killer sent Raven a threatening package. I need access to every file, piece of evidence, everything you have."

She grinned coolly at me. "Who's your suspect?"

I narrowed my gaze.

"You want me to share information, I expect the same treatment, hero. Who is your suspect?"

I took a deep breath. "Robert Eric Forester. He's a drummer that hangs out at the Loft."

MacDonald nodded. She walked back to her desk and handed me four thick file folders. She looked away as I crept out the window.