Chapter 11

All in within the space of three hours, 341st street in the Industrial District had burst into chaos, fallen deathly silent and was now abuzz once again. Red and blue lights flashed across the walls of the warehouse from the GCPD squad cars parked on the side of the road. The gate, still wide open was taped off as uniformed police officers went back and forth conducting their investigation. A thick figured man emerged from the warehouse with a clipboard in his hand. His oversized, wrinkled, white shirt hung half tucked under his light brown, leather jacket. Atop his head, he wore a black fedora. He strode across the lot, navigating around the chalk outlined bodies, all punctured repeatedly with bullet holes, the image still shook the newly appointed Detective Harvey Bullock. At the far end of the crime scene, a tall, heavily built man loomed away from the rest. The single ember of his cigarette glowed eerily, giving off the tiny line of smoke from the end. With his black trench coat closed and hands tucked away in the pockets, the bald man stood like a giant column, completely still like a statue. Detective Flass' chiseled appearance was hard for Bullock to get a solid read on the man. From the start, Arnold Flass seemed laid back, eager to show his junior partner the sweet benefits of being a cop in Gotham City. That same day, Bullock learned the most important lesson, never to cross Flass. On the turn of a dime, Flass could just as easily be your crudest menace. Harvey recognized a bully when he saw one, being that Bullock, a cocky defensive lineman in his high school days wasn't the nicest of guys in his youth either.

"I found this manifest inside," Bullock said to Flass as he held up the clipboard for him to see. Flass eyed it with disinterest, his hands still in his coat pockets with no intention move them. "Says here this place housed crates of dress shoes from Belgium," Bullock said skeptically. Flass' gaze snapped to his partner.

"So?" he responded, taking the cigarette from his mouth.

"Based on past reports, isn't that basically, Falcone's code for weapons?"

"Sometimes," Flass said, taking another drag. The boredom on his partner's face was frustrating Bullock, but he knew better than to confront it.

"Well I just did a once over in there and there aint no crates," Bullock continued.

"Couple more guns on the street, big whoop," Flass said. "Nothing new in this town." Flass turned, squinting into the glare of approaching headlights. "Crap," he growled. The driver's door of the maroon 2003 Crown Victoria opened and a man wearing a tan trench coat climbed out of the car. His short cut ginger hair was the same color as the thick mustache on his upper lip. Scruff budded his chiseled jaw, Captain James Gordon was on his ninth sleepless night. Jim approached the yellow police tape drawn across the gate, lifting it and ducking underneath to enter the scene.

"Jim," an officer greeted.

"Stevens," Gordon nodded back. "Let me guess, Black Mask?" he inquired, giving the lot a quick scan.

"Most likely. The place is littered with 5.56 casings like the last hit." Stevens pointed to one of the dead bodies. "That poor bastard there is Rizzo Bernelli, definitely one of Falcone's men."

"Keep that up, Gerard, and you'll make detective yet," Gordon grinned. "Speaking of, who's here?" he inquired. Stevens looked turned around again, his lip curled with distress.

"Flass." Gordon watched from afar, excusing himself with a weary sigh as he approached the two detectives. For weeks, he had been hounded by Commissioner Loeb to hunt down the mysteriously allusive Black Mask. The crime boss had been operating for what was soon to be six years, providing minor, yet violent distractions for the GCPD. As of the last five months, it seemed Black Mask was escalating, becoming bolder in challenging the long time crime lord of Gotham City, the Roman, Carmine Falcone. It was no question to Gordon that Loeb's pressure to shut down Black Mask was influenced by Falcone's payroll, whether it was beneficial for Falcone or not, Gordon also wanted Mask off the streets and was hoping that another crime scene might reveal something to bring him one step closer, but chances were slim with Detective Arnold Flass on the case.

"Flass, what have you got?" Gordon asked sharply. Flass turned his shoulders, glancing back at the Captain. His height and muscular build discredited Gordon's own build but this didn't faze him.

"Pretty cut and dry," Flass said, tossing the cigarette to the ground and smashing it with his shining penny loafers. "Eight vics, hit and run. Shell casings assume the use of automatic weapons." Gordon glanced to Bullock before looking at Flass with a scowl.

"That's it?" he asked hotly. Flass shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Don't really know what you were expecting, Jimbo."

"How about some damn police work!" Gordon exclaimed. He took a breath to cool his temper then looked back at Bullock. "What's that you have there, Detective," he inquired. With an innocent look on his face, the twenty eight year old detective held out the clipboard for Gordon to see.

"Shipping manifest from inside the warehouse," Bullock answered. "Lists some crates of Belgian dress shoes, but I think its weapons." Gordon looked from the manifest to the detective.

"Are they still here?" he inquired.

"Nope," Bullock replied. Gordon looked around the lot, glancing up the outer walls of the warehouse then finally to the ground, noting the black tire marks on the dark grey pavement.

"Tire treads," he observed out loud. "Black Mask's crew must have drove off with them afterwards. He's planning something," Gordon sighed. He gave one more sharp look at Flass before turning away. "We've got to find this guy."